of Coledy’s gang. His head ached; his back ached. He abhorred these sessions,
which he held, nevertheless, every five days. It was at least a pressure valve,
this illusion that the councillor of Q listened to the problems, took down
complaints, tried to get something done. About the woman’s complaint… little
remedy. He knew the man she had named. Likely it was true. He would ask Nino
Coledy to put the lid on him, perhaps save her from worse. The woman was mad to
have complained. A bizarre hysteria, perhaps, that point which many reached
here, when anger was all that mattered. It led to self-destruction.
A man was shown in. Redding, next in line. Kressich braced himself inwardly,
leaned back in his chair, prepared for the weekly encounter. “We’re still
trying,” he told the big man.
“I paid,” Redding said. “I paid plenty for my pass.”
“There are no guarantees in Downbelow applications, Mr. Redding. The station
simply takes those it has current need of. Please put your new application on my
desk and I’ll keep running it through the process. Sooner or later there’ll be
an opening—”
“I want out!”
“James!” Kressich shouted in panic.
Security was there instantly. Redding looked about wildly, and to Kressich’s
dismay, reached for his waistband. A short blade flashed into his hand, not for
security… Redding turned from James—for him.
Kressich flung himself backward on the chair’s track. Des James hurled himself
on Redding’s back. Redding sprawled face down on the desk, sending papers
everywhere, slashing wildly as Kressich scrambled from the chair and against the
wall. Shouting erupted outside, panic, and more people poured into the room.
Kressich edged over as the struggle came near him. Redding hit the wall. Nino
Coledy was there with the others. Some wrestled Redding to the ground, some
pushed back the torrent of curious and desperate petitioners. The mob waved
forms they hoped to turn in. “My turn!” some woman was shrieking, brandishing a
paper and trying to reach the desk. They herded her out with the others.
Redding was down, pinned by three of them. A fourth kicked him in the head and
he grew quieter.
Coledy had the knife, examined it thoughtfully and pocketed it, a smile on his
scarred young face.
“No station police for him,” James said.
“You hurt, Mr. Kressich?” Coledy asked.
“No.” He discounted bruises, felt his way to his desk. There was still shouting
outside. He pulled the chair up to the desk again and sat down, his legs
shaking. “He talked about having paid money,” he said, knowing full well what
was going on, that the forms came from Coledy and cost whatever the traffic
would bear. “He’s got a bad record with station and I can’t get him a pass. What
do you mean selling him an assurance?”
Coledy turned a slow look from him to the man on the floor and back again.
“Well, now he’s got a bad mark with us, and that’s worse. Get him out of here.
Take him out down the hall, the other way.”
“I can’t see any more people,” Kressich moaned, resting his head against his
hands. “Get them out of here.”
Coledy walked into the outer corridor. “Clear it out!”
Kressich could hear him shouting above the cries of protest and the sobbing.
Some of Coledy’s men began to make them move… armed, some of them, with metal
bars. The crowd gave back, and Coledy returned to the office. They were taking
Redding out the other door, shaking him to make him walk, for he was beginning
to recover, bleeding from the temple in a red wash which obscured his face.
They’ll kill him, Kressich thought. Somewhere in the less trafficked hours, a
body would find its way somewhere to be found by station. Redding surely knew
it. He was trying to fight again, but they got him out and the door closed.
“Mop that up,” Coledy told one of those who remained, and the man searched for
something to clean the floor. Coledy sat down again on the edge of the desk.
Kressich reached under it, brought out one of the bottles of wine with which
Coledy supplied him. Glasses. He poured two, sipped at the Downer wine and tried