Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

“Yes, yes,” Hobart said impatiently. “He got in about an hour ago and he’s

holed up with a character named Moyland.” As he spoke he removed a half loaf of

bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage, producing two

sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply handed them to Art and

Cleve.

“Thanks, pal. So he’s holed up. Haven’t you done anything about it? He has

got to be shut up at once or he’ll spill his guts.”

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“We’ve got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You

can’t expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it’s absolutely

necessary.

“Well, it’s dark now, and we’ll be the boys you mentioned. You can call

yours off.”

“Okay.” Hobart started pulling on shoes.

“No need for you to stick your neck out,” Art told him. “Just tell us where

this Moyland lives.”

“And get your throat cut, too. I’ll take you.”

“What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?”

“You can’t prove it by me. He’s a black market broker, but that doesn’t

prove anything. He’s not part of the organization but we haven’t anything against

him.”

Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a

playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a false

alarm,

then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark byways. The man seemed to

h~tve a nose for the enemy; there were no more alarms. At last he brought them

through a cellar door into a private home. They went upstairs and through a room

where a woman was nursing a baby. She looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They

ended up in a dark attic. “Hi, Jim,” Hobart called out softly. “What’s new?”

The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night

through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louvre. He rolled over and

lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head as he did so.

“Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks like.”

“I’d like to know where Moyland gets it,” Hobart said. “Has he telephoned?”

“Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they

didn’t amount to anything, so I let him talk.”

How do you know they didn’t amount to anything?” Jim shrugged, turned back

to the louvre. “Moyland just pulled down the shade,” he announced.

Art turned to Hobart. “We can’t wait. We’re going

Benz arrived at Moyland’s house in bad condition. The wound in his shoulder,

caused by Carter’s grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a handkerchief up against it

as a compress, but his activity started the blood again; he was shaking for fear his

condition would attract attention before he could get under cover.

Moyland answered the door. “Is that you, Zack?” Benz demanded, shrinking

back as he spoke.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It’s me-Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack-quick!”

Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. “Get

inside.” When the door was bolted, he demanded, “Now-what’s your trouble? Why come

to me?”

“I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They’d pick me

up.”

Moyland studied him. “You’re not registered. Why not?”

Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, “You know what I can get

for harboring a fugitive. You’re in the Underground-aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m just a- a straggler. I gotta

get registered, Zack.”

“That’s blood on your coat. How?”

“Uh. . . just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some

iodine.”

Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. “You’ve

got no troubles we can’t fix. Sit down.” He stepped to a cabinet and took out a

bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed it to Benz.

“Work on that and I’ll fix you up.

He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. “Sit here with your back

to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You’ll need it before I’m