And yet Gino Molinari was alive! He still hung on; Cheyenne had not fallen in a day or a week – perhaps the reegs had been able to bring in reinforcements to assist the Secret Service.
He could find out from the cab. As they flew along.
And Don Festenburg could have told me this, he realized, because this is precisely the time period at which I encountered him there in his office with the phony homeopape and mock-up UN Secretary uniform.
‘Just head west,’ he told the cab. I’ve got to get back to Cheyenne, he realized. Somehow, by some route.
‘Yes sir,’ the cab said. ‘And by the way, sir, you failed to show me your travel permit. May I see it now? Just a formality, of course.’
‘What travel permit?’ But he knew; it would be an issue of the governing ‘Star occupation agency, and without their permission Terrans could not come and go. This was a conquered planet and very much still at war.
‘Please, sir,’ the cab said. It had begun to descend once more. ‘Otherwise I am required to carry you to the nearest ‘Star military police barracks; that is one mile east. A short trip from here.’
‘I’ll bet it is,’ Eric agreed. ‘From any point, not just from here. I’ll bet they’re all over.’
The cab dropped lower and lower. ‘Right you are, sir. They’re very convenient.’ It clicked off its engine and coasted.
TWELVE
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Eric said as the cab’s wheels touched the ground; it slid to a gradual halt at the curb and he saw, just ahead, an ominous structure with armed guards at the entrance. The guards wore the gray of Lilistar. ‘I’ll make a deal with you.’
‘What deal?’ the cab said, with suspicion.
‘My travel permit is back at Hazeltine Corporation – remember, where you picked me up? Along with my wallet. All my money’s there, too. If you turn me over to the ‘Star military police my money won’t be worth anything to me; you know what they’ll do.’
‘Yes sir,’ the cab agreed. ‘You’ll be put to death. It’s the new law, passed by decree on the tenth of May. Unauthorized travel by—’
‘So why not give my money to you? As a tip. You take me back to Hazeltine Corporation, I’ll pick up my wallet, I’ll show you my travel permit so you won’t have to bring me here again. And you can have the money. You can see how I’d benefit by the deal and how you would too.’
‘We’d both gain,’ the cab agreed. Its autonomic circuit clicked .rapidly as it calculated. ‘How much money do you have, sir?’
‘I’m a courier for Hazeltine. In my wallet there’s about twenty-five thousand dollars.’
‘I see! In occupation scrip or in pre-ocupation UN banknotes?’
‘The latter of course.’
‘I’ll comply!’ the cab decided eagerly. And took off once more. ‘In strict sense you can’t be said to have traveled, inasmuch as the destination you gave me is enemy territory and hence I did not turn even for a moment in that direction. No law has been broken.’ It turned in the direction of Detroit, greedy for its loot.
When it set down at the parking lot of Hazeltine Corporation Eric got out hurriedly. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He loped across the pavement toward a doorway of the building; a moment later he was inside. An immense testing lab lay extended before him.
When he found a Hazeltine employee he said, ‘My name is Eric Sweetscent; I’m on the personal staff of Virgil Ackerman and there’s been an accident. Will you get in touch with Mr Ackerman at TF&D for me, please?’
The employee, a male clerk, hesitated. ‘I understood—’ He lowered his voice fearfully. ‘Isn’t Mr Virgil Ackerman at Wash-35 on Mars? Mr Jonas Ackerman is in charge at Tijuana Fur & Dye now and I know Mr Virgil Ackerman is listed in the Weekly Security Bulletin as a war criminal because he fled when the occupation began.’
‘Can you contact Wash-35 for me?’
‘Enemy territory?’
‘Get me Jonas on the vidphone, then.’ There was not much else he could do. He followed the clerk into the business office, feeling futile.
Presently the call had been put through, Jonas’ features formed on the screen; when he saw Eric he blinked and stammered, ‘But – they got you, too?’ He blurted, ‘Why’d you leave Wash-35? My God, you were safe there with Virgil. I’m ringing off; this is some kind of a trap – the MPs will—’ The screen died. Jonas had hurriedly cut the circuit.
So his other self, his normally phased, one-year-later self, had made it to Wash-35 with Virgil; that was terribly reassuring – almost unthinkably so. No doubt the reegs had managed to—
His one-year-later self.
That meant that somehow he had gotten back to 2055. Otherwise there couldn’t be a self of 2056 to have fled with Virgil. And the only way he could reach 2055 would be by means of JJ-180.
And the only source of the drug was here. He was standing in the one right spot on the entire planet, by accident, due to the trick he had managed to pull off at the expense of the idiotic autonomic cab.
Relocating the clerk, Eric said, ‘I’m supposed to requisition a supply of the drug Frohedadrine. One hundred milligrams. And I’m in a hurry. You want to see my identification? I can prove I work for TF&D.’ And then it came to him. ‘Call Bert Hazeltine; he’ll identify me.’ Undoubtedly Hazeltine would remember him from the encounter at Cheyenne.
The clerk muttered, ‘But they shot Mr Hazeltine. You must remember that; how come you don’t? When they took over this place in January.’
The expression on Eric’s face must have conveyed his shock. Because all at once the clerk’s manner changed.
‘You were a friend of his, I guess,’ the clerk said.
‘Yes.’ Eric nodded; that could be said.
‘Bert was a good man to work for. Nothing like these ‘Star bastards.’ The clerk made up his mind. ‘I don’t know why you’re here or what’s wrong with you but I’ll get the hundred milligrams of JJ-180: I know where it’s kept.’
‘Thanks.’
The clerk hurried off. Time passed. Eric wondered about the cab; was it still waiting outside on the lot? Would it, if pressed too hard, attempt to come into the building after him? An absurd and yet nerve-wracking thought, the autonomic cab forcing its way into Hazeltine, bursting – or trying to burst – through the cement wall.
The clerk returned and held out a handful of capsules to Eric.
From a nearby water cooler Eric got a cup, filled it, mouthed a capsule, and raised the Dixie cup.
‘That’s the recently altered JJ-180 formula,’ the clerk said, watching him keenly. ‘I better tell you, now that I see it’s for yourself.’ He was all at once pale.
Lowering the cup of water, Eric said, ‘Altered how?’
‘Retains the addictive and liver-toxic properties but the time-freeing hallucinations are gone.’ The clerk explained, ‘When the ‘Starmen came in here they ordered our chemists to reconstruct the drug; it was their idea, not ours.’
‘Why?’ In the name of God, what good was a drug consisting of nothing but addictive and toxic properties?
‘For a weapon of war against the reegs. And—’ The clerk hesitated. ‘Also it’s used to addict rebel Terrans who’ve gone over to the enemy.’ He did not look very happy about that part of it.
Tossing the capsules of JJ-180 onto a nearby lab bench, Eric said, ‘I give up.’ And then he had one more – meagre – idea. ‘If I can get approval from Jonas will you supply me a company ship? I’ll call him again; Jonas is an old friend of mine.’ He walked toward the vidphone, the clerk trailing after him. If he could get Jonas to listen—
Two Lilistar MPs entered the lab; behind them, in the parking lot, Eric saw a ‘Star patrol ship parked beside his autonomic cab.
‘You are under arrest,’ one of the MPs said to him, pointing an oddly shaped stick in Eric’s direction. ‘For travel without authorization and felony fraud. Your cab got tired of waiting and called in a complaint.’
‘What fraud?’ Eric said. The clerk now had wisely vanished. ‘I’m a staff member of Tijuana Fur & Dye; I’m here on business.’
The oddly shaped stick glowed and Eric felt as if his brain had been touched; without hesitation he moved toward the lab door, his right hand pawing in a ticlike, useless gesture at his forehead. Okay, he thought. I’m coming. He had lost any idea of resisting the Lilistar MPs now, or even of arguing with them; he was glad to get into their patrol ship.
A moment later they had taken off; the ship glided above the rooftops of Detroit, heading toward the barracks two miles away.