Jules stood behind the bar, watching the scene with amusement. He still had his left arm around the bartender’s neck while holding his blaster loosely in his right hand as he watched the carnage taking place before him. His keen eyes studied the battle with careful appreciation, for he had not the slightest doubt about the outcome. Those guards were good, tough DesPlainians, but they were not d’Alemberts – and those six d’Alemberts were the pick of the hardest trained troupe of no holds-barred fighting wrestlers known to man. Only one result was possible.
After three and a half minutes, The Cobweb Corner was fit only for a lumber yard. Tables and chairs were splintered and strewn about the floor, and the glass from broken bottles crunched underfoot. Small pools of liquid made the footing hazardous at best. But the battle was over, with the six bouncers lying unconscious on the floor. The winners of the contest sported a few eyes that would soon be black, some contusions and abrasions, and miscellaneous cuts, tears, scratches, gouges and bites that were bleeding more or less freely – but they had sustained no major injuries at all.
‘Nice work, fellows. Thanks,’ Jules said as the last of the wrestlers got to his feet, grinning broadly. These strapping men loved a good fight. ‘Treat yourself to something on the house, if you can find anything left. I think there may be a few ginger ale bottles left around unbroken.’ Noticing the bar’s patrons still huddled, frightened, in one corner, he added, ‘Our apologies for the disturbance, folks. You know how these little squabbles can get out of hand. Rick, see what you can do about rounding up some champagne for these good people. On the house, of course.’
Then, lifting the petrified bartender by the shirt front with one hand, he went on quietly, ‘As for you, comrade, I think we have a little talking to do in private. Come with me.’ That Poor Wight actually had little choice in the matter, as Jules carried him bodily into the back room where Yvette awaited them.
The d’Alemberts waited for a second as the barkeep stared goggle eyed at the remains of the PBX operator on the floor. When they were certain the lesson had sunk in, Jules placed both his huge hands with uncomfortable tightness around the man’s throat. ‘Now then, I’d like a little information- namely, what sort of protective gizmos are there between this room and the boss’s office upstairs? You have the choice of talking voluntarily or having me wring your neck like a chicken’s.’ Jules’ voice was calm and low, but he left no doubt in the man’s mind that he would carry out his threat.
‘I’ll talk!’ the man squeaked quickly. ‘Don’t wring my neck, please don’t. This is only a job to me, I really don’t have anything to do with running it. Honest, comrade, you’ve got to believe that.’
‘Should we believe him?’ Jules asked his sister.
‘I think so,’ she answered coolly. ‘They wouldn’t have picked anyone this cowardly to be in charge of anything more demanding than pouring a drink.’
‘Okay, we believe you.’ Jules told the fellow. ‘But you still haven’t told us what we want to hear.’ His grip on the other’s neck tightened perceptibly.
‘It’s all run from that board there, really it is. The whole works!’
‘I think he may actually be telling the truth,’ Yvette said. ‘There’s a whole row of special red indicators that doesn’t belong on any PBX unit I’ve ever seen. Looks like the boss rings down and they set the traps from the board here.’
‘That’s it, that’s it!’ the bartender burbled, hoping to impress his captors with his helpfulness. ‘There are blacklight beams and pressure plates across the halls up there, set to trigger blasters or stunners. The boss can call down and the man on the board sets up whatever is ordered, or else I can signal from the bar and everything is set automatically. You didn’t give me time to signal, though, so Hans didn’t have time to set anything up.’
Jules loosened his grip a little, and the man twisted his neck around to keep it from getting stiff. ‘Khorosho,’
Jules said. Now. what’s the boss’s door like wood or steel? Locked? And what about guards up there?’
‘It’s wood. Unlocked, too. No guards no trouble has ever gotten that far before. The booby-traps in the hallways have always worked before. Hans would’ve set them, of course, but …’ His voice trailed off as he looked down again at his friend’s still smoldering remains.
‘I believe you, comrade,’ Jules said, taking his hands completely away from the other’s throat. ‘And to show you how much we trust you, we’re going to let you lead the way up to your boss’s office. That way, if there are any little surprises waiting for us, you’ll be the first to know about them. You’re sure you’ve told us everything?’
‘Everything I know about it,’ the man hastened to say. ‘Then lead on.’
The two d’Alemberts followed the barkeep up the stairs, blasters drawn and at the ready. The man was so nervous he was quivering and could not walk terribly fast – but he did speed up at Jules’ prodding. The upper floor, they noticed, was soundproof. All the better; the boss would not have heard the fighting that went on downstairs a short while before.
Nothing happened until the bartender came to a stop in front of one particular door. At Jules’ insistence he knocked – no code, just a couple of sharp raps. A voice from inside the room called, ‘Come in,’ whereupon they did – quickly, and with their blasters drawn and ready.
The room was not big, but it was comfortably appointed with luxuriant furniture and a broad solentawood desk. The man behind the desk – of medium height, balding, and tending to fat – was alone in the room.
He gasped in surprise at the invasion of his inner sanctum and reached for a row of buttons on the desktop, but stopped the motion halfway as Jules’ blaster burned a hole through the surface of the desk just centimeters away from his hand.
‘Go ahead, push ‘em,’ Jules dared, but the boss remained transfixed, motionless but for the fear induced quiverings of his muscles.
Jules turned his blaster on the bartender while Yvette stepped forward toward the desk. She kept her blaster aimed at the boss with one hand while with the other she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small hypodermic kit. The hypo was already filled, and she squirted out a little of the clear fluid inside to get rid of any air bubbles.
The man’s eyes widened in fear as Yvette approached him. ‘Not that please not nitrobarb!’ he pleaded desperately. ‘I’m allergic to the stuff – it’ll kill me sure, my doctor says.’
‘What makes you think this is nitrobarb?’ Yvette asked innocently. ‘Nitrobarb’s illegal, you know. This could be just plain distilled water.’
For some reason, the man did not believe that. ‘Don’t juice me, comrades. I think I probably know what you want … and you don’t need to give me anything! I’ll tell you everything I know without it, honest I will!’
‘Isn’t it remarkable how cooperative these people are on Aston?’ Jules observed to his sister.
True to his word, the crime boss babbled out everything he knew about the entire organization on Aston and else where. Jules taped every single word on the minirecorder he carried, to pass on eventually to the local Service officials. The organizational structure here was quite similar to that on Algonia, except that the man at the top was not of the nobility; but the man’s story did have one significant addition-word about shipments of stolen arms between planets. Thousands of smuggled guns and blaster cannons were traveling through the spaceways from point A to point B. The d’Alemberts’ guesses about a secret army were that much closer to being confirmed – and that meant that Banion, or whoever else was behind this conspiracy, was preparing to act soon.
When the man got around to listing his own boss, the trail – as Jules had expected – pointed clearly and unmistakably to one reclusive man living in a big, lonely mansion outside the capital city of the planet Durward.
‘See,’ Jules said when the crime boss hadfinished. ‘Isn’t everything so much more pleasant when you cooperate with us? Just because you’ve been so helpful we’ll even let you live. After all, a traitor whom you know is no real threat. You’ll be watched, of course, and maybe arrested if the local chief decides to, but you’ll probably live.’ Turning to his sister, he said, ‘I suppose our next move is to Durward.’
‘That’s where the action seems to be,’ she replied. ‘But we’d better go in armed to the teeth – that house won’t be easy to crack. Fortunately, we’ve got some equipment they’ve never even heard of.’