There was something in the careless confidence of the follower’s open interest in him that raised his neck hair as no direct threat could have, and filled the rumble of the night-hidden surf with obscure menace. The man acted as if his job was over, clinched.
Bryce reached the answer as the taxi floated down on hissing roter blades and settled to the platform. Sliding down from the railing he walked toward it, stiff-legged. The light was out inside it, and the cabby did not climb out or attempt to open the door for him. Bryce turned his head and looked back as if for a last glance at the watching figure, grasping the door handle with his right hand as if fumbling blindly. He was left handed. When the door was open a crack, it stopped opening, and those inside saw the muzzle of a magnamatic in his left hand looking through the crack at them.
It’s easier to catch wolves if you’re disguised as a rabbit, Pop Yak had told him once. He must have looked a complete sucker, starting to climb into a dark cab with his head turned backward!
“Don’t move,” Bryce said, some of his anger reaching his voice in a biting rasp. Inside, the driver was frozen with his head turned enough to see the glint of a muzzle behind his neck, and in the darkened far corner of the back seat where there should have been no one there was the pale blur of a face, and a hand holding something. Bryce knew that there was no way a shot could reach him except through the shielding steel door or the shatterproof window, and a man would hesitate before shooting through glass when he was looking down the throat of Bryce’s gun. Bryce waited for him to think it over.
The hand of the man in the back seat came into focus as his eyes adjusted to the dark inside, and he could see that it was holding a gun. The gun was not pointing at anything in particular. It was frozen in mid-motion. The man had a half-smile frozen on his face, probably in the way he had been smiling just before Bryce spoke.
“Open your hand. Drop it.” The glint of the gun disappeared, and there was a faint thud from the floor. Bryce opened the door and slid into the rear seat, watchful for motion, ready to shoot. “Face front!” They faced front like two puppets, perhaps the uncontrollable rasp in his voice was convincing. He still did not know whose men they were, or why they had been hired. It would be no use questioning them for they would not know either. He could guess who it was, a name came to mind, but there was no way of checking up. This kind of business did not fit well with the crucial balance of his plans for the next two weeks. “Be careful,” he said perhaps unnecessarily, “I’m nervous. Union Hotel please.”
The short ride to the hotel was made in dead silence, with the man in the opposite corner barely moving enough to blink his eyes. He was middle-aged, with the resigned sagging lines to his face of ambition disappointed, but he sat with a waiting stillness that Bryce recognized as something to watch. There was probably another gun within quick reach of that passive right hand.
The roter drifted down to a landing space on the floodlighted landing roof of the hotel and settled with a slight bump. “Don’t move.” The clumsy careful business of opening the door backward with his right hand and sliding out without taking his eyes from either of them was tediously slow.
Once out, he slammed the door briskly. “Take off.” Not until the red and green lights had faded into the distance did he turn away, pocket his gun and walk into the wide doorway to the elevators. As he brushed past the hotel detective standing in the doorway the detective was reholstering a large size police pacifier. Apparently he had been ready to impartially stun everyone concerned at the first sign of trouble, which probably explained why those in the aircab had not attempted any retaliation. The detective gave Bryce a cold stare as he went by, probably in disapproval of guests waving weapons on hotel premises.
III
In his luxurious hotel room Bryce checked his watch. Eight o’clock. A telephone call was scheduled for some time in the half hour. He filed the question of who was behind the night’s attack and picked up the phone. The dial system was in automatic contact with any city in the world. He dialed.
Somewhere in a city, a phone rang. It rang unheard, for it was locked into a safe in a tiny rented office with some unusual mechanisms attached. The ringing was stopped abruptly and a recorded voice answered, “Yeah?”
Bryce took a dial phone from the night table where it had been sitting innocently like a toy he had bought for some child. “Hi Al,” he said cheerfully to the automatic mechanism at the other end. “Listen, I think I’ve got a new phrase for that transition theme. How’s this?” He put the receiver against the back of the toy and dialed the toy dial. It responded to each letter and number with a ringing note of different pitch that played a short unmelodious tune.
The pitch notes went over the line and entered the mechanism, making the contacts within it that dialed the number he had dialed on the toy phone.
“How’s that?” Bryce said cheerfully.
The recorded voice said, “Sounds good. I’ll see what I can do with it.” Somewhere far away and unheard another phone had begun to ring. “Want to speak to George?”
“Sure.”
A phone rang in a pay booth somewhere in a great city railroad station, and someone browsing at a magazine stand or sitting on a suitcase apparently waiting for a train strolled casually to answer it.
“Hello?” said a noncommittal voice, prepared to claim that he was merely a stranger answering the phone because it was ringing in public.
“Hello George, how’s everything going?” Bryce asked. Those words were his trade mark, the passwords that identified him to everyone as the Voice who gave Tips. Among the monster organization which had grown from the proven reliability of those tips, the voice was known as “Hello George.” Hello George’s tips were always good, so they had come to be followed as blindly as tips from God, even when they were not understood. Certainty was one thing men in the fencing and drug smuggling business most sorely lacked.
They communicated only by phone. They transmitted their wares by leaving them in public lockers and mailing the key. They never saw each other’s faces or heard each other’s names, but even the use of a key could be a trap that would bring a circle of narcotics agents of INC around the unfortunate who attempted to open the locker.
Far away over the bulge of the Earth between, a man sat in a phone booth waiting for his tip. “Pretty well. No complaints. How’s with you, any news?”
“I think you’d better cut connections with Union Transport. They’re getting pretty sloppy. I think they might spill something.”
“Wadja say?” asked the man at the other end cautiously, “I didn’t get you.”
“Better stop using UT for shipping,” Bryce repeated, wording his sentence carefully. “They aren’t careful enough anymore. You don’t want them to break an inc case wide open, do you?” INC was the International Narcotics Control agency of the F. N. But the conversation would have sounded like an innocent discussion of shipping difficulties to any chance listener on the telephone lines.
The flat tones were plaintive and aggrieved. “But we’re expecting a load of stuff Friday. Our buyers are expecting it.” Stuff was drug, and expecting was a mild word for the need of drug addicts! “And we’ve got a lotta loads of miscellaneous items to go out.” The contact was a small man in the organization but he evidently knew just how “hot” fenced goods could be. “That can’t wait!”
He had planned this. “Maybe they are all right for shipments this week. I’ll chew them out to be careful, check up and call back Friday. Meanwhile break with them.”
“Tell them a few things from me, the—” the distant voice added a surprising string of derogatory adjectives. “Friday when?”
“Friday about—about six.” The double “about” confirmed the signal for a telephone appointment that was general for all contact numbers.
“Friday about six, Okay.” There was a faint click that meant he had hung up and the phone in the safe was open for more dialings on his toy dial.
Bryce hung up, leaned back on his bed and pushed a button that turned on the radio to a semiclassical program. Soothing music came into the room and slow waves of colored light moved across the ceiling. He tuned to a book player, and chose a heavy economics study from the current seller list of titles which appeared on the
