The Surety man showed his surprise. “Yes, Coaid Deputy. Uh, why?”
Ross winked again. “This enemy shop used to sell ancient first edition books, that sort of thing. I’m a collector. I’d like to, ah, take a look around before the place is ransacked. By the way, give me your name—I like a cooperative man. Never know when I might be able to do you a favor.”
Three minutes later he was in the shop where a hundred times over he had been with the girl he loved. He closed the door behind him.
His eyes went over the shelves of books. In actuality, he wasn’t particularly interested in the old style books of paper; Tilly’s own interest, however, had been genuine and it was all part of her. On her worktable sat a half assembled volume which he remembered she had been rebinding, glue pot and leather scraps to one -side. He wondered vaguely what the interruption had been.
Had Surety agents knocked on the front door, sending her scurrying out the rear? Had she heard radio reports and headed for some secret hideaway? He couldn’t imagine her giving up the fray. Somewhere in Alphaland the diminutive Tilly Trice was still holding forth. He suspected that she was among those guerrillas causing trouble to the transport and communications systems. It might be weeks before all of them were rounded up. He felt the cold go through him. Mark Fielder’s heavies weren’t going to be particularly gentle with the saboteurs. She could well be hurt, if not killed, in the skirmishing that was sure to ensue.
He looked around the little shop, knowing that whatever happened it could never be the same again. And he wondered why he had to come. To see if he could find some indication of where she might be? Hardly probable. Tilly Trice, Betastan espionage agent, was not so inept as to leave a clue for Surety men to follow up.
He walked back toward her living quarters in the rear. There were, he knew, her tiny living room, her still smaller bedroom, an auto-chef table in a dinette, and, of course, a refresher room. All very compact. All very much the home of a feminine bachelor.
He picked up an object here, one there, with which he affiliated her. A book she had evidently been reading, before she had gone on the run.
Ross looked at the title and winced.
He tossed the book back to the side table and wandered vaguely back into her bedroom. There was a feeling of empty apathy in him. He stood there, eyeing her comparatively Spartan dressing table. He walked to her closet and opened the door, having in mind looking at her dresses, her suits—not exactly knowing why. And was confronted with a slightly built, youthful-faced man who held at the easy ready a very efficient looking handgun trained on Ross Westley’s belly.
Had the other been a winged angel with a triple set of halos, Ross Westley couldn’t have been more taken aback. He gaped at the gunman.
The newcomer, not moving, his gun hand not shifting the aim one iota, looked at Ross with a surly expression.
“I’m afraid we’re not very well met, fella,” he said.
Ross blurted, “What… what… ?”
“You said a mouthful, fella. Come along inside. You showed up at exactly the wrong time for your own good.”
“Inside?” Ross said blankly. He looked over his shoulder. But he had closed the door between the shop and these, Tilly’s living quarters, and even had it been open, the Surety man outside could not have seen to this point.
The occupant of the rather large closet made a motion with the gun. “In here, fella, with me. Just the two of us. Real chummy.” His face went cold. “Quick!”
Ross came forward, pressing into the hanging clothing, thinking the other mad. What could the possible reason be for entering the hiding place of the stranger?
He felt the gun grind into his belly, felt the other reach past him to close the door. They were instantly in darkness.
And then he gasped as the floor began to sink. It accelerated, elevator-wise, for a brief moment, then came to a halt.
The door opened again and once more Ross gasped.
It was a large, long room of cement, as devoid of decoration as a garage. It had a military aspect, something like a defensive bunker. There were beds in tiers; there were mess hall type tables. And there were weapons of half a dozen types which Ross Westley recognized, and almost as many that he didn’t. There seemed to be a good many gadgets of the portable type around, but almost all of these, too, were unfamiliar.
From the bunks where they lay, from the chairs where they sprawled, from around the tables where they played cards or battle chess, a full score of young men looked up at the entry of Ross and his captor.
They were young men and he had the feeling that they looked even younger than they were. In fact, standing immediately beside the gunman he had found in the closet, he realized the other had undergone cosmetic surgery. He hadn’t the vaguest idea why.
Somebody chuckled from the bunk. “Well, well, Combs has brought us a new playmate. Great. I was getting sick and tired of you yokes.”
Yes, there was at least a full score of them, Ross decided. His mind was only beginning to realize the significance of this.
Those in bed swung their legs about and came erect, the card and battle chess games came to an end and all crowded around the newcomers.
“Where’d you get him, Centurion?” one of them said.
Another poked a finger in Ross’ stomach. “Flabby,” he said. “Alphaland bureaucrat. Why do all bureaucrats get flabby? You can tell a bureaucrat by his tummy.”
Combs said, “Take it easy. I think I know who this one is. I’ve seen his face on Tri-Di propaganda blasts. We’ve hit the big bell.”
Another voice said from behind him, “All right, fellas, knock it off. What’ve we got here?”
The voice was happily familiar. The ranks parted but Ross already knew who he was going to see.
“Till!” he said.
She looked at him, hands on slim hips, and shook her head, some of the old mockery there.
Combs said, “I was going up to check the street and ran into him prowling your rooms.”
“Why, Rossie!”
He flushed irritation. “I was looking for some clue to where you had gone.” He looked around at the rest of them, now flanking her on both sides. “Are you all drivel-happy, hiding here? Do you realize there’s a Surety agent stationed out front and that as soon as Mark Fielder’s men get around to it, they’ll tear this place apart looking for clues?”
She grinned at him. “I rather doubt it, Rossie. Oh, I don’t mean they won’t tear the shop apart, stealing what they want and vandalizing most of the rest. But they’ll do a halfhearted job and finally call it quits, padlock the place and go on to the next former residence of a Betastani, hoping for more lucrative loot. Not in a dozen years, unless they suspected it was there to find, would they spot the closet-elevator arrangement.
“It’s an old, old wheeze, Rossie. The safest place to hide something is right under the eyes of the searcher. The
He shook his head in wonder at her gall, then he looked around at the others accusingly. “You’re all spies.”
The smiling one who had commented earlier on his flabby stomach grinned. “Not exactly, old fella. We’re more like guerrillas, eh? See, we’re in uniform. Naughty, naughty, if old Deputy Fielder’s men caught us and tried to line us up before a firing squad. Against all the rules of war.”
“You call that a uniform?” Ross snorted. “You look like boy scouts.”
“That’s the way we’re supposed to look, fella,” another one laughed.
Ross was getting tired of this. Besides, he had found Tilly now; he wanted to make sure of her safety.
He said, “You’d all better consider yourselves under arrest and in my custody. I’ll see you get honorable treatment.”
The one who had originally captured him grunted surly amusement. “Fella, you’ve sure got it wrong.” He looked at Tilly and said, deadly serious now, “We’ll have to crisp him, he’s seen too much.”
