Planetary Agent X

soul in the small department and the affection was reciprocated with interest—though no one would have dreamed of admitting it, on either side.

She said now, “Well, don’t stand there. If his high mucky-muck summoned you, scamper.” She added, “Tell him he can have up to fifteen minutes with you. Then he’s got to see Lee Chang about the Han rebellion.”

“Got it,” Ronny told her, making for the inner door.

She looked after him for a split second, deciding that of all the top field agents in Section G, Ronny Bronston least looked the part, which was possibly to be one of his most valuable assets. Irene loved them all, these spearhead men of the conquest of space, but there was a particular something about Ronny Bronston. She snorted inwardly—first thing she knew she’d be letting him catch onto the fact, and then where would things be?

Ronny went through the entry and turned left to the door inconspicuously lettered, ROSS METAXA, COMMISSIONER, SECTION G.

Section G, Ronny thought, all over again. What an innocuous name for Department of Trouble-shooting, Department of Cloak and Dagger, Department of Secret Treasury Department devoted, he reminded himself bitterly, to the principle that the end justifies the means. Ronny had yet to forget he had been raised in an atmosphere of high ethic and ideals.

Ronny knocked and the door slid open.

Ross Metaxa, bleary eyed as always, looked up, as always affecting the acid surliness which fooled everybody—sometimes even himself.

He pushed some reports away from that part of his desk immediately before him and fished the brown bottle from a drawer as he said, “Sit down, Ronny. Drink?”

“Not from that bottle,” Ronny said.

“How’s the wound?” Metaxa growled, pouring himself a slug. “Doctor got you off booze?”

“I’m okay now. I’ve got myself off that Denebian tequila of yours,” Ronny said, sinking into a chair. “I know when I’m well off. I’ll stick to kerosene.”

“Very funny,” Metaxa grumbled, knocking the liquor back over his tonsils, impervious to the other’s shudder. He put the top back on the bottle, began to return it to the drawer, changed his mind and shoved it to one side of the desk. “What do you know about Palermo?” he said.

Ronny cast his eyes slightly upward and spoke as though remembering a lesson. “One of the far out planets, in more ways than space. Colonized by Italians…”

“Sicilians,” Metaxa grunted.

“… only recently joining the UP. The government and socio-economic system seem to be unique.”

His superior grunted sour amusement. “That’s a gentle way of putting it,” he said. “The government is by Maffeo, a very old Sicilian institution which they seem to export along with their emigrants. Its origins are lost in antiquity but seem to go as far back as the slave rebellions of the Romans.”

“Romans?”

“What’s wrong with your history, Ronny?” the other said gruffly. “The Roman Empire. Controlled…”

“Oh, yeah. I remember.”

The other grunted. “You can look it up in the archives later. At any rate, it seems that the planet Palermo was originally settled by peasant types, evidently largely interested in fleeing this very institution. They found their planet, way beyond what were then the reaches of UP, and paid through the nose to have themselves and their scanty belongings hauled out. Space Freightways handled the transportation. One of their usual gyp arrangements.”

Metaxa came to a sudden halt in his delivery and said into his order-box, “Irene, what ever happened to that investigation on Space Freightways? I told you I wanted an immediate report.”

Ronny Bronston couldn’t make out her answer, but he caught the snap in her voice. He grinned inwardly.

“All right, all right,” Metaxa snapped back. “But tell that loafer to get a move on.” He grunted and turned back to Ronny.

“At any rate, the colonists of Palermo managed to foul up their whole project through sheer lack of sophistication. Planted in their number were a handful of the very Maffeo they thought they were getting away from. In less than two generations, the outfit was in control.”

“In what way?” Ronny said.

“In the most brutal way,” Metaxa told him sourly. “You can look up details later. What interests us is that at this time the planet is stagnating under what amounts to a modern form of robber baron feudalism. A handful of bully-boys on the top, a terrified peasantry working their lives away on the bottom.”

“They’re members of UP?” Ronny said. “Why’d we let them in? As long as they were outside, we could have dealt with them. A few agents could have drifted in and pulled some…”

Metaxa was nodding. “Because we were stupid, and they were smart, instinctively smart. Luigi Agrigento, current head of the Maffeo, saw the handwriting on the wall when nearby planets began also to be colonized. He petitioned to join UP and was admitted after the usual mild routine. He understood perfectly well that given membership, Articles One and Two of the United Planets Charter protected him from outside interference.

“And if he’d left it at that, he probably would have gotten away indefinitely with his usurpation of power on Palermo. But that wasn’t the Maffeo way, and never has been. Last year, one of his victims, named Giorgio Schiavoni, managed to stow away on an Avalon trader which had stopped off at Palermo, and after various difficulties wrangled his way here to Earth, where he presented himself at the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs and told a rather bloodcurdling tale of suppression on his home planet. He claimed to represent a majority of the planet’s population and requested aid. The Palermo Embassy, of course, put up a howl, invoking Article One.”

Ronny said harshly, “Some of our member planets need interfering with.”

Ross Metaxa glowered at him, took up his bottle and poured himself another jolt. “Bronston, if you ever express that opinion publicly, you’re out. You’re out so fast, and so hard, you’ll never get a place in UP again, not to speak of this department. Don’t ever forget, Ronald Bronston, that the job of Section G is to advance member planets in their socio-economic systems, their political systems, on certain occasions in their religious systems—but that if we let that fact out, we’re sunk. Needless to say, Palermo is one of the worlds that would prefer to stay just as it is, threat from aliens or no threat. At least, that’s the way Luigi Agrigento and his Maffeo see it. The majority of the peasantry would have other views.”

“And that’s where this Giorgio Schiavoni comes in, eh?”

Metaxa’s heavy face worked. “That’s where he used to come in. Schiavoni did the unforgiveable, given the Maffeo philosophy. He talked. Yesterday, he was shot down leaving the apartment we had assigned him over in the Pittsburg area.”

Ronny stared at him. “Shot down! You mean a man was assassinated right here on Earth?”

“Exactly. Luigi Agrigento’s hand was evidently long enough to stretch all the way, from Palermo. It gives you some idea of his methods.”

Ronny was flabbergasted.

Metaxa wrapped it up. “Your job is the only angle we’ve come up with, so far. It’s to track down and either, preferably, capture or if necessary liquidate the professional killer who did the job.”

“He escaped?”

Metaxa said grimly. “Thus far. I’m rushed now, Ronny. Sid Jakes will give you more details, physical description and so forth.” His face went hard. “But I’ll finish up with this: Giorgio Schiavoni’s death will be atoned for. He threw himself on the mercy of United Planets, in a patriot’s cause, and his protection was left in the hands of this department. There hasn’t been a political assassination on Earth in the memory of anyone living and we allowed ourselves to be careless. Very well, but Schiavoni will be vindicated, that I promise.”

Ronny came to his feet. “I’ll see Jakes,” he said simply.

The office door of Ross Metaxa’s right hand man was, as always, slightly ajar.

When Ronny knocked, Sid’s voice yelled out happily, “Come on in! It’s always open!”

Ronny braced himself and entered. He was still not quite used to the Sid Jakes personality.