betrayed.”
Sid Jakes leaned back in his chair, beaming at his subordinate. “So that’s your phase of the job. Get Billy Antrim. I don’t need to tell you what his continued freedom means to the department. If political assassinations can be successfully pulled off right here on Earth, heads are going to roll in Section G, starting with Ross Metaxa himself.”
Ronny came thoughtfully to his feet. “How come we’re not putting more men on it?”
Sid grinned at him. “Our prestige is low enough as is. If we assigned a dozen men to capture this callow boy, how would it look? Nope. There’s only one of him, so there’ll be only one Section G agent sent to get him. You’ll have, of course, the support of all the police apparatus you’ll need. Just call. But there’ll be only one Section G agent.”
He stood too and stuck out a hand for a shake. “It’ll be a neat trick, if you pull it off, Ronny. And Ross’ll have your scalp if you don’t.”
Ronny said acidly, “From what you say about this Billy Antrim, Ross’ll never have a chance at my scalp if I foul up. Billy’ll already have it.”
XVI
Billy Antrim was on the run under one of the most difficult situations conceivable.
He had no credit card acceptable on Earth.
Looking back at it now, he could see that Big Luigi had deliberately arranged that. The obvious thing would have been to have equipped Billy Antrim with several valid credit cards, just in case. Without one he could breathe and he could get water to drink, but practically all else was closed to him.
This was his first visit to Earth and his first contact with this type of exchange, but animal instinct told him that the simple stealing of a credit card wasn’t the answer. At least, not a permanent answer. In an economy using this exchange medium, somewhere along the line would be ultra-efficient computors, checking and double-checking each transaction no matter how small. A stolen credit card might be used once or twice, but then whatever police powers were available to the accounting computors would be after the thief.
He slept the first night, his stomach empty, standing in the nearest equivalent he could find in the city of Greater Washington to a darkened alley. It was darkened through his own efforts, and he didn’t like that bit of it, either. He had no way of knowing how soon the light failure would be taken care of by the city maintenance department. He slept standing, to the extent he slept at all, his hand never further than inches from the weapon in his belt, the gun which he knew how to use so well.
A maintenance squad floater came through at dawn and Billy, catlike, awoke fully from his drowze. He shrugged his shoulders in the nearest thing he had time for in way of stretching cramped muscles, gave his clothes a rapid brush, stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped out briskly, whistling a currently popular Palermo dance tune.
The two men of the squad looked at him blankly.
Billy grinned his toothy grin and said, “Sure is pretty this time of morning, ay? I just can’t help comin’ out and walkin’ around.”
One of the two men looked up at the lightening sky, his face still empty. Color was there. New color in the gray-black of night. He had seen dawn many thousands of times. Perhaps the first thousand had even awakened some feeling in him. Now, he wished he was in bed. The other one didn’t bother to look up. He grunted sarcasm.
Billy, his hands still in his pockets, turned and went on his way, still whistling.
The first of the two looked after him for a moment. “Crazy young jerk,” he muttered. “Doesn’t know when he’s well off. He’ll freeze his bottom off in this weather with no more but that jacket on.”
The other growled, “What the devil was he doing in this alley with the light off and all?”
The other grunted contempt of the question. “What d’ya think he was doing?”
Billy Antrim was going to have to eat. Already his head felt somewhat light as a result of having not eaten for… how long? There’d been two oranges and half a box of cookies in that floater he’d gloamed from those three scared-to-death yokes a couple of days ago. He sneered amusement. They’d thought he was on some juvenile romp and tried to give him their watches and jewelry. He needed three more watches like he needed a knife in the kidney.
But he had to have food.
The gods to whom Billy Antrim prayed when in his personal fox holes came through. The streets were still largely deserted, but immediately ahead of him a citizen lurched from a doorway and started up the avenue.
Billy’s eyes darted around him. The streets were otherwise clear.
He called out, “Ay! Mac! you dropped somethun!”
The other swayed to a halt, reversed his engines and looked back at the hail. It could only have been for him. His lids were half lowered over cloudy eyes.
“Whuz the matter?” he slurred.
Billy came nearer. “I saw you drop somethun, just when you was coming out of that there house there.”
The other fumbled hands over pockets, absently. “Oh,” he said. Then, finally, “What?”
“I don’t know what,” Billy said plaintively. “I just saw you drop somethun, just when you were coining out of the lobby like.”
The half-drunken, half asleep one grunted a sigh and started back for the door from which he had emerged. Billy followed him into the hall.
The drunk peered around. “I don’t see noth—”
Billy clipped him over the back of the right ear expertly with the butt of the gun.
He couldn’t safely leave him here. He couldn’t even take the time to frisk him here. He grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and hauled him slowly toward the back recesses of the hall. Given luck, he wouldn’t be found until other inhabitants of the building issued forth later in the day. Especially if Billy did some more in the way of darkening lights.
He sent his hands briskly over the other’s clothing. He was interested in nothing beyond the credit card, and found it without undue effort.
He stood and looked down at his victim. One of his tutors, Piero Caravaggio, of the Agrigento staff, had once told him that if you kicked an unconscious man in the side of the head a couple of times, he wasn’t able to remember your description upon regaining consciousness. It sounded unlikely to Billy, but when you had only one chance in a million, you couldn’t afford to ignore any opportunity to better your odds. He kicked twice.
Before the romp which had culminated in the elimination of Giorgio Schiavoni, Billy had spent a few days with some of the boys sampling the fleshpots of Greater Washington. Thus it was that he was acquainted with the location of those areas of town which catered to the nightowl set, or the workers, theatrical and otherwise, which in any big city must be fed and ministered to at all hours. He summoned a copter-cab at the next corner, dialed the coordinates he wanted and took it to within several blocks of his destination. When the cab stopped, he hesitated. He could do one of two things: press his newly acquired credit card to the cab’s payment screen, which would automatically open the door for him, or break the lock and escape. Which would, of course, immediately set the powers that be after him.
No, the safest thing was to use the card. The drunk he had rolled, with any luck at all, would still be unconscious. Would certainly not as yet have noticed the loss of his card. In fact, given the Antrim luck, the yoke probably would get himself home and into bed to sleep it all off, before discovering his loss. Even then, he would probably list it as lost, rather than stolen—given the Antrim luck.
Billy pressed his card to the cab’s screen and dismounted from the vehicle, which took off into the traffic just beginning to materialize.
He went into a monstrously large cafeteria type restaurant which catered to actors, musicians and the like. He ate once and hugely for the sake of his stomach as it was. Then he went back and past the array of foods once again, this time selecting such items as fruit, bread rolls, sandwiches and cake, which he could carry with him, and
