luck.
He opened the door and slipped into a rear seat. He made himself comfortable, and said into the screen, “The United Planets Building.”
No trouble. The vehicle started up and edged itself into the street traffic.
The UP Building, he found, he could have easily walked to. It was less than a mile from the spaceport.
There were two Space Marines on guard at the door. Ronny Bronston called out to one of them.
The marine marched over and scowled down into the car.
Ronny flashed his badge. “I just came from the spaceport and have no local exchange. Can you pay the cab off for me?”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Certainly. They use credit cards here, sir.” The marine brought one from his pocket and held it to the cab’s screen. The door automatically opened.
Ronny stepped out and said, “Now, quickly, take me to Citizen Phil Birdman.”
The marine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He turned and marched off, Ronny following.
The suite of offices was lettered simply,
Ronny said, “Thanks. I’ll have that cab fare returned to you.”
“Not necessary, sir,” the space-soldier said stiffly. “We’re on unlimited expense account.” He did an about- face and was off.
Ronny looked after him for a moment. How does it feel to be a professional soldier, when there hasn’t been a war for centuries? He grunted sourly. Perhaps the soldier would be practicing his trade before long.
He opened the door and entered into a reception room. He walked over to the screen and said, “Ronald Bronston, Section G. To see Phil Birdman.”
A door beyond opened immediately and a very dark-complected man, in his mid-forties, well over six feet tall and with a startlingly handsome face, came hurrying out, hand extended.
“Come in!” he said. “Holy Jumping Zen, it’s been two years since I’ve seen a fellow agent from Section G.”
Ronny ignored the hand. He brought his wallet out and showed his badge. He touched it with a finger and the badge glowed silver.
Birdman laughed, said, “Okay, okay, if you want to play it formal.” He fished his own wallet out and displayed his badge. He touched it with a finger, and like Bronston’s it shone brightly.
Ronny stuck out his hand for the shake, grinning self-deprecation.
Birdman cocked his head on one side. “Something must be up.”
“Yes,” Ronny said. “Let’s get out of here.”
The tall dark man looked at him. “Get out to where? Come on in the office and we’ll have some firewater.”
Ronny shook his head impatiently. “I’m already on the run. They’ll probably be here any minute. Surely you’ve got an ultimate hideout—just in case.”
“Wait’ll I get my shooter,” the other clipped. He hurried back into the inner office, returned in moments, shrugging a shoulder holster into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket.
“This way.”
He led Ronny through a series of door and halls, finally emerging at the back of the building. There was a row of hovercars. Birdman slid into one, a speedy-looking model. Ronny slipped into the seat beside him.
“We’re not going very far in this, are we?” Ronny growled. “If it’s yours, it’s spotted.”
“Of course,” Birdman grunted. “Who are you working with?” His hand maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking area and into the traffic stream.
“Directly under the Old Man,” Ronny said.
“Oh? And Sid Jakes? How’s Sid?”
“Chuckling his fool head off,” Ronny said.
They spoke no more for the next fifteen minutes, during which time Phil Birdman put on a show of how to lose a possible tail and leave no possible trail behind, in a big city. They dropped his car after a few miles, sending it back to the UP Building. They took a cab for a time. Then they got out and walked. They took a rolling-road for a time. They took a pneumatic. Then they walked some more.
Finally, in a residential area, they entered a house. It seemed deserted. They entered a closet. The closet was an elevator.
When they left the elevator, they were in a Spartan apartment, well-equipped from the Section G gimmick department, and from Communications and Weaponry.
Ronny looked about and whistled approvingly through his teeth. “Nice setup, considering you’re only one man here.”
Birdman nodded. “I’m going to have to brace Sid Jakes on that. We need a bigger staff. Phrygia is more important than they seem to think back there in the Octagon.” He headed for a manual bar. “Now how about that firewater?”
“Firewater?” Ronny said.
Phil Birdman grinned at him. “Ugh, guzzle, you palefaces call it. I’m from Piegan.”
Ronny frowned in memory. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Colonized by Amerinds. Mostly Blackfeet and Sioux. Diehards, who still wanted to get away from the whiteman and go back to the old tribal society. Setup, kind of a primitive communism, based on clan society.”
“That’s the way it started,” Birdman nodded. “How about pseudo-whiskey?” At Ronny’s nod, he added, “And water?” He finished the drinks and returned with them.
Ronny was already seated. He took the drink and said, “How did it work out?”
“Piegan? Terribly. You can’t go back, no matter how strong the dream.”
“So what happened?”
Birdman grinned at him, wryly. “Section G happened. A few of the boys turned up and subverted our institutions. Best thing that ever happened. We’ve still got an Indian society, but we’re rapidly industrializing. Couple of more decades and well be at least as advanced as Phrygia, here.”
Ronny drank half of the pseudo-whiskey down. “If any of us are around, a couple of decades from now.”
The big Indian looked at him. “I knew it was something inportant,” he said.
Ronny nodded and briefed the other operative on recent developments.
Their drinks were finished by the time he was through. His host got up to get new ones. “And now?” he asked.
Ronny shrugged. “My assignment isn’t particularly important. Just one phase of the whole. Ross Metaxa wants me to take what steps I can and keep Baron Wyler from sounding off about the Octagon’s plans to speed up the amalgamation of United Planets and all other human settled worlds. From what this mopsy, Rita Daniels, tells me, the Baron has been playing footsie with Interplanetary News.”
“Footsie, yet,” Birdman snorted. “Baron Wyler
Ronny gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you we need a larger staff here. There’s a lot cooking that’s going to have to come right before Metaxa’s eyes. I’m working on the report right now. At any rate, Baron Wyler owns communications on Phrygia. All communications. And he also controls Interplanetary News. Who did you think owned it?”
“It never occurred to me to wonder. I realize, of course, that we’ve got every kind of socio-economic system ever dreamed up, through the centuries, at one place or another in United Planets; but I didn’t think in terms of an organization as strong as Interplanetary News being privately owned. Certainly not by one individual.”
“It’s not exactly one individual,” the Indian growled. “More like a family, and the Baron’s the head of the family.”
He made a face. “I’d better give you some background. You were right, when you said UP has every socio- economic system ever dreamed up by man, on one planet or the other. It also has a lot of crisscrosses.”
Ronny frowned at him.
Birdman explained. “Take communism. We’ve got planets, such as my own Piegan used to be, that practice primitive tribal communism. Then we’ve got planets of ‘purists,’ who have attempted to build a society such as Marx and Engels originally had in mind back in 1848. Then we’ve got a sample or two of communism, as Lenin saw it; then, one or two as DeLeon adapted socialism to America; and, at least one on the Stalinist conception—that’s a
