“He’s on our list,” realized Cruz.
“Yep, and supposedly vanished.”
“He’s only just hiding out,” said Jazz. “Because he got the notion certain people mean him no good. He and I are rather close, which is why I-”
“People do mean him harm,” said Smith. “But I think we can prevent his getting knocked off or even seriously hurt.”
She studied him. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Mr. Smith,” she said. “But your face doesn’t exactly inspire faith and confidence in me.”
“He’s trustworthy,” said Cruz.
“You I can believe in, Mr. Cruz. Therefore, I suppose if you vouch for him, then-”
An enormous explosion sounded outside, and the van shook and wobbled.
“Let’s save the character reference stuff,” said Smith. “We’ve arrived at our destination.”
“…the scene here is one of mishap and calamity. The once proud and palatial resort that bloomed here amidst the harsh starkness of the mighty Red Desert, in the very shadow, as it were, of the planet-renowned Shrine, now stretches out before our unbelieving eyes, smoking ruin. Dedicated Qatzir Militiamen are locked in mortal combat with equally dedicated Mizayen Commandos amidst the pathetic pile that was once the majestic Oasis Dinner Theater and…”
From a weaponproof glaz booth up in the domed roof of the parked newsvan, Jazz was describing the battle going on in front of them. A robot camera was prowling outside, circling the fighting.
Smith was crouched, lifting a round panel in the van floor.
“You’ve still got to cover maybe ten yards in the open out there,” said Cruz.
“But not where they’re fighting.”
“The way these exuberant lads do battle, a stray shot from a kilrifle might-”
“The trapdoor to the underground hideaway ought to be directly beyond that hunk of wall yonder,” said Smith. “I’ll drop out, scoot over there and get below to Ruiz.”
“May well be that everybody in that underground nook is dead and done for, old chum.”
“Place is supposed to be fortified, according to Rocky Jordan.”
“Well, okay.” Shrugging one shoulder, Cruz went back to the driveseat. “Good luck.”
Nodding once, Smith dropped down to the broken ground beneath the newsvan.
Smith raised a swirl of dust when he hit. Since he only had about three feet of clearance under the van, he had to belly along over the rubble.
When he reached the nose of the vehicle, he took a cautious look out from under.
Some three hundred yards to the left two dozen commandos were strung out, firing at the Oasis casino. Their kilrifles sizzled and crackled in the desert air.
Part of the front wall of the plaz and glaz casino suddenly came exploding out. Besides thousands of glittering shards, hundreds of playing cards fluttered and scattered across the rutted courtyard.
Smith turned his attention on his destination. The trapdoor entrance he wanted was just on the other side of the rear wall of what had been the cocktail lounge’s storeroom. The fighting made Smith’s task easier in one sense-he wouldn’t have to break into the place. All he had to do was jump over the remainder of the wall, which was less than four feet high.
He waited, watching and listening. Then he eased out into the open and rose to a crouch. The two opposing factions, intent on wiping each other out, didn’t notice him.
Smith sprinted. He vaulted the brix wall, landing with one booted foot in a tumbled crate of shattered sparkling water flasks. He slipped and slid into a fallen servobot.
“…name your poison,” gurgled the sprawled mechanism.
Rubbing at his knee, which had bonked against the robot’s elbow, Smith edged over to the spot where the hidden door was supposed to be. The freezer that had masked it was splintered in half, its contents, fruitballs and rainbow ices, melting into a colorful slush on the floor.
“Here we are.” Spotting the handle, Smith cleared aside debris and rainbow slurp and took hold of it.
He yanked, hard, and the trapdoor came silently open. A curving ramp led down to the hidden level below.
Smith stepped onto it and descended. When he closed the door behind him, all the furor of the battle died away.
CHAPTER 14
The six-armed green guard held five pistols, all aimed at Smith. With his sixth hand he was wiping at his tearful eyes with a plyochief. “Come no farther, pal,” he advised.
Recognizing the green man, Smith said, “How long’ve you been working here, Sadsack?”
Lowering his plyochief and shifting his grip on his three kilguns, one lazgun and one stungun, Sadsack Swingle eyed him. “Jared Smith…what brings you to this cesspool of iniquity?”
“Paying a call on an old school chum.”
“Fine day you picked,” said Swingle in his mournful voice. “Bands of crazed zealots clashing up above our very heads. This once proud resort complex a smoldering ruin and the pollen count the highest it’s been in weeks. You maybe don’t think there’s much pollen in the desert, but the damn winds across the-”
“Looking for Oscar Ruiz.”
“That sourpuss.” Swingle shook his head. “You know what really gets my grout is a guy who’s all the time complaining. Granted living down here is about three steps worse than residing in a sewer, but even so there’s no reason to-”
“Ruiz is still around?”
“Where could the poor sap go? They’d hunt him like a snerg if he ever fled the sanctuary of-”
“Where cant find him?”
Gesturing with the hand that held the stungun, Swingle said, “Down that corridor on the left. Geeze, they’ve got a lousy aircirc system in that one. Instead of filtering out gunk, it sucks in pollen, spores-”
“You given up your career?”
“I had to,” answered the green guard. “When you knew me during your law enforcement days I was struggling to be a successful shoplifter. You’d figure a guy with six arms’d be a natural for that line of work, but I was always the most obvious suspect. I tried to work as a blackjack dealer for Rocky Jordan for a spell, but the customers were always getting the idea I had a card up my sleeve. Basically, it’s a mean old world to-”
“I’ll drop in on Ruiz.”
“He’ll squawk. That guy can complain about company or-”
“He won’t mind seeing an old friend.” Grinning, Smith headed along the corridor with the defective aircirc system.
Smith said, “There’s not much upstairs anymore.”
Oscar Ruiz said, “So? This setup is self-contained. Two hundred people can live down here indefinitely.”
He was a middlesized humanoid of thirty, moderately overweight.
“Consider, then, this aspect of your situation.” Smith, arms folded, leaned against a yellow wall of the underground suite’s living room. “If I found you, others will.”
“Hooey,” commented Ruiz from his plaz rocker. “You’re better at this sort of thing than most, Jared. It’s one of your few real talents, hunting hapless people.”
“Guys with a hundred thousand trubux don’t qualify as hapless.”
“Listen, you think it’s fun being a fugitive? Or cheap? If I didn’t have my religious faith to sustain-”
