Tom stood watching the ambulance whisk Murell off, dithering in indecision. The poisoning of Murell seemed like an unexpected blow to him. That fitted what I’d begun to think. Finally, he motioned the laborer to pick up the lifter, and we started off toward where he had parked his jeep, outside the spaceport area.
Bish walked along with us, drawing his pistol and replacing the fired round in the magazine. I noticed that it was a 10 mm Colt-Argentine Federation Service, commercial type. There aren’t many of those on Fenris. A lot of 10 mm’s, but mostly South African Sterbergs or Vickers-Bothas, or Mars-Consolidated Police Specials. Mine, which I wasn’t carrying at the moment, was a Sterberg 7.7 mm Olympic Match.
“You know,” he said, sliding the gun back under his coat, “I would be just as well pleased as Mr. Fieschi if this didn’t get any publicity. If you do publish anything about it, I wish you’d minimize my own part in it. As you have noticed, I have some slight proficiency with lethal hardware. This I would prefer not to advertise. I can usually avoid trouble, but when I can’t, I would like to retain the advantage of surprise.”
We all got into the jeep. Tom, not too graciously, offered to drop Bish wherever he was going. Bish said he was going to the Times, so Tom lifted the jeep and cut in the horizontal drive. We got into a busy one-way aisle, crowded with lorries hauling foodstuffs to the refrigeration area. He followed that for a short distance, and then turned off into a dimly lighted, disused area.
Before long, I began noticing stacks of tallow-wax, put up in the regular outside sausage skins but without the Coop markings. They just had the names of hunter-ships—Javelin, Bulldog, Helldiver, Slasher, and so on.
“What’s that stuff doing in here?” I asked. “It’s a long way from the docks, and a long way from the spaceport.”
“Oh, just temporary storage,” Tom said. “It hasn’t been checked in with the Coop yet.”
That wasn’t any answer—or maybe it was. I let it go at that. Then we came to an open space about fifty feet square. There was a jeep, with a 7 mm machine gun mounted on it, and half a dozen men in boat-clothes were playing cards at a table made out of empty ammunition boxes. I noticed they were all wearing pistols, and when a couple of them saw us, they got up and grabbed rifles. Tom let down and got out of the jeep, going over and talking with them for a few minutes. What he had to tell them didn’t seem to bring any noticeable amount of sunlight into their lives. After a while he came back, climbed in at the controls, and lifted the jeep again.
Main City Level
The ceiling on Main City Level is two hundred feet high; in order to permit free circulation of air and avoid traffic jams, nothing is built higher than a hundred and fifty feet except the square buildings, two hundred yards apart, which rest on foundations on the Bottom Level and extend up to support the roof. The Times has one of these pillar-buildings, and we have the whole thing to ourselves. In a city built for a quarter of a million, twenty thousand people don’t have to crowd very closely on one another. Naturally, we don’t have a top landing stage, but except for the buttresses at the corners and solid central column, the whole street floor is open.
Tom hadn’t said anything after we left the stacks of wax and the men guarding them. We came up a vehicle shaft a few blocks up Broadway, and he brought the jeep down and floated it in through one of the archways. As usual, the place was cluttered with equipment we hadn’t gotten around to repairing or installing, merchandise we’d taken in exchange for advertising, and vehicles, our own and everybody else’s. A couple of mechanics were tinkering on one of them. I decided, for the oomptieth time, to do something about cleaning it up. Say in another two or three hundred hours, when the ships would all be in port and work would be slack, and I could hire a couple of good men to help.
We got Murell’s stuff off the jeep, and I hunted around till I found a hand-lifter.
“Want to stay and have dinner with us, Tom?” I asked.
“Uh?” It took him a second or so to realize what I’d said. “Why, no, thanks, Walt. I have to get back to the ship. Father wants to see me before the meeting.”
“How about you, Bish? Want to take potluck with us?”
“I shall be delighted,” he assured me.
Tom told us goodbye absentmindedly, lifted the jeep, and floated it out into the street. Bish and I watched him go; Bish looked as though he had wanted to say something and then thought better of it. We floated Murell’s stuff and mine over to the elevator beside the central column, and I ran it up to the editorial offices on the top floor.
We came out in a big room, half the area of the floor, full of worktables and radios and screens and photoprinting machines. Dad, as usual, was in a gray knee-length smock, with a pipe jutting out under his ragged mustache, and, as usual, he was stopping every minute
