Foster, emulating the same lazy motion, looked thoughtful for a second,
then nodded. "I think that's all we're going to get. Come on, let's
stash him away."
"Stash me away?" I cried indignantly. "What the hell are you talking
about?"
"You're going into a nice cell, buddy," said Charlie, an ugly smile
on his face. "And you'll be let out when the time comes. So quit your
bellyaching and come on. It'll be easier if you don't try to get rough."
"You can't arrest me," I said. "I'm--or, I should be--the
Amnesty-bearer!"
It was as if they hadn't heard me.
"Come on, come on," said Foster, crooking a finger at me.
"You guys can't pull this kind of trick!" I said. "When Chief Baxter
hears about this--"
Charlie and Foster threw back their heads and laughed.
"W-what's so funny?" I asked, a dreadful inkling growing inside my mind.
The door opened and a third security man walked in. It was Chief Philip
Baxter. He gave me a tolerant smile.
"They're laughing, Delvin," he said smoothly, "because I gave the order
for your arrest."
* * * * *
The cell was of cold Martian stone, and had no window. I sat,
miserable, on the thin cot provided for me, and pondered all that had
happened to me in the last few days. None of it made the slightest
sense to me. Not my selection by the Brain, nor my arrest by Baxter's
men. It was crazy!
Baxter, when I'd demanded to know the reason for his duplicity, had
merely said, "You've served your purpose." And then Charlie and
Foster had taken me away, their collapser muzzles forming unarguable
persuaders against my spine.
I didn't even give a moment's consideration to thoughts of escape. I
was in a Security prison, and a maximum-security Security prison at
that. The door to my cell was a massive foot-thick stone which swung
into place on ponderous hinges, and sealed by making a half-twist
in the circular entrance. Air was provided through vents, vents
which could be closed off if the prisoner showed signs of aggressive
tendencies. A few hours without air made most men pretty docile.
I wondered how long I'd sit there before they fed me. Or if they would
feed me at all. Hell, no one knew I was on Mars. My last contact with
my regular associates had been my good-by to Marge at the office. For
all anyone knew, I'd been arrested for anarchy, or something. I knew,
with a cold sinking feeling, that no one would even ask about me.
Security had taken me, Security was good for the country, and Security
never made mistakes. Topic closed. Jery Delvin written off as an
uninteresting memory.
There seemed to be nothing to do but think, so I did a lot of it.
I noted with chagrin that they hadn't removed my belt, or socks. I
could, if I so desired, escape my fate by simply knotting them into
a cord, and passing one end through the overhead air grillwork and
the other about my neck. Maybe that was the reason why they hadn't
taken them. I had a distinct feeling, a served-my-purpose feeling,
that whether I died by my own hand or of claustrophobia made little
difference to Baxter and his boys.
I folded my hands behind my head and sank back onto the hard cot,
puzzling over everything that had happened to me.
The Brain selects me as the key figure in the finding of the missing
Space Scouts. Fine, so far. Just what my duties are, it doesn't say,
but I'm the man for the job, whatever it is. Okay.
So Baxter hands over the Amnesty, I get a preliminary lead from Anders,
the pilot of the Scouts. I take off for Mars to find the kids, who
seem to have left of their own volition. Swell. Only, a cute blonde by
the unlikely name of Snow White filches the Amnesty, and nearly has me
tossed in prison. Except that Baxter, still on my side, gets me loose.
I take off looking for Snow, and get mickeyed in a Martian bar. Then--
Then things start getting confusing.
I get loose and come upon a sort of council of Earthmen, dickering with
a sugarfoot, a supposedly dumb animal, for me and my collapser.
I get spotted, the men try to snatch me, and they all get vaporized by
the sugarfoot, who runs off. I follow, and next thing, another mob is
on my heels. Same bit with the sugarfoot. Zzzzzzurp! No more men! Only
this time it doesn't run off. It dallies a bit, and tries to get me to
go somewhere with it. Why it has suddenly decided to take me along, I
don't know, because it had the opportunity much earlier, when it made
its first massacre.
However, I decline the invitation, and, like a good boy, report all
events to Security. Upshot: I am stashed in a solid rock cell, possibly
never to emerge alive.
I lay there pondering these facts. One thing seemed clear: I
didn't know the angles. What was Snow's angle? Or Baxter's? Or the
sugarfoot's? Or the mob's?
Hell, what was mine?
I snorted and sat up, rubbing my neck. I had a headache coming on,
and it felt like the start of a migraine, an occupational hazard with
ad men. I tried rotating my head on my neck, a good relaxer for those
tensed neck muscles. And then I noticed that I was perspiring like mad,
and that my throat felt hot inside.
With a sick apprehension, I sprang up and thrust my nose near the grill
on the wall. Nothing. I tried poking a finger between the latticework.
It was stopped by a metal plate.
The air-supply grill was sealed off. In that tiny cell, I had maybe two
hours more of breathing time. After that--Well, I wouldn't be feeling
my oxygen-starvation headache any more.
I sat down on the cot once more and scowled at the floor. I was tired
of puzzles, but even this didn't make sense! Why take the time and
trouble to smother me?
A collapser could wipe me off the slate in seconds. No annoying corpus
delicti cluttering up the premises. Not even a bit of fingernail left,
nothing to incriminate the murderers. So they smother me.
But why kill me, for heaven's sake? It couldn't be to keep me from
telling what I knew! I didn't know a damned thing. Except that Baxter,
motive unknown, must have left Earth immediately after I spoke to him
on that interplanetary hook-up. Or was it interplanetary? Come to think
of it, he could've been in the next room when I talked to him. Damn. It
was baffling.
Why he hadn't simply told me that it was no use, and sent me back
to Earth, I couldn't figure out. He could have made all sorts of
reasonable excuses for my not continuing in my search for the missing
boys, and I'd have swallowed any one of them. Instead, he locks me up,
throws away the key, and turns off the air supply.
What did I know that I could communicate to people back on Earth? What
knowledge did I have that was a menace of some sort to Security? Or, to
be more near the truth, to Baxter?