Byng leaned forward and blinked his drug-stained eyes. In a quiet voice,
almost a purr, he said, "It's really very simple. We're going to stage a
good old-fashioned hold-up. It's a proposition that'll net us each about
a million credits, even with the ten-way split. It ought to go off
pretty easy but we need you in on it. As a matter of fact, I'd say you
were indispensable to the project, Alan."
_Chapter Fourteen_
Hawkes took over, explaining the proposition to a now very much awake
Alan.
"There's going to be a currency transfer at the World Reserve Bank
downtown next Friday. At least ten million credits are going to be
picked up by an armored truck and taken to branch banks for
distribution.
"Hollis, here, happens to have found out the wave-patterns of the
roboguards who'll be protecting the currency shipment. And Al Webber has
some equipment that can paralyze roboguards if we know their operational
wavelength. So it's a simple matter to leave the car unprotected; we
wait till it's loaded, then blank out the robots, seize the human
guards, and drive away with the truck."
Alan frowned thoughtfully. "Why am _I_ so indispensable to this
business?" He had no desire to rob banks or anything else.
"Because you're the only one of us who isn't registered on the central
directory. You don't have any televector number. You can't be traced."
Suddenly Alan understood. "So _that's_ why you didn't let me register!
You've been grooming me for this all along!"
Hawkes nodded. "As far as Earth is concerned, you don't exist. If any of
us drove off with that truck, all they need to do is plot the truck's
coordinates and follow the televector patterns of the man who's driving
it. Capture is inevitable that way. But if _you're_ aboard the truck,
there's no possible way of tracing your route. Get it?"
"I get it," Alan said slowly. _But I don't like it_, he added silently.
"I want to think about the deal a little longer, though. Let me sleep on
it. I'll tell you tomorrow whether I'll go through with it."
Puzzled expressions appeared on the faces of Hawkes' eight guests, and
Webber started to say something, but Hawkes hastily cut him off. "The
boy's a little sleepy, that's all. He needs time to get used to the idea
of being a millionaire. I'll call each of you in the morning, okay?"
The eight were shepherded out of the apartment rapidly, and when they
were gone Hawkes turned to face Alan. Gone now was the bland
friendliness, gone the warm-hearted brotherliness of the older man. His
lean face was cold and businesslike now, and his voice was harsh as he
said, "What's this talk of thinking it over? Who said you had any choice
about this thing?"
"Don't I have any say in my own life?" Alan asked hotly. "Suppose I
don't want to be a bank robber? You didn't tell me----"
"I didn't need to. Listen, boy--I didn't bring you in here for my
health. I brought you in because I saw you had the potential for this
job. I've coddled you along for more than three months, now. Given you a
valuable education in how to get along on this planet. Now I'm asking
you to pay me back, a little. Byng told the truth: you're indispensable
to this project. Your personal feelings are irrelevant just now."
"Who says?"
"I do."
Alan stared coldly at Hawkes' transformed face. "Max, I didn't bargain
for a share in your bank-robbing syndicate. I don't want any part of it.
Let's call it quits right now. I've turned over quite a few thousand
credits of my winnings to you. Give me five hundred and keep the rest.
It's your pay for my room and board and instruction the last three
months. You go your way, I'll go mine."
Hawkes laughed sharply. "Just as simple as that? I pocket your winnings
and you walk out of here? How dumb do you think I am? You know the names
of the syndicate, you know the plans, you know everything. A lot of
people would pay big money for an advance tip on this bit." He shook his
head. "I'll go my way and you'll go it too, Alan. Or else. You know what
that _or else_ means."
Angrily Alan said, "You'd kill me, too, if I backed down now. Friendship
doesn't mean a thing to you. 'Help us rob this bank, or else.'"
Hawkes' expression changed again; he smiled warmly, and when he spoke
his voice was almost wheedling. "Listen, Alan, we've been planning this
thing for months. I put down seven thousand to clear your brother, just
so I'd be sure of getting your cooperation. I tell you there's no
danger. I didn't mean to threaten you--but try to see my side of it. You
_have_ to help out!"
Alan looked at him curiously. "How come you're so hot to rob the bank,
Max? You earn a fortune every night. You don't need a million more
credits."
"No. I don't. But some of them do. Johnny Byng does; and Kovak, too--he
owes Bryson thirty thousand. But I organized the scheme." Hawkes was
pleading now. "Alan, I'm bored. Deadly bored. Gambling isn't gambling
for me; I'm too good. I never lose except when I want to. So I need to
get my kicks someplace else. This is it. But it won't come off without
you."
They were silent for a moment. Alan realized that Hawkes and his group
were desperate men; they would never let him live if he refused to
cooperate. He had no choice at all. It was disillusioning to discover
that Hawkes had taken him in mostly because he would be useful in a
robbery.
He tried to tell himself that this was a jungle world where morality
didn't matter, and that the million credits he'd gain would help finance
hyperdrive research. But those were thin arguments that held no
conviction. There was no justification for what he was going to do. None
whatsoever.
But Hawkes held him in a cleft stick. There was no way out. He had
fallen among thieves--and, willy-nilly, he would be forced to become one
himself.
"All right," he said bitterly. "I'll drive the getaway truck for you.
But after it's over, I'll take my share and get out. I won't want to see
you again."
Hawkes seemed to look hurt, but he masked the emotion quickly enough.
"That's up to you, Alan. But I'm glad you gave in. It would have been
rough on both of us otherwise. Suppose we get some sleep."
Alan slept poorly during what was left of the night. He kept mulling the
same thoughts round and round endlessly in his head, until he wished he
could unhinge the front of his skull and let the thoughts somehow
escape.
It irritated him to know that Hawkes had taken him in primarily because
he fit the qualifications for a plan concocted long before, and not for
his own sake. All the intensive training the gambler had given him had
been directed not merely toward toughening Alan but toward preparing him
for the role he would play in the projected robbery.
He felt unhappy about the robbery too. The fact that he was being
coerced into taking part made him no less a criminal, and that went
against all his long-ingrained codes of ethics. He would be just as
guilty as Hawkes or Webber, and there was no way out.
There was no sense brooding over it, he decided finally. When it was all
over he would have enough money to begin aiming for his real goal,
development of a workable hyperspace drive. He would break completely
with Hawkes, move to some other city perhaps. If his quest were
successful, it would in some measure be an atonement for the crime he
was going to commit. Only in some measure, though.
The week passed slowly, and Alan did poorly at his nightly work. His
mind was anywhere but on the flashing games board, and the permutations
and combinations eluded him. He lost, though not heavily.
Each night the ten members of the Syndicate met at Hawkes' apartment and
planned each step of the crime in great detail, drilling and re-drilling
until it was second nature for each man to recite his particular part in
the robbery. Alan's was at once the simplest and most difficult; he
would have nothing to do until the others had finished their parts, but
then he would have to board the armored car and outrace any pursuers. He
was to drive the car far outside city limits, where he would be met and
relieved of the cash by Byng and Hollis; then he was to lose the truck
somewhere and return to the city by public transit.
The day of the robbery dawned cold and clear; an autumn chill was in the
air. Alan felt some anticipatory nervousness, but he was calmer than he
expected to be--almost fatalistically calm. By nightfall, he would be a
wanted criminal. He wondered whether it would be worth it, even for the
million credits. Perhaps it would be best to defy Hawkes and make some
sort of escape try.
But Hawkes, as always a shrewd judge of human character, seemed
obviously aware that Alan was wavering. He kept a close watch over him,
never allowing him to stray. Hawkes was taking no chances. He was
compelling Alan to take part in the robbery.
The currency transfer was scheduled to take place at 1240, according to
the inside information that Hollis had somehow obtained. Shortly after
noon, Hawkes and Alan left the apartment and boarded the Undertube,
their destination the downtown section of York City where the World
Reserve Bank was located.
They reached the bank about 1230. The armored truck was parked outside,
looking sleek and impregnable, and four massive roboguards stood watch,
one by each wheel. There were three human policemen too, but they were
strictly for effect; in case of any trouble, the roboguards were
expected to handle the rough work.
The bank was a mighty edifice indeed--over a hundred stories high,
rising in sweeping setbacks to a point where its tapering top was lost
in the shimmering noonday sky. It was, Alan knew, the center of global
commerce.
Armed guards were bringing packages of currency from within the bank and
were placing them on the truck. Alan's heart raced. The streets were
crowded with office workers out for lunch; could he get away with it?
It was all precisely synchronized. As Hawkes and Alan strolled toward
the bank, Alan caught sight of Kovak lounging across the street, reading
a telefax sheet. None of the others were visible.
Webber, Alan knew, was at this moment sitting in an office overlooking
the bank entrance, staring out the window at the scene below. At
precisely 1240, Webber was to throw the switch on the wave-damper that
would paralyze the four roboguards.
The instant the roboguards froze, the other conspirators would go into
action. Jensen, McGuire, Freeman, and Smith, donning masks, would leap
for the three human guards of the truck and pin them to the ground. Byng
and Hawkes, who would enter the bank a moment before, would stage an
impromptu fist-fight with each other just inside the main entrance,
thereby creating confusion and making it difficult for reinforcement
guards to get past them and into the street.
Just outside the door, Hollis and Kovak would lurk. As the quartet
pounced on the truck's guards, they would sprint across and yank the
driver out of the cab. Then Alan would enter quickly from the other side
and drive off, while the remaining nine would vanish into the crowd in
as many different directions as possible. Byng and Hollis, if they got
away, would head for the rendezvous to meet Alan and take the cash from
him.
If it went off properly the whole thing should take less than fifteen
seconds, from the time Webber threw the switch to the time Alan drove
away with the truck. If it went off properly.
The seconds crawled by. The time was 1235, now. At 1237 Hawkes and Byng
sauntered into the bank from opposite directions. Three minutes to go.
Alan's false calm deserted him; he pictured all sorts of possible
calamities.
1238. Everyone's watch was synchronized to the second.
1239. 1239:30.
Thirty seconds to go. Alan took his position in a crowd of bystanders,
as prearranged. Fifteen seconds to go. Ten. Five.
1240. The roboguards were in the act of directing the locking of the
truck; the loading had been carried out precisely on schedule. The truck
was shut and sealed.
The roboguards froze.
Webber had been right on time. Alan tensed, caught up in the excitement
of the moment and thinking now only of the part he was to play.
The three policemen glanced at each other in some confusion. Jensen and
McGuire came leaping out at them----
And the roboguards returned to life.
The sound of blaster shots was heard within the bank; Alan whirled,
startled. Four guards came racing out of the building, blasters drawn.
What had happened to Hawkes and Byng--why weren't they obstructing the
entrance, as it had been arranged?
The street was a scene of wild confusion now; people milled everywhere.
Alan saw Jensen writhing in the steel grip of a roboguard. Had Webber's
device failed? Evidently so.
Alan was unable to move. He saw Freeman and McGuire streaking wildly
down the street with police in keen pursuit. Hollis stood staring dumbly
inside the bank door. Alan saw Kovak come running toward him.
"Everything's gone wrong!" Kovak whispered harshly. "The cops were
waiting for us! Byng and Hawkes are dead. Come on--run, if you want to
save yourself!"
_Chapter Fifteen_
Alan sat very quietly in the empty apartment that had once belonged to
Max Hawkes, and stared at nothing in particular. It was five hours since
the abortive robbery. He was alone.
The news had been blared out over every form of communication there was;
he knew the story by heart. A daring robbery had been attempted, but
police detection methods had yielded advance warning, and the robbers
had been frustrated. The roboguards had been specially equipped ones
which could shift to an alternate wavelength in case of emergency; they
had blanked out only momentarily. And special guards had been posted
within the bank, ready to charge out. Byng and Hawkes had tried to block
the doorway and they had been shot down. Hawkes was killed instantly;
Byng died an hour later in the hospital.
At least two other members of the gang had been apprehended--Jensen and
Smith, both trapped by the roboguards. It was known that at least two
other men and possibly more had participated in the attempt, and these
were being traced now.
Alan was not worried. He had not been within a hundred feet of the
crime, and it had been easy for him to slip away unnoticed. The others
had had little difficulty either--Webber, Hollis, Kovak, McGuire, and
Freeman. There was a chance that Hollis or Kovak had been recognized; in
that case, they could be tracked down by televector. But Alan was not
registered on the televector screens--and there was no other way of
linking him with the crime.
He glanced around the apartment at Hawkes' bar and his audio system and
all the dead man's other things. Yesterday, Alan thought, Hawkes had
been here, alive, eyes sparkling as he outlined the plans for the
robbery a final time. Now he was dead. It was hard to believe that such
a many-sided person could have been snuffed out so soon, so quickly.
A thought occurred. The police would be investigating the disposition of
Hawkes' property; they would want to know the relationship between
Hawkes and Alan, and perhaps there would be questions asked about the
robbery. Alan decided to forestall that.
He reached for the phone. He would call Security, tell them he had been
living with Hawkes and had heard of the gambler's sudden violent death,
and in all innocence ask for details. He would----
The door-announcer chimed.
Alan whirled and put down the receiver. Reaching out, he flicked on the
doorscreen and was shown a view of a distinguished-looking middle-aged
man in the silver-gray uniform of the police. _So soon?_ Alan thought.
_I didn't even get a chance to call----_
"Who is it?" he asked, in a surprisingly even voice.
"Inspector Gainer of Global Security."
Alan opened the door. Inspector Gainer smiled warmly, walked in, took
the seat Alan offered him. Alan felt tense and jumpy, and hoped not too
much of it showed.
The Security man said, "Your name is Alan Donnell, isn't it? And you're
a Free Status man, unregistered, employed as a professional gamesman
Class B?"