Before we left the lighted elevator car, we took a quick nose count.
Besides the Kivelsons, there were five _Javelin_ men--Ramón Llewellyn,
Abdullah Monnahan, Abe Clifford, Cesário Vieira, and a whitebeard
named Piet Dumont. Al Devis had been with us when we crashed the door
out of the meeting room, but he'd fallen by the way. We had a couple
of flashlights, so, after sending the car down to Bottom Level, we
picked our way up the zigzag iron stairs to the catwalk, under the
seventy-foot ceiling, and sat down in the dark.
Joe Kivelson was fretting about what would happen to the rest of his
men.
"Fine captain I am, running out and leaving them!"
"If they couldn't keep up, that's their tough luck," Oscar Fujisawa
told him. "You brought out all you could. If you'd waited any longer,
none of us would have gotten out."
"They won't bother with them," I added. "You and Tom and Oscar, here,
are the ones they want."
Joe was still letting himself be argued into thinking he had done the
right thing when we saw the lights of a lorry coming from uptown at
ceiling level. A moment later, it backed to the catwalk, and Bish Ware
stuck his head out from the pilot's seat.
"Where do you gentlemen wish to go?" he asked.
"To the _Javelin_," Joe said instantly.
"Huh-uh," Oscar disagreed. "That's the first place they'll look.
That'll be all right for Ramón and the others, but if they catch you
and Tom, they'll shoot you and call it self-defense, or take you in
and beat both of you to a jelly. This'll blow over in fifteen or
twenty hours, but I'm not going anywhere near my ship, now."
"Drop us off on Second Level Down, about Eighth Street and a couple of
blocks from the docks," the mate, Llewellyn, said. "We'll borrow some
weapons from Patel the Pawnbroker and then circulate around and see
what's going on. But you and Joe and Oscar had better go underground
for a while."
"The _Times_," I said. "We have a whole pillar-building to ourselves;
we could hide half the population."
That was decided upon. We all piled into the lorry, and Bish took it
to an inconspicuous place on the Second Level and let down. Ramón
Llewellyn and the others got out. Then we went up to Main City Level.
We passed within a few blocks of Hunters' Hall. There was a lot of
noise, but no shooting.
Joe Kivelson didn't have anything to say, on the trip, but he kept
looking at the pilot's seat in perplexity and apprehension. I think
he expected Bish to try to ram the lorry through every building we
passed by or over.
We found Dad in the editorial department on the top floor, feeding
voice-tape to Julio while the latter made master sheets for
teleprinting. I gave him a quick rundown on what had happened that he
hadn't gotten from my radio. Dad cluck-clucked in disapproval, either
at my getting into a fight, assaulting an officer, or, literally,
throwing money away.
Bish Ware seemed a little troubled. "I think," he said, "that I shall
make a circuit of my diocese, and see what can be learned from my
devoted flock. Should I turn up anything significant, I will call it
in."
With that, he went tottering over to the elevator, stumbling on the
way and making an unepiscopal remark. I watched him, and then turned
to Dad.
"Did he have anything to drink after I left?" I asked.
"Nothing but about five cups of coffee."
I mentally marked that: _Add oddities, Bish Ware._ He'd been at least
four hours without liquor, and he was walking as unsteadily as when
I'd first seen him at the spaceport. I didn't know any kind of liquor
that would persist like that.
Julio had at least an hour's tape to transcribe, so Dad and Joe and
Tom and Oscar and I went to the living room on the floor below. Joe
was still being bewildered about Bish Ware.
"How'd he manage to come for us?" he wanted to know.
"Why, he was here with me all evening," Dad said. "He came from the
spaceport with Walt and Tom, and had dinner with us. He called a few
people from here, and found out about the fake riot and police raid
Ravick had cooked up. You'd be surprised at how much information he
can pick up around town."
Joe looked at his son, alarmed.
"Hey! You let him see--" he began.
"The wax on Bottom Level, in the Fourth Ward?" I asked. "He won't blab
about that. He doesn't blab things where they oughtn't be blabbed."
"That's right," Dad backed me up. He was beginning to think of Bish as
one of the _Times_ staff, now. "We got a lot of tips from him, but
nothing we give him gets out." He got his pipe lit again. "What about
that wax, Joe?" he asked. "Were you serious when you made that motion
about a price of seventy-five centisols?"
"I sure was!" Joe declared. "That's the real price, and always has
been, and that's what we get or Kapstaad doesn't get any more wax."
"If Murell can top it, maybe Kapstaad won't get any more wax, period,"
I said. "Who's he with--Interstellar Import-Export?"
Anybody would have thought a barbwire worm had crawled onto Joe
Kivelson's chair seat under him.
"Where'd you hear that?" he demanded, which is the Galaxy's silliest
question to ask any newsman. "Tom, if you've been talking--"
"He hasn't," I said. "He didn't need to. It sticks out a parsec in all
directions." I mentioned some of the things I'd noticed while
interviewing Murell, and his behavior after leaving the ship. "Even
before I'd talked to him, I wondered why Tom was so anxious to get
aboard with me. He didn't know we'd arranged to put Murell up here; he
was going to take him to see that wax, and then take him to the
_Javelin_. You were going to produce him at the meeting and have him
bid against Belsher, only that tread-snail fouled your lines for you.
So then you thought you had to stall off a new contract till he got
out of the hospital."
The two Kivelsons and Oscar Fujisawa were looking at one another; Joe
and Tom in consternation, and Oscar in derision of both of them. I was
feeling pretty good. Brother, I thought, Sherlock Holmes never did
better, himself.
That, all of a sudden, reminded me of Dr. John Watson, whom Bish
perceived to have been in Afghanistan. That was one thing Sherlock H.
Boyd hadn't deduced any answers for. Well, give me a little more time.
And more data.
"You got it all figured out, haven't you?" Joe was asking
sarcastically. The sarcasm was as hollow as an empty oil drum.
"The _Times_," Dad was saying, trying not to sound too proud, "has a
very sharp reportorial staff, Joe."
"It isn't Interstellar," Oscar told me, grinning. "It's Argentine
Exotic Organics. You know, everybody thought Joe, here, was getting
pretty high-toned, sending his daughter to school on Terra. School
wasn't the only thing she went for. We got a letter from her, the last
time the Cape Canaveral was in, saying that she'd contacted Argentine
Organics and that a man was coming out on the _Peenemünde_, posing as
a travel-book author. Well, he's here, now."
"You'd better keep an eye on him," I advised. "If Steve Ravick gets
to him, he won't be much use to you."
"You think Ravick would really harm Murell?" Dad asked.
He thought so, too. He was just trying to comfort himself by
pretending he didn't.
"What do you think, Ralph?" Oscar asked him. "If we get competitive
wax buying, again, seventy-five a pound will be the starting price.
I'm not spending the money till I get it, but I wouldn't be surprised
to see wax go to a sol a pound on the loading floor here. And you know
what that would mean."
"Thirty for Steve Ravick," Dad said. That puzzled Oscar, till I
explained that "thirty" is newsese for "the end." "I guess Walt's
right. Ravick would do anything to prevent that." He thought for a
moment. "Joe, you were using the wrong strategy. You should have let
Ravick get that thirty-five centisol price established for the
Co-operative, and then had Murell offer seventy-five or something like
that."
"You crazy?" Joe demanded. "Why, then the Co-op would have been stuck
with it."
"That's right. And as soon as Murell's price was announced, everybody
would drop out of the Co-operative and reclaim their wax, even the
captains who owe Ravick money. He'd have nobody left but a handful of
thugs and barflies."
"But that would smash the Co-operative," Joe Kivelson objected.
"Listen, Ralph; I've been in the Co-operative all my life, since
before Steve Ravick was heard of on this planet. I've worked hard for
the Co-operative, and--"
You didn't work hard enough, I thought. You let Steve Ravick take it
away from you. Dad told Joe pretty much the same thing:
"You don't have a Co-operative, Joe. Steve Ravick has a racket. The
only thing you can do with this organization is smash it, and then
rebuild it with Ravick and his gang left out."
Joe puzzled over that silently. He'd been thinking that it was the
same Co-operative his father and Simon MacGregor and the other old
hunters had organized, and that getting rid of Ravick was simply a
matter of voting him out. He was beginning to see, now, that
parliamentary procedure wasn't any weapon against Ravick's force and
fraud and intimidation.
"I think Walt has something," Oscar Fujisawa said. "As long as
Murell's in the hospital at the spaceport, he's safe, but as soon as
he gets out of Odin Dock & Shipyard territory, he's going to be a clay
pigeon."
Tom hadn't been saying anything. Now he cleared his throat.
"On the _Peenemünde_, I was talking about taking Mr. Murell for a trip
in the _Javelin_," he said. "That was while we were still pretending
he'd come here to write a book. Maybe that would be a good idea,
anyhow."
"It's a cinch we can't let him get killed on us," his father said. "I
doubt if Exotic Organics would send anybody else out, if he was."
"Here," Dad said. "We'll run the story we have on him in the morning
edition, and then correct it and apologize to the public for
misleading them and explain in the evening edition. And before he
goes, we can have him make an audiovisual for the 'cast, telling
everybody who he is and announcing the price he's offering. We'll put
that on the air. Get enough publicity, and Steve Ravick won't dare do
anything to him."
Publicity, I thought, is the only weapon Dad knows how to use. He
thinks it's invincible. Me, I wouldn't bet on what Steve Ravick
wouldn't dare do if you gave me a hundred to one. Ravick had been in
power too long, and he was drunker on it than Bish Ware ever got on
Baldur honey-rum. As an intoxicant, rum is practically a soft drink
beside power.
"Well, do you think Ravick's gotten onto Murell yet?" Oscar said. "We
kept that a pretty close secret. Joe and I knew about him, and so did
the Mahatma and Nip Spazoni and Corkscrew Finnegan, and that was all."
"I didn't even tell Tom, here, till the _Peenemünde_ got into radio
range," Joe Kivelson said. "Then I only told him and Ramón and
Abdullah and Abe and Hans Cronje."
"And Al Devis," Tom added. "He came into the conning tower while you
were telling the rest of us."
The communication screen began buzzing, and I went and put it on. It
was Bish Ware, calling from a pay booth somewhere.
"I have some early returns," he said. "The cops cleared everybody out
of Hunters' Hall except the Ravick gang. Then Ravick reconvened the
meeting, with nobody but his gang. They were very careful to make sure
they had enough for a legal quorum under the bylaws, and then they
voted to accept the new price of thirty-five centisols a pound."
"That's what I was afraid of," Joe Kivelson said. "Did they arrest any
of my crew?"
"Not that I know of," Bish said. "They made a few arrests, but turned
everybody loose later. They're still looking for you and your son. As
far as I know, they aren't interested in anybody else." He glanced
hastily over his shoulder, as though to make sure the door of the
booth was secure. "I'm with some people, now. I'll call you back
later."
"Well, that's that, Joe," Oscar said, after Bish blanked the screen.
"The Ravick Co-op's stuck with the price cut. The only thing left to
do is get everybody out of it we can, and organize a new one."
"I guess that's so," Joe agreed. "I wonder, though if Ravick has
really got wise to Murell."
"Walt figured it out since the ship got in," Oscar said. "Belsher's
been on the ship with Murell for six months. Well, call it three;
everything speeds up about double in hyperspace. But in three months
he ought to see as much as Walt saw in a couple of hours."
"Well, maybe Belsher doesn't know what's suspicious, the way Walt
does," Tom said.
"I'm sure he doesn't," I said. "But he and Murell are both in the wax
business. I'll bet he noticed dozens of things I never even saw."
"Then we'd better take awfully good care of Mr. Murell," Tom said.
"Get him aboard as fast as we can, and get out of here with him. Walt,
you're coming along, aren't you?"
That was what we'd agreed, while Glenn Murell was still the famous
travel-book author. I wanted to get out of it, now. There wouldn't be
anything happening aboard the _Javelin_, and a lot happening here in
Port Sandor. Dad had the same idea, only he was one hundred per cent
for my going with Murell. I think he wanted me out of Port Sandor,
where I wouldn't get in the way of any small high-velocity particles
of lead that might be whizzing around.
7