The audience was over. Rack waited, standing on the table, thumbs
hooked into his belt, jacket over his shoulders, like a statue
of himself, while the crowd moved slowly out of the room. It was
ludicrous, but you could not laugh.
Two months. For almost twenty years Rack had been a minor disturbance
in the Quarter, no more important or dangerous or mad than a dozen
others; appearing suddenly, at night, staying for a few days,
disappearing again for a month, or two, or six. He brought stolen goods
to Ferguson--furs from Drux Uta, perhaps, or jewels from Thon--and
Ferguson paid him in Galactic currency, reselling the merchandise
later, some on Palumbar, some on a dozen other worlds, for twenty times
the price he paid. Rack had a following among the younger men of the
Quarter; two or three a year joined him. Occasionally there were rumors
in the Quarter of Rack's close calls with the Galactic Guard. It had
never been a secret that he was building military installations on
some far-off planet. But now, for the first time, Cudyk realized that
Rack was actually going to make war on the universe.
Whatever the result, the least it meant was the end of the Quarter.
The stairs were choked. Cudyk worked his way down, to find the barroom
filled with little knots of men, talking in low voices. Only a few were
drinking.
Someone called his name, and then a hand grasped his sleeve. It was
Speros Moulios, the grey little tobacco dealer, whose two sons drank
too much. "Mr. Cudyk, please, what do you think? Should we go, like he
says?"
The others of the group followed him; in a moment Cudyk was surrounded.
He felt helpless. "I can't advise you, Mr. Moulios," he said. "To be
truthful, I don't know what I am going to do myself."
Nobilio Villaneuva, the druggist, said, "I have worked fifteen years,
saved all my money. What am I going to do with it if I go to this New
Earth? And what about my daughter?"
Someone came elbowing his way through the crowd. He signaled to Cudyk.
"Laszlo!" It was bald, cheerful Mike Moskowitz, one of the Quarter's
two doctors. He said, "Some of the fellows want to form a delegation,
to go back and ask Rack some questions. They asked me to serve, but
I've got to get back to the hospital. Same thing with Seu, he's got six
things on his hands already. Father Exarkos isn't here. Will you take
over? Good. I'll see you later."
Cudyk sighed. The men around him were watching him expectantly. He
stepped over to the bar, picked up an empty glass and rapped with it
on the counter until the room quieted.
"It's been suggested," he said, "that a delegation be formed to ask
Captain Rack for more information. Do you all want that?"
There was an affirmative murmur.
"All right," said Cudyk. "Nominations?"
They ended up with a committee of five: Cudyk as spokesman, Moulios,
Chong Yin, the painter Prokop Vekshin, and the town clerk, Martin
Paz. Cudyk had slips of paper passed out, and collected a hundred-odd
questions, most of them duplicates and some of them incoherent. Paz
made a neat list of those that remained, and the delegation moved
toward the stairs.
* * * * *
At the foot of the stairway Cudyk saw Burgess standing, blinking
uncertainly around him. He dropped back and put his hand on the man's
arm. "Hello, Louis. I'm glad to see you. How is Kathy?"
Burgess straightened a trifle. "Oh--Laszlo. She's all right, thank you.
Feeling a little low, just now, of course...." His voice trailed off.
"Of course," said Cudyk sympathetically. "I wish there were something I
could do."
"No--no, there's nothing. Time will cure her, I suppose. Where are you
going now?"
Cudyk explained. "Were you at the meeting, earlier?" he asked.
"No. I was not invited. I only heard--ten minutes ago. Perhaps it would
be all right if I came upstairs with you? In that way--But if I would
be a nuisance--" His features worked.
Cudyk felt obscurely uneasy. He recalled suddenly that it was a long
time since he had seen Burgess looking perfectly normal. He said
reluctantly, "I think it will be all right. Why not? Come along."
Rack was sitting at the end of the long table on the far side of the
room, talking to Ferguson. Ferguson's hatchet-man, Vic Smalley, was
leaning watchfully against the far wall. Monk and Spider sat at Rack's
left. De Grasse, pale and red-eyed, sat halfway down the table, away
from the others. He stared at the table in front of him, paying no
attention to the rest.
Cudyk had heard that De Grasse was still with Rack, and had wondered
what he had done to expiate his sin. The obvious answer was one that he
had not wanted to believe: that De Grasse had been given the task of
murdering Harkway.
He had done it, probably, with a tormented soul and under Rack's eye,
but he had done it. So much, Cudyk thought wearily, for the selfless
nobility of man.