SEALED LETTER
In the few days at the short-lived Nineteenth Precinct, Bruce Gordon had
begun to feel like a cop again, but the feeling disappeared as he
reported in at Captain Isaiah Trench's Seventh Precinct. Trench had once
been a colonel in the Marines, before a court-martial and sundry
unpleasantnesses had driven him off Earth. His dark, scowling face and
lean body still bore a military air.
He looked Bruce Gordon over sourly. "I've been reading your record. It
stinks. Making trouble for Jurgens--could have been charged as false
arrest. No co-operation with your captain until he forced it; out in the
sticks beating up helpless men. Now you come crawling back to your only
friend, Isaacs. Well, I'll give it a try. But step out of line and I'll
have you cleaning streets with your bare hands. All right, _Corporal_
Gordon. Dismissed. Get to your beat."
Gordon grinned wryly at the emphasis on his title. No need to ask what
had happened to Murdoch's recommendation. He joined Izzy in the locker
room, summing up the situation.
"Yeah." Izzy looked worried, his thin face pinched in. "Maybe I didn't
do you a favor, gov'nor, pulling you here. I dunno. I got some pics of
Trench from a guy I know. That's how I got my beat so fast in the
Seventh. But Trench ain't married, and I guess I've used up the touch.
Maybe I could try it, though."
"Forget it," Gordon told him. "I'll work it out somehow."
The beat was a gold mine. It lay through the section where Gordon had
first tried his luck on Mars. There were a dozen or so gambling joints,
half a dozen cheap saloons, and a fair number of places listed as
rooming houses, though they made no bones about the fact that all their
permanent inhabitants were female. Then the beat swung off, past a row
of small businesses and genuine rooming houses, before turning back to
the main section.
They began in the poorer section. It wasn't the day to collect the
"tips" for good service, which had been an honest attempt to promote
good police service before it became a racket. But they were met
everywhere by sullen faces. Izzy explained it. The city had passed a new
poll tax--to pay for election booths, supposedly--and had made the
police collect it. Murdoch must have disregarded the order, but the rest
of the force had been busy helping the administration.
But once they hit the main stem, things were mere routine. The gambling
joints took it for granted that beat cops had to be paid, and considered
it part of their operating expense. The only problem was that Fats'
Place was the first one on the list. Gordon didn't expect to be too
welcome there.
There was no sign of the thug, but Fats came out of his back office just
as Gordon reached the little bar. He came over, nodded, picked up a cup
and dice and began shaking them.
"High man for sixty," he said automatically, and expertly rolled
bull's-eyes for a two. "Izzy said you'd be around. Sorry my man drew
that _knife_ on you the last time, Corporal."
Gordon rolled an eight, pocketed the bills, and shrugged. "Accidents
will happen, Fats."
"Yeah." The other picked up the dice and began rolling sevens absently.
"How come you're walking beat, anyhow? With what you pulled here, you
should have bought a captaincy."
Gordon told him briefly. The man chuckled grimly. "Well, that's Mars,"
he said, and turned back to his private quarters.
Mostly, it was routine work. They came on a drunk later, collapsed in an
alley. But the muggers had apparently given up before Izzy and Gordon
arrived, since the man had his wallet clutched in his hand. Gordon
reached for it, twisting his lips.
Izzy stopped him. "It ain't honest, gov'nor. If the gees in the wagon
clean him, or the desk man gets it, that's their business. But I'm going
to run a straight beat, or else!"
That was followed by a call to remove a berserk spaceman from one of the
so-called rooming houses. Gordon noticed that workmen were busy setting
up a heavy wooden gate in front of the entrance to the place. There were
a lot of such preparations going on for the forthcoming elections.
Then the shift was over. But Gordon wasn't too surprised when his relief
showed up two hours late; he'd half-expected some such nastiness from
Trench. But he was surprised at the look on his tardy relief's face.
The man seemed to avoid facing him, muttered, "Captain says report in
person at once," and swung out of the scooter and onto his beat without
further words.
Gordon was met there by blank faces and averted looks, but someone
nodded toward Trench's office, and he went inside. Trench sat chewing on
a cigar. "Gordon, what does Security want with you?"
"Security? Not a damned thing, if I can help it. They kicked me off
Earth on a yellow ticket, if that's what you mean."
"Yeah." Trench shoved a letter forward; it bore the "official business"
seal of Solar Security, and was addressed to Corporal Bruce Gordon,
Nineteenth Police Precinct, Marsport. Trench kept his eyes on it, his
face filled with suspicion and the vague fear most men had for Security.
"Yeah," he said again. "Okay, probably routine. Only next time, Gordon,
put the _facts_ on your record with the Force. If you're a deportee, it
should show up. That's all!"
Bruce Gordon went out, holding the envelope. The warning in Trench's
voice wasn't for any omission on his record, he knew. He shoved the
envelope into his belt pocket and waited until he was in his own room
before opening it.
It was terse, and unsigned.
_Report expected, overdue. Failure to observe duty will result in
permanent resettlement to Mercury._
He swore, coldly and methodically, while his stomach dug knots in
itself. The damned, stupid, blundering fools! That was all Trench and
the police gang had to see; it was obvious that the letter had been
opened. Sure, report at once. Drop a letter in the mailbox, and the next
morning it would be turned over to Commissioner Arliss' office. Report
or be kicked off to a planet that Security felt enough worse than Mars
to use as punishment! Report _and_ find Mars a worse place than Mercury
could ever be.
He felt sick as he stood up to find paper and pen and write a terse,
factual account of his own personal doings--minus any hint of anything
wrong with the system here. Security might think it was enough for the
moment, and the local men might possibly decide it a mere required
formality. At least it would stall things off for a while....
But Gordon knew now that he could never hope to get back to Earth
legally. That vague promise by Security was so much hogwash; yet it was
surprising how much he had counted on it.
He tore the envelope from Security into tiny shreds, too small for
Mother Corey to make sense of, and went out to mail the letter, feeling
the few bills in his pocket. As usual, less than a hundred credits.
He passed a sound truck blatting out a campaign speech by candidate
Nolan, filled with too-obvious facts about the present administration,
together with hints that Wayne had paid to have Nolan assassinated.
Gordon saw a crowd around it and was surprised, until he recognized them
as Rafters--men from the biggest of the gangs supporting Wayne. The few
citizens on the street who drifted toward the truck took a good look at
them and moved on hastily.
It seemed incredible that Wayne could be re-elected, though, even with
the power of the gangs. Nolan was probably a grafter, too; but he'd at
least be a change, and certainly the citizens were aching for that.
The next day his relief was later. Gordon waited, trying to swallow
their petty punishments, but it went against the grain. Finally, he
began making the rounds, acting as his own night man. The owners of the
joints didn't care whether they paid the second daily dole to the same
man or another, but they wouldn't pay it again that same night. He'd
managed to tap most of the places before his relief showed. He made no
comment, but dutifully filled out the proper portion of both takes for
the Voluntary Donation box. It wouldn't do his record any good with
Trench, but it should put an end to the overtime.
Trench, however, had other ideas. The overtime continued, but it was
dull after that--which made it even more tiring. But the time he took a
special release out to the spaceport was the worst. Seeing the big ship
readying for take-off back to Earth....
Then it was the day before election. The street was already bristling
with barricades around the entrances, and everything ran with a last
desperate restlessness, as if there would be no tomorrow. The operators
all swore that Wayne would be elected, but seemed to fear a miracle. On
the poorer section of the beat, there was a spiritless hope that Nolan
might come in with his reform program. Men who would normally have been
punctilious about their payments were avoiding Bruce Gordon, if in hope
that, by putting it off a day or so, they could run into a period where
no such payment would ever be asked--or a smaller one, at least. And he
was too tired to chase them down. His collections had been falling off
already, and he knew that he'd be on the carpet for that, if he didn't
do better. It was a rich territory, and required careful mining; even as
the week had gone, he still had more money in his wallet than he had
expected.
But there had to be still more before night.
He was lucky; he came on a pusher working one of the better houses--long
after his collections should have been over. He knew by the man's face
that no protection had been paid higher up. The pusher was well-heeled;
Gordon confiscated the money.
This time, Izzy made no protest. Lifting the roll of anyone outside the
enforced part of Mars' laws was apparently honest, in his eyes. He
nodded, and pointed to the man's belt. "Pick up the snow, too."
The pusher's face paled. He must have had his total capital with him,
because stark ruin shone in his eyes. "Good God, Sergeant," he pleaded,
"leave me something! I'll make it right. I'll cut you in. I gotta have
some of that for myself!"
Gordon grimaced. He couldn't work up any great sympathy for anyone who
made a living out of drugs.
They cleaned the pusher, and left him sitting on the steps, a picture of
slumped misery. Izzy nodded approval. "Let him feel it a while. No sense
jailing him yet. Bloody fool had no business starting without lining the
groove. Anyhow, we'll get a bunch of credits for the stuff when we turn
it in."
"Credits?" Gordon asked.
"Sure." Izzy patted the little package. "We get a quarter value. Captain
probably gets fifty per cent from one of the pushers who's lined with
him. Everybody's happy."
"Why not push it ourselves?" Gordon asked in disgust.
"Wouldn't be honest, gov'nor. Cops are supposed to turn it in."
Trench was almost jovial when he weighed the package and examined it to
find how much it had been cut. He issued them slips, which they added as
part of the contributions. "Good work--you, too, Gordon. Best week in
the territory for a couple of months. I guess the citizens like you, the
way they treat you." He laughed at his stale joke, and Gordon was
willing to laugh with him. The credit on the dope had paid for most of
the contributions. For once, he had money to show for the week.
Then Trench motioned Bruce Gordon forward, and dismissed Izzy with a nod
of his head. "Something to discuss, Gordon. Isaacs, we're holding a
little meeting, so wait around. You're a sergeant already. But, Gordon,
I'm offering you a chance. There aren't enough openings for all the good
men, but.... Oh, bother the soft soap. We're still short on election
funds, so there's a raffle. The two men holding winning tickets get
bucked up to sergeants. A hundred credits a ticket. How many?"
He frowned suddenly as Gordon counted out three bills. "You have a
better chance with more tickets. A _much_ better chance!"
The hint was hardly veiled. Gordon stuck the tickets into his wallet.
Mars was a fine planet for picking up easy money--but holding it was
another matter.
Trench counted the money and put it away. "Thanks, Gordon. That fills
_my_ quota. Look, you've been on overtime all week. Why not skip the
meeting? Isaacs can brief you, later. Go out and get drunk, or
something."
The comparative friendliness of the peace offering was probably the
ultimate in graciousness from Trench. Idly, Gordon wondered what kind of
pressures the captains were under; it must be pretty stiff, judging by
the relief the man was showing at making quota.
"Thanks," he said, but his voice was bitter in his ears. "I'll go home
and rest. Drinking costs too much for what I make. It's a good thing you
don't have income tax here."
"We do," Trench said flatly; "forty per cent. Better make out a form
next week, and start paying it regularly. But you can deduct your
contributions here."
Gordon got out before he learned more good news.