Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (21 page)

By this time the other car had shrunk with distance. Tuning off to the right, he circled back into the city. At once he noticed a great change of atmosphere. There were far more police on the streets and now their number had been augmented by fully armed troops. Patrol cars swarmed like flies though none saw fit to stop and question him. On the pavements were less pedestrians than usual and these hurried along looking furtive, fearful, grim or bewildered.

Stopping by the curb outside a business block he lolled in his seat as if waiting for someone while he watched what was taking place on the street. The police, some uniformed and some in plain clothes, were all in pairs. The troops were in groups of six. Their sole occupation appeared to be that of staring accusatively at everyone who passed by, holding up any individual whose looks they didn’t like, questioning and searching him. They also took particular note of cars, studying the occupants and eyeing the plate numbers.

In the time that Mowry sat there he and his car were given the sharp lookover at least twenty times. He endured it with an air of complete boredom and evidently passed muster because nobody took it further and questioned him. But that couldn’t go on forever. Somebody more officious than the rest would pick on him merely because the others had not done so. He was tempting fate by staying there.

So he moved off, driving carefully to avoid the attention of numerous cruisers. Something had broken loose, no doubt of that. It was written on the moody faces of the public. He wondered whether the government had been driven to admit a series of reverses in the space war. Or perhaps the rumors he’d spread about Shugruma had come close enough to the truth to make authority concede the facts. Or maybe a couple of exceedingly important bureaucrats had tried to open mailed packages and splattered themselves over the ceiling, this creating a tremendous wave of panic among the powers-that-be. One thing was certain: the recent jail-break could not be solely responsible for the present state of affairs though possibly it may have triggered it into existence.

Slowly he made his way into the crummy quarter where his room was located, determined to pick up his belongings and clear out as quickly as possible. The car nosed its way into his street. As always, a bunch of idlers loafed upon the corner and stared at him as he went by. There was something not quite right about them. Their ill-kept clothes and careless postures gave them the superficial appearance of lazy bums but they were a little too well-fed, their gaze a little too haughty.

With hairs itching on the back of his neck and a peculiar thrill down his spine, he kept going, trying to look as if this street were only a part of a tiresome drive and meant nothing to him whatsoever. Against a lamppost leaned two brawny specimens without jackets or scarves. Nearby four more were shoring a wall. Six were gossiping around an ancient, decrepit truck parked right opposite the house in which his room was at the top. Three more were in the doorway of the house. Every one of these gave him the long, hard look as he rolled by with an air of total indifference.

The entire street was staked, though it didn’t look as if they had a detailed description of him. He could be wrong in this belief, perhaps fooled by an overactive imagination. But his instinct told him that the street was covered from end to end, that his only chance of escape lay in driving on non-stop and displaying absolute lack of interest. He did not dare look at his house for evidence of a Radine-type explosion. Just that small touch of curiosity might have been enough to bring the whole lot into action.

Altogether he counted more than forty beefy strangers hanging around the road and doing their best to look shiftless. As he neared the street’s end four of them came out of a doorway and walked to the curb. Their attention was his way, their manner that of those about to stop him on general principles.

Promptly he braked and pulled in near two others who were squatting on a doorstep. He lowered the window, stuck his head out. One of the sitters got to his feet, came toward him.

“Pardon,” said Mowry, apologetically, “I was told first right and second left for Asako Road. It has got me here. I must have gone wrong somewhere.’’

“Where were you told?”

“Outside the militia barracks.”

“Some people don’t know one hand from the other,” opined this character. “It should have been first right, second left, turn right again after going through the archway.”

“Thanks. One can lose a lot of time in a city this size.”

“Yar, especially when dopes point with the wrong hand.” The informant returned to his doorstep, sat down. He had not nursed even a dim suspicion.

Evidently they were not on the watch for someone easily recognizable, or, at any rate, not for somebody who looked exactly like Colonel Halopti. Could be that they were in ambush for another badly wanted specimen who happened to live in this street. But he dared not put the matter to the test by returning to the house and going up to his room. If wrong, he would be finally and conclusively wrong to the last choke of breath.

Ahead, the four who’d waited at the curb had now resumed their leaning against the wall, lulled by Mowry’s open conversation with their fellows. They ignored him as he drove past. Turning right, he thankfully speeded up. However, he did not congratulate himself. He had still a good way to go and the entire city had become one gigantic trap.

When nearing the city’s outskirts a patrol car waved him down. For a couple of seconds he debated whether to obey or try to outrace it. He decided in favor of the former. Bluff had worked before, might do so again. Besides, to run for it would be a complete giveaway and every cruiser in the area would take up the chase. So he braked and hoped for the best.

The car drew alongside, the co-driver dropped his window. “Where are you heading for?”

“Palmare,” answered Mowry, naming a village twenty
den
south of Pertane.

“That’s what you think. Don’t you listen to the news?”

“I haven’t heard it since early this morning. Been too busy even to get a square meal. What’s happened?”

“All exits barred. Nobody allowed out of the city except with a permit from the military. You’d better go back and get yourself informed. Or buy an evening paper.”

The window went up, the patrol car whined into top speed. Mowry watched it go with mixed emotions. Yet again he was sharing all the sensations of a hunted animal. Nobody could stop him or even show undue interest in him without giving him a nervy this-is-it feeling. If it kept up long enough a time must inevitably come when this
would
be it.

He stooged around in the car until he found a newsstand carrying the latest editions still damp from the press. Then he parked a few minutes while he scanned the headlines. They were big enough and likely to give the readership a few unpleasant jolts.

Pertane Under Martial Law.

Travel Ban—Mayor Declares Population Will Stand Firm. 

Drastic Action Against Dirac Angestum Gesept.

Police on Trail of Mail Bomber.

Two
Killed, Two Captured in Daring Jailbreak.

Rapidly he read the brief report under the last heading. Lithar’s body had been found and the Kaitempi had grabbed the credit for the kill. That made Skriva something of a prophet. Dopey had been shot to death, Brank and the other had been taken alive. These two survivors already had confessed to membership in a revolutionary force. There was no mention of any others having got away and not a single word about the mock Colonel Halopti.

Probably authority had clamped down on some items in the hope of giving the escapees a sense of false security. Well, he’d better not fall into that trap; from now on he must not show his documents to any cop or Kaitempi agent. Neither could he substitute any other papers. The only ones near to hand were locked in his case and surrounded by a horde of agents. The only others were in the forest cave with a ring of troops between here and there.

A ring of troops? Yes, that could be the weak point that he might break through if he put a move on. It was highly likely that the numerically strong armed forces were not yet as well-primed as were the police and Kaitempi. And the average trooper is not inclined to argue with a colonel, even one in plain clothes. The chance of being cross-examined and bullied came only from an individual of equal or higher rank. He could not imagine any colonels or major-generals manning the roadblocks. Anyone outranking a junior lieutenant was more likely to be warming an office chair or boozing and boasting in the nearest
zith-
parlor. At once he decided that here lay his best opportunity to break out of the net. It wasn’t a decision difficult to reach. He'd little choice about the matter. He must find freedom in the open country or remain in the city until caught.

About sixty routes radiated from the perimeter of Pertane. The main ones— such as the wide, well-used roads to Shugruma and Radine—were likely to be more heavily guarded than the secondary roads or potholed lanes leading to villages or isolated factories. It was also possible that the biggest, most important roadblocks would have a few police or agents in company with the troops.

Many of the lesser and sneakier outlets were quite unknown to him; a random choice might take him out of the frying-pan and into the fire. But not far away lay a little-used sideroad to Palmare with which he was familiar. It twisted and wound in a direction more or less parallel with the big main road but it got there just the same. Once on it he could not get off it for another forty
den.
He’d have to continue all the way to Palmare, turn there onto a rutted cross-country lane that would take him to the Valapan road. At that point he’d be about half an hour’s drive from where he usually entered the forest.

Cutting through the suburbs he headed outward toward this lesser road. Houses gradually thinned away and ceased. As he drove through a market-gardening area a police cruiser whined toward him, passed without pause. He let go a sigh of relief as it disappeared. Presumably it had been in too great a hurry to bother with him or perhaps its occupants had taken it for granted that he possessed a military permit.

Five minutes later he rounded a blind corner and found a roadblock awaiting him two hundred yards beyond. A couple of army trucks stood side-on across the road in such a position that a car could pass provided it slowed to less than walking pace. In front of the trucks a dozen soldiers stood in line, coddling their automatic weapons and looking bored. There was no cop or agent anywhere in sight.

Mowry slowed, stopped, but kept his dynomotor rotating. The soldiers eyed him with bovine curiosity. From behind the nearest truck a broad, squat sergeant appeared, marched up to the car.

“Have you got an exit permit?”

“Don’t need one,” responded Mowry, speaking with the authority of a four-star general. Opening his wallet, he displayed his identity-card and prayed to God that the sight of it would not produce a howl of triumph.

It didn’t. The sergeant looked at it, saluted. Noticing this, the nearby troops straightened themselves and assumed expressions of military alertness.

In apologetic tones the sergeant said, “I regret that I must ask you to wait a moment, Colonel. My orders are to report to the officer in charge if anyone claims the right to go through without a permit.”

“Even the Military Intelligence?”

“It has been emphasized that this order covers everyone without exception, sir. I have no choice but to obey.”

“Of course, Sergeant,” agreed Mowry, condescendingly. “I will wait.”

Saluting again, the sergeant went at the double behind the trucks. Meanwhile the twelve troopers posed with the rigid self-consciousness of those aware of a brasshat in the vicinity. In short time the sergeant came back bringing with him a very young and worried-looking lieutenant.

This officer marched precisely up to the car, saluted, opened his mouth just as Mowry beat him to the draw by saying, “You may stand easy, Lieutenant.” The other gulped, let his legs relax, fumbled for words, finally got out, “The sergeant tells me you have no exit permit—Colonel.”

“That’s right. Have
you
got one?”

Taken aback, the lieutenant floundered a bit, said, “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“We are on duty outside the city.”

“So am I,” informed Mowry.

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant pulled himself together. He seemed unhappy about something. “Will you be good enough to let me see your identity-card, sir? It is just a formality. I’m sure that everything will be all right.”

“I know that everything will be all right,” said Mowry, as though giving fatherly warning to the young and inexperienced. Again he displayed the card.

The lieutenant gave it no more than a hurried glance. “Thank you, Colonel. Orders are orders, as you will appreciate.” Then he curried favor by demonstrating his efficiency. He took one step backward and gave a classy salute which Mowry acknowledged with a vague wave. Jerking himself round like an automaton, the lieutenant brought his right foot down with a hard thump and screamed at the top of his voice, “Pass one!”

Opening out, the troops obediently passed one. Mowry crawled through the block, curving around the tail of the first truck, twisting the opposite way around the second. Once through he hit up maximum speed. It was a temptation to feel gleeful but he didn’t. He was sorry for that young lieutenant who, before long, would be taking a prize lambasting. It was easy to picture the scene when a senior officer arrived at the post to check up.

“Anything to report, Lieutenant?”

“Not much, sir. No trouble of any sort. It has been very quiet. I let one through without a permit.”

“You did? What was that?”

“He was Colonel Halopti, sir.”

“Halopti? That name seems familiar. I’m sure I heard it mentioned as I left the other post.”

Helpfully, “He is in the M.I., sir.”

“Yar, yar. But that name means something. Why don’t they keep us properly informed? Have you a short-wave set?”