Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (9 page)

On the strength of that he grabbed his bags and bolted out the back way. Nobody was loafing around at that moment, nobody saw him go, nobody tracked him as he went.

Four beefy characters stationed themselves within watching and shooting distance of the back a little before midnight. Two carloads of similar specimens drew up at the front, bashed open the door, charged upstairs. They were there three hours and half-killed the landlord before they became convinced of his ignorance.

Mowry knew nothing of this. It was the much-needed boost he was lucky to miss.

His new sanctuary a mile and a half distant was one long, narrow room at the top of a dilapidated building in Pertane’s toughest quarter, a district where slatterns kept house by kicking the dirt around until it got lost. Here he’d not been asked for any name or identity-card, it being one of the more delightful customs of the country to mind one’s own goddam business. All that proved necessary was to exhibit a fifty guilder note. The money had been snatched, a cheap and well-worn key given in exchange.

Promptly he made the key useless by buying a cruciform multiward lock and fitting it to the door. He also fixed a couple of recessed bolts to the window despite that it was forty feet above ground and well-nigh unreachable. Finally he built a small hidden trap in the roof, this being his intended escape route if ever the stairs became solidly blocked with enemy carcasses.

For the time being, he reckoned, he stood chiefly in danger of the locality’s small-time thieves—the big ones wouldn’t bother to cut their way into one room in a slum. The locks and bolts should be plenty good enough to keep out the pikers. He trusted his unsavory neighbors as much as they trusted their own mothers which was as far as said mothers could be thrown with one hand against a strong wind.

Again he had to spend some time cleaning the joint and making it fit for Terran habitation. If ever he was caught by the Kaitempi he’d roll in the deep, stinking filth of a deathcell, naked, manacled and half-starved until they led him to the strangling-post. Dirt would then have to be endured because there’d be no choice about it. But so long as he remained free he insisted on his right to be fastidious. By the time he’d finished his housework the room was brighter and sweeter than ever it had been since the builders moved out and the proletariat moved in.

By now he’d recovered from both his depression and his sense of impending disaster. In better spirits he went outdoors, walked along the road until he reached a vacant lot littered with junk. When nobody was looking he dropped Pigface’s gun on the lot at a point near the sidewalk where it could easily be seen.

Ambling onward with hands in pockets, his gait a bow-legged slouch, he reached a doorway, lounged in it and assumed the look of bored cunning of one who sows not neither doth he reap. This was the fashionable expression in that area. Mostly his gaze was aimed across the street but all the time he was keeping surreptitious watch upon the gun lying seventy yards away.

What followed proved yet again that not one person in ten uses his eyes. Within a short time thirty people had passed close by the gun without seeing it. Six of these walked within a few inches of it, one actually stepped over it.

Finally someone spotted it. He was a shrivel-chested, spindly-legged youth with splotches of darker purple on his face. Halting by the gun, he stared at it, bent over for a closer look but did not touch it. Then he glanced hurriedly around, failed to see the watching Mowry who had retreated farther into the doorway. Again he bent toward the gun, put out a hand as if to grab it. At the last moment he changed his mind, hastened away. He crossed right in front of Mowry, his face wearing a mixture of frustrated cupidity and fear.

“Wanted it but too scared to take it,” Mowry decided.

Twenty more pedestrians passed. Of these, two noticed the gun and pretended they’d not seen it. Neither came back to claim it when nobody was near. Probably they viewed the weapon as dangerous evidence that someone had seen fit to dump—and they weren’t going to be chumps enough to be caught with it. The one who eventually confiscated it was an artist in his own right.

This character, a heavily built individual with hanging jowls and a rolling gait, went by the gun and noted its existence without batting an eyelid or changing pace.

Continuing onward, he stopped at the next corner fifty yards away, looked around with the air of a stranger uncertain of his whereabouts, dug a notebook from his pocket and put on a great play of consulting it. All the time his sharp little eyes were darting this way and that but failed to find the watcher in the doorway.

After a while he retraced his steps, crossed the vacant lot, dropped the notebook on top of the gun, scooped up both in one swift snatch and ambled casually onward. The way the book remained prominently in his hand while the gun disappeared was a wonder to behold.

Letting the fellow get a good lead, Mowry emerged from the doorway and followed. He hoped the other had only a short way to go. This, obviously, was a smart customer likely to notice and throw off a shadower if chased too long. He didn’t want to lose him after the trouble he’d taken to find a willing gun-grabber.

Floppy Jowls continued along the road, turned right into a narrower and dirtier street, headed over a crossroad, turned left. At no time did he behave suspiciously, take evasive tactics or show any awareness of being followed.

Near the end of the street he entered a cheap restaurant with dusty windows and a cracked, unreadable sign above its door. A few moments later Mowry mooched past, gave the place a swift once-over. It had an ominous look about it, a typical rathole where underworld characters took refuge from the sunshine while they waited for the night. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. Boldly he shoved open the door and walked in.

The place stank of unwashed bodies, stale food and drippings of
zith.
Behind the bar a sallow-laced attendant eyed him with the hostile expression reserved for any and every unfamiliar face. A dozen customers sat in the half-light by the stained and paintless wall and glowered at him on general principles. They looked like choice bunch of hoods.

Mowry leaned on the bar and spoke to Sallow Face, making his tones sound tough. “I’ll have a mug of coffee.”

“Coffee?” The other jumped as if rammed with a needle. “Blood of Jaime, that’s a
Spakum
drink.”

“Yar,” said Mowry. “I want to spit it all over the floor.” He let go a harsh, grating laugh. “Wake up and give me a
zith.
”

The attendant scowled, snatched a none too clean glassite mug from a shelf, pumped it full of low-grade
zith
and slid it across. “Six-tenths.”

Paying him, Mowry took the drink across to a small table in the darkest corner, a dozen pairs of eyes following his every move. He sat down, looked idly around and ignored the grim silence. His manner was that of one thoroughly at home when slumming. His questing gaze found Floppy Jowls just as that worthy left his seat, came across mug in hand and joined him at the table.

The latter’s move in apparently welcoming the newcomer caused a sudden relaxation in the place. Tension disappeared, toughies lost interest in Mowry, the bar attendant lounged back, general conversation was resumed. That showed Floppy Jowls was sufficiently well-known among the hard-faced clientele for them to take on trust anyone known to him.

Meanwhile, he had squatted face to face with Mowry and introduced himself with, “My name is Arhava, Butin Arhava.” He paused, waiting for a response that did not come, then went on, “You’re a stranger. From Diracta. Specifically from Masham. I can tell by your accent.”

“Clever of you,” Mowry encouraged.

“One has to be clever to get by. The stupid don’t. They choke on a rope.” He took a swig of
zith.
“You wouldn’t walk into this place unless you were a genuine stranger—or one of the Kaitempi.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t think so. And the Kaitempi wouldn’t dare send just one man in here. They’d send six. Maybe more. The Kaitempi would expect trouble aplenty in the Cafe Susun.”

“That,” said Mowry, “suits me very well.”

“It suits me even better.” Butin Arhava showed the snout of Pigface’s gun over the edge of the table. It was pointed straight at the other’s middle. “I do not like being followed. If this gun went off nobody in here would give a damn. You wouldn’t worry either, not for long. So you’d better talk. Why have you been following me,
hi?”

“You knew I was behind you all the time?”

“I did. What’s the big idea?”

“You’ll hardly believe it when I tell you.” Leaning across the table, Mowry grinned straight into his scowling face. “I want to give you a thousand guilders.” “That’s nice,” said Arhava, unimpressed. “That’s very nice.” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re all set to reach into your pocket and give it me,
hi?”

Mowry nodded, still grinning. “Yes—unless you’re so lily-livered that you prefer to reach into it yourself.”

“You won’t bait me that way,” retorted Arhava. “I’ve got control of the situation and I’m keeping it, see? Now get busy dipping—but if what comes out of that pocket is a gun it’s
you
and not me who’ll be at the wrong end of the bang. Go ahead and dip. I’m watching.”

With the weapon steadily aimed at him over the table’s rim, Mowry felt in his right-hand pocket, drew out a neat wad of twenty-guilder notes, poked them across. “There you are. They’re all yours.”

For a moment Arhava gaped with complete incredulity, then he made a swift pass and the notes vanished. The gun also disappeared. He lay back in his seat and studied Mowry with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion. “Now show me the string.”

“No string,” Mowry assured. “Just a gift from an admirer.”

“Meaning who?”

“Me.”

“But you don’t know me from the Statue of Jaime.”

“I hope to,” said Mowry. “I hope to know you well enough to convince you of something mightily important.”

“And what is that?”

“There’s lots more money where that came from.”

“Is that so?” Arhava gave a knowing smirk. “Well, where did it come from?”

“I just told you—an admirer.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“All right. The conversation is over. It’s been nice knowing you. Now get back to your own seat.”

“Don’t be silly.” Licking his lips, Arhava glanced cautiously around the room, reduced his voice almost to a whisper. “How much?”

“Twenty thousand guilders.”

The other fanned his hands as if beating off an annoying fly. “Sh-h-h! Don’t say it so loud!” Another leery look around the room. “Did you actually say
twenty thousand?”

“Yar.”

Arhava took a deep breath. “Who d’you want killed?”

“One—for a start.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’ve just given you a thousand guilders and that’s not funny. Besides, you can put the matter to the test. Cut a throat and collect—it’s as easy as that.”

“Just for a start, you said?”

“I did. By that is meant that if I like your work I’ll offer further employment. I’ve got a list of names and will pay twenty thousand per body.” Watching him for effect, Mowry put a note of warning into his voice. “The Kaitempi will reward you with ten thousand for delivering me into their hands. That’s money for the taking and with no risk attached. But to get it you’ll have to sacrifice all chance at a far bigger sum, maybe a million or more.” He paused, finished with pointed sarcasm, “One does not flood one’s own goldmine, does one?”

“Nar, not unless one is cracked.” Arhava became slightly unnerved as his thoughts milled around. “And what makes you think I’m a professional killer?”

“I don’t think anything of the sort. But I know you’re a shady character, probably with a police record, otherwise you wouldn’t have swiped that gun and neither would you dive into a crummy joint like this. That means you’re just the type who’ll do some dirty work for me or, alternatively, can introduce me to someone who is willing to do it. Personally, I don’t care a hoot who performs the task, you or your Uncle Smatsy. I reek of money. You love the scent of it. If you want to go on sniffing it you’ve got to do something about it.”

Arhava nodded slowly, stuck a hand in his pocket and fondled the thousand guilders. There was a queer fire in his eyes. “I don’t do that kind of work, it’s not quite in my line. And it needs more than one, but—”

“But what?”

“Not saying. I’ve got to have time to think this over. I want to discuss it with a couple of friends.”

Mowry stood up. “I’ll give you four days to find them and chew the fat. By then you’d better have made up your mind one way or the other. I’ll be here again in four days’ time at this hour.” Then he gave the other a light but imperative shove in the shoulder, “
I
don’t like being followed either. Lay off if you want to grow old and get rich.”

With that, he departed. Arhava remained obediently seated and gazed dreamily at the door. After a time he called for another
zith.
His voice was strangely hoarse.

The barman dumped the drink at his elbow, said with no great interest, “Friend of yours, Butin?”

“Yar—Datham Hain.”

Datham Hain being the Sirian version of Santa Claus.

In the early morning Mowry went to another and different agency, rented a dynocar under the name of Morfid Payth with an address in Radine. He couldn’t risk using the same agency twice in succession; it was highly likely that already the police had visited the first one and asked pointed questions. There they’d recognize him as the subject of official investigation, detain him on some pretext while they used the telephone.

He drove out of the town carefully, with circumspection, not wanting to draw the attention of any patrol cars lurking around. Eventually he reached the tree with the abnormal branch formation and the mock-tombstone beneath it. For a few minutes he stopped nearby pretending to tinker with the dynamo until the road became completely clear of traffic in both directions. Then swiftly he drove the car over the grass verge and in between the trees for as far as he could get it.