Police Your Planet

L >> Lester del Rey >> Police Your Planet

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Gordon had no time to consider his sudden traitor-ally. He bent to the
ground, seizing the first rocks he could find, and threw them. One of
the hoods dropped his club in ducking; Gordon caught it up and swung in
a single motion that stretched the other out.

Then it was a melee. The kid's open torch, stuck on his helmet, gave
them light enough, until Gordon could switch on his own. Then the kid
dropped behind him, fighting back-to-back. Here, in close quarters, the
attackers were no longer using knives. One might be turned on its owner,
and a slit suit meant death by asphyxiation.

Gordon saw the blonde girl on the outskirts, her face taut and glowing.
He tried to reach her with a thrown club wrested from another man, but
she leaped nimbly aside, shouting commands.

Two burly goons were suddenly working together. Gordon swung at one,
ducked a blow from the other, and then saw the first swinging again. He
tried to bring his club up--but knew it was too late. A dull weight hit
the side of his head, and he felt himself falling.

* * * * *

It took only minutes for dawn to become day on Mars, and the sun was
lighting up the messy section of back street when Bruce Gordon's eyes
opened and the pain of sight struck his aching head. He groaned, then
looked frantically for the puff of escaping air. But his suit was still
sealed. Ahead of him, the kid lay sprawled out, blood trickling from an
ugly bruise along his jaw.

Then Gordon felt something on his suit, and his eyes darted to hands
just finishing an emergency patch. His eyes darted up and met those of
the blonde vixen!

Amazement kept him motionless for a second. There were tears in the eyes
of the girl, and a sniffling sound reached him through her Marspeaker.
Apparently, she hadn't noticed that he had revived, though her eyes were
on him. She finished the patch, and ran perma-sealer over it. Then she
began putting her supplies away, tucking them into a bag that held notes
that could only have been stolen from his pockets--her share of the
loot, apparently.

He was still thinking clumsily as she got to her feet and turned to
leave. She cast a glance back, hesitated, and then began to move off.

He got his feet under him slowly, but he was reviving enough to stand
the pain in his head. He came to his feet, and leaped after her. In the
thin air, his lunge was silent, and he was grabbing her before she knew
he was up.

She swung with a single gasp, and her hand darted down for her knife,
sweeping it up and toward him; he barely caught the wrist coming toward
him. Then he had her firmly, bringing her arm back and up, until the
knife fell from her fingers.

She screamed and began writhing, twisting her hard young body like a boa
constrictor in his hands. But he was stronger. He bent her back over his
knee, until a mangled moan was coming from her speaker; then his foot
kicked out, knocking her feet out from under her. He let her hit the
ground, caught both her wrists in his, and brought his knee down on her
throat, applying more pressure until she lay still. Then he reached for
the pouch.

"Damn you!" Her cry was more in anguish then it had been when he was
threatening to break her back. "You damned firster, I'll kill you if
it's the last thing I do. And after I saved your miserable life...."

"Thanks for that," he grunted. "Next time don't be a fool. When you kill
a man for his money, he doesn't feel very grateful for your reviving
him."

He started to count the money. About a tenth of what he had won--not
even enough to open a cheap poker den, let alone bribe his way back to
Earth.

The girl was out from under his knee at the first relaxation of
pressure. Her hand scooped up the knife, and she came charging toward
him, her mouth a taut slit across half-bared teeth. Gordon rolled out of
her swing, and brought his foot up. It caught her squarely under the
chin, and she went down and out.

He picked up the scattered money and her knife, then made sure she was
still breathing. He ran his hands over her, looking for a hiding place
for more money; there was none.

"Good work, gov'nor," the kid's thin voice approved, and Gordon swung to
see the other getting up painfully. The kid grinned, rubbing his bruise.
"No hard feelings, gov'nor, now! They paid me to stall you, so I did.
You bonused me to protect you, and I bloody well tried. Honest Izzy,
that's me. Gonna buy me a job as a cop. That's why I needed the scratch.
Okay, gov'nor?"

Gordon hauled back his hand to knock the other from his feet, and then
dropped it. A grin writhed onto his face, and broke into sudden grudging
laughter.

"Okay, Izzy," he admitted. "For this stinking planet, I guess you're
something of a saint. Come along, and we'll both apply for that
job--after I get my stuff."

He might as well join the law. Security had wanted him to police their
damned planet for them--and he might as well do it officially.

He tossed the girl's knife down beside her, motioned to Izzy, and began
heading for Mother Corey's.

Chapter III

THE GRAFT IS GREEN

Izzy seemed surprised when he found that Gordon was turning in to the
quasi-secret entrance to Mother Corey's. "Coming here myself," he
explained. "Mother got ahold of a load of snow, and sent me out to
contact a big pusher. Coming back, the goons picked me up and gave me
the job on you. Hey, Mother!"

Bruce Gordon didn't ask how Mother Corey had acquired the dope. When
Earth had deported all addicts two decades before, it had practically
begged for dope smuggling.

The gross hulk of Mother Corey appeared almost at once. "Izzy and Bruce.
Didn't know you'd met, cobbers. Contact, Izzy?"

"Ninety per cent for uncut," Izzy answered.

They went up to Gordon's hole-in-the-wall, with Mother Corey wheezing
behind, while the rotten wood of the stairs groaned under his grotesque
bulk. At his questions, Gordon told the story tersely.

Mother Corey nodded. "Same old angles, eh? Get enough to do the job,
they mug you. Stop halfway, and the halls are closed to you. Pretty
soon, they'll be trick-proof, anyhow; they're changing over to electric
eyes. Eh, you haven't forgotten me, cobber?"

Gordon hadn't. The old wreck had demanded five per cent of his winnings
for tipping him off. Mother Corey had too many cheap hoods among his
friends to be fooled with. Gordon counted out the money reluctantly,
while Izzy explained that they were going to be cops.

The old man shook his head, estimating what was left to Gordon. "Enough
to buy a corporal's job, pay for your suit, and maybe get by," he
decided. "Don't do it, cobber. You're the wrong kind. You take what
you're doing serious. When you set out to tinhorn a living, you're a
crook. Get you in a cop's outfit, and you'll turn honest. No place here
for an honest cop--not with elections coming up, cobber. Well, I guess
you gotta find out for yourself. Want a good room?"

Gordon's lips twitched. "Thanks, Mother, but I'll be staying inside the
dome, I guess."

"So'll I," the old man gloated. "Setting in a chair all day, being an
honest citizen. Cobber, I already own a joint there--a nice one, they
tell me. Lights. Two water closets. Big rooms, six-by-ten--fifty of
them, big enough for whole families. And strictly on the level, cobber.
It's no hide-out, like this."

He rolled the money in his greasy fingers. "Now, with what I get from
the pusher, I can buy off that hot spot on the police blotter. I can go
in the dome and walk around, just like you." His eyes watered, and a
tear went dripping down his nose. "I'm getting old. They'll be calling
me 'Grandmother' pretty soon. So I'm turning my Chicken House over to my
granddaughter and I'm going honest. Want a room?"

Gordon grinned, and nodded. Mother Corey knew the ropes, and could be
trusted. "Didn't know you had a granddaughter."

Izzy snorted, and Mother Corey grinned wolfishly. "You met her, cobber.
The blonde you shook down! Came up from Earth eight years ago, looking
for me. I sold her to the head of the East Point gang. Since she killed
him, she's been doing pretty well on her own. Mostly. Except when she
makes a fool of herself, like she did with you. But she'll come around
to where I'm proud of her, yet.... If you two want to carry in the snow,
collect, and turn it over to Commissioner Arliss for me--I can't pass
the dome till he gets it--I'll give you both rooms for six months free.
Except for the lights and water, of course."

Izzy nodded, and Gordon shrugged. On Mars, it didn't seem odd to begin
applying for a police job by carrying in narcotics. He wondered how
they'd go about contacting the commissioner.

But that turned out to be simple enough. After collecting, Izzy led the
way into a section marked "Special Taxes" and whispered a few casual
words. The man at the desk went into an office marked private, and came
back a few minutes later.

"Your friend has no record with us," he said in a routine voice. "I've
checked through his tax forms, and they're all in order. We'll confirm
officially, of course."

* * * * *

In the Applications section of the big Municipal Building, at the center
of the dome, there was a long form to fill out at the desk; but the
captain there had already had answers typed in.

"Save time, boys," he said genially. "And time's valuable, ain't it? Ah,
yes." He took the sums they had ready--there was a standard price--and
stamped their forms. "And you'll want suits. Isaacs? Good, here's your
receipt. And you, Corporal Gordon. Right. Get your suits one floor down,
end of the hall. And report in eight tomorrow morning!"

It was as simple as that. Bruce Gordon was lucky enough to get a fair
fit in his suit. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in
uniform.

Izzy was more businesslike. "Hope they don't give us too bad territory,
gov'nor," he remarked. "Pickings are always a little lean on the first
few beats, but you can work some fairly well."

Gordon's chest fell; this was Mars!

The room at the new Mother Corey's--an unkempt old building near the
edge of the dome--proved to be livable, though it was a shock to see
Mother Corey himself in a decent suit, and using perfume.

The beat was in a shabby section where clerks and skilled laborers
worked. It wasn't poor enough to offer the universal desperation that
gave the gang hoodlums protective coloring, nor rich enough to have
major rackets of its own.

Izzy was disgusted. "Cripes! Hope they've got a few cheap pushers around
that don't pay protection direct to the captain. You take that store;
I'll go in this one!"

The proprietor was a druggist who ran his own fountain where the
synthetics that replaced honest Earth foods were compounded into sweet
and sticky messes for the neighborhood kids. He looked up as Gordon came
in; then his face fell. "New cop, eh? No wonder Gable collected
yesterday, ahead of time. All right, you can look at my books. I've been
paying fifty, but you'll have to wait until Friday."

Gordon nodded and swung on his heel, surprised to find that his stomach
was turning. The man obviously couldn't afford fifty credits a week. But
it was the same all along the street. Even Izzy admitted finally that
they'd have to wait.

"That damned cop before us! He really tapped them! And we can't take
less, so I guess we gotta wait until Friday."

* * * * *

The next day, Bruce Gordon made his first arrest. It was near the end of
his shift, just as darkness was falling and the few lights were going
on. He turned a corner and came to a short, heavy hoodlum backing out of
a small liquor store with a knife in throwing position. The crook
grunted as he started to turn and stumbled onto Gordon. His knife
flashed up.

Without the need to worry about an airsuit, Gordon moved in, his arm
jerking forward. He clipped the crook on the inside of the elbow, while
grabbing the wrist with his other hand. The man went sailing over
Gordon's head, to crash into the side of the building. He let out a
yell.

Gordon rifled the hood's pockets, and located a roll of bills stuffed
in. He dragged them out, before snapping cuffs on the man. Then he
pulled the crook inside the store.

A woman stood there, moaning over a pale man on the floor; blood oozed
from a welt on the back of his head. There was both gratitude and
resentment as she looked up at Gordon.

"You'd better call the hospital," he told her sharply. "He may have a
concussion. I've got the man who held you up."

"Hospital?" Her voice broke into another wail. "And who can afford
hospitals? All week we work, all hours. He's old, he can't handle the
cases. I do that. Me! And then you come, and you get your money. And
_he_ comes for his protection. Papa is sick. Sick, do you hear? He sees
a doctor, he buys medicine. Then Gable comes. This man comes. We can't
pay him! So what do we get--we get knifes in the faces, saps on the
head--a concussion, you tell me! And all the money--the money we had to
pay to get stocks to sell to pay off from the profits we don't make--all
of it, he wants! Hospitals! You think they give away at the hospitals
free?"

She fell to her knees, crying over the injured man.

Gordon tossed the roll of bills onto the floor beside her; the injury
seemed only a scalp wound, and the old man was already beginning to
groan. He opened his eyes and saw the bills in front of him, at which
the woman was staring unbelievingly. His hand darted out, clutching it.
"God!" he moaned softly, and his eyes turned up slowly to Gordon.

"In there!" It was a shout from outside. Gordon had just time to
straighten up before the doorway was filled with two knife-men and a
heavier one behind them.

His hands dropped to the handcuffed man on the floor, and he caught him
up with a jerk, slapping his body back against the counter. He took a
step forward, jerking his hands up and putting his Earth-adapted
shoulders behind it. The hood sailed up and struck the two knife-men
squarely.

There was a scream as their automatic attempts to save themselves buried
both knives in the body of their friend. Then they went crashing down,
and Gordon was over them.

* * * * *

The desk captain at the precinct house groaned as they came in, then
shook his head. "Damn it," he said. "I suppose it can't be helped,
though; you're new, Gordon. Hennessy, get the corpse to the morgue, and
mark it down as a robbery attempt. I'm going to have to book you and
your men, Mr. Jurgens!"

The heavy leader of the two angry knife-men grinned. "Okay, Captain. But
it's going to slow down the work I'm doing on the Mayor's campaign for
re-election! Damn that Maxie--I told him to be discreet. Hey, you know
what you've got, though--a real considerate man! He gave the old guy his
money back!"

They took Bruce Gordon's testimony, and sent him home.

Jurgens was waiting for him when he came on the beat. From his look of
having slept well, he must have been out almost as soon as he was
booked. Two other men stood behind Gordon, while Jurgens explained that
he didn't like being interrupted on business calls "about the Mayor's
campaign, or anything else," and that next time there'd be real hard
feelings. Gordon was surprised when he wasn't beaten, but not when the
racketeer suggested that any money found at a crime was evidence and
should go to the police. The captain had told him the same.

By Friday, he had learned. He made his collections early. Gable had sold
him the list of what was expected, and he used it, though he cut down
the figures in a few cases. There was no sense in killing the geese that
laid the eggs.

The couple at the liquor store had their payment waiting, and they
handed it over, looking embarrassed. It wasn't until he was gone that he
found a small bottle of fairly good whiskey tucked into his pouch. He
started to throw it away, and then lifted it to his lips. Maybe they'd
known how he felt better than he had. Mother Corey's words about his
change of attitude came back. Damn it, he had to dig up enough money to
get back to Earth.

He collected, down to the last account. It was a nice haul; at that
rate, he'd have to stand it only for a few months. Then Gordon's lips
twisted, as he realized it wasn't all gravy. There were angles, or the
price of a corporalcy would have been higher.

One of the older men answered his questions. "Fifty per cent of the take
to the Orphan's and Widow's fund. Better make it more than Gable turned
in, if you want to get a better beat."

The envelopes were lying on a table marked "Voluntary Donations"; Gordon
filled his out, with a figure a bit higher than half of Gable's take,
and dropped it in the box. The captain, who had been watching him
carefully, settled back and smiled.

"Widows and Orphans sure appreciate a good man," he said. "I was kind of
worried about you, Gordon, but you got a nice touch. One of my new
boys--Isaacs, you know him--was out checking up after you, and the dopes
seem to like you."

Gordon had wondered why Izzy had been pulled off the beat. As he turned
to leave, the captain held up a hand. "Special meeting tomorrow. We
gotta see about getting out a good vote. Election only three weeks
away."

Gordon went home. He'd learned by now that the native Martians--those
who'd been here for at least thirty years, or had been born here--were
backing a reform candidate and new ticket. But Mayor Wayne had all of
the rest of the town in his hand. He'd been in twice, and had lifted the
graft take by a truly remarkable figure. From where Gordon stood, it
looked like a clear victory for the reformer, Nolan.

He went into the meeting willing to agree to anything. He applauded all
the speeches about how much Mayor Wayne had done for them, and signed
the pledge expressing his confidence, along with the implied duty he had
to make his beat vote right. Then he stopped, as the captain stood up.

"We gotta be neutral, boys," he boomed. "But it don't mean we can't show
how well we like the Mayor. Just remember, he got us our jobs! Now I
figure we can all kick in a little to help his campaign. I'm going to
start it off with five thousand credits, two thousand of them right
now."

They fell in line, though there was no cheering. The price might have
been fixed in advance. A thousand for a plain cop, fifteen hundred for a
corporal, and so on, each contributing a third of it now. Gordon
grimaced; he had six hundred left. This would take nearly all of it.

A man named Fell shook his head, fearfully. "Can't do a thing now. My
wife had a baby and an operation, and----"

"Okay, Fell," the captain said, without a sign of disapproval. "Freitag,
what about you? Fine, fine!"

Gordon's name came, and he shook his head. "I'm new--and I'm strapped
now. I'd like----"

"Quite all right, Gordon," the captain boomed. "Harwick!"

He finished the roll, and settled back, smiling. "I guess that's all,
boys. Thanks from the Mayor. And go on home.... Oh, Fell, Gordon,
Lativsky--stick around. I've got some overtime for you, since you need
extra money. The boys out in Ward Three are shorthanded. Afraid I'll
have to order you out there!"

* * * * *

Ward Three was the hangout of a cheap gang of hoodlums, numbering some
four hundred, who went in for small crimes mostly. But they had recently
declared war on the cops.

After eight hours of overtime, Gordon reported in with every bone sore
from small missiles, and his suit filthy from assorted muck. He had a
beautiful shiner where a stone had clipped him.

The captain smiled. "Rough, eh? But I hear robbery went down on your
beat last night. Fine work, Gordon. We need men like you. Hate to do it,
but I'm afraid you'll have to take the next shift at Main and Broad,
directing traffic. The usual man is sick, and you're the only one I can
trust with the job!"

Gordon stuck it out, somehow, but it wasn't worth it. He reported back
to the precinct with the five hundred in his hand, and his pen itching
for the donation agreement.

The captain took it, and nodded. "I wasn't kidding about your being a
good man, Gordon. Go home and get some sleep, take the next day off.
After that, we've got a new job for you!"

Chapter IV

CAPTAIN MURDOCH

The new assignment was to the roughest section in all Marsport--the slum
area beyond the dome, out near the rocket field. Here all the riffraff
that had been unable to establish itself in better quarters had found
some sort of a haven. At one time, there had been a small dome and a
tiny city devoted to the rocket field. But Marsport had flourished
enough to kill it off. The dome had failed from neglect, and the
buildings inside had grown shabbier.

Bruce Gordon was trapped; he couldn't break his job with the police--if
he did, he'd be brought back as a criminal. Some of Mars' laws dated
from the time when law enforcement had been hampered by lack of men,
rather than by the type of men.

The Stonewall gang numbered perhaps five hundred. They hired out members
to other gangs, during the frequent wars. Between times, they picked up
what they could by mugging and theft, with a reasonable amount of murder
thrown in at a modest price.

Even derelicts and failures had to eat; there were stores and shops
throughout the district which eked out some kind of a marginal living.
They were safe from protection racketeers there--none bothered to come
so far out. And police had been taken off the beats there after it grew
unsafe even for men in pairs to patrol the area.

The shopkeepers, and some of the less unfortunate people there, had
protested loud enough to reach clear back to Earth. Marsport had hired a
man from Earth to come in and act as chief of the section. Captain
Murdoch was an unknown factor, and now was asking for more men. The
pressure was enough to get them for him.

Gordon reported for work with a sense of the bottom falling out, mixed
with a vague relief.

"You're going to be busy," Murdoch announced shortly in the dilapidated
building that had been hastily converted to a precinct house. "Damn it,
you're men, not sharks. I've got a free hand, and we're going to run
this the way we would on Earth. Your job is to protect the citizens
here--and that means everyone not breaking the laws--whether you feel
like it or not. No graft. The first man making a shakedown will get the
same treatment we're going to use on the Stonewall boys. You'll get
double pay here, and you can live on it!"

He opened up a box on his desk and pulled out six heavy wooden sticks,
each thirty inches long and nearly two inches in diameter. There was a
shaped grip on each, with a thong of leather to hold it over the wrist.

He picked out five of the men, including Gordon "You five will come with
me. I'm going to show how we operate. The rest of you can team up any
way you want tonight, pick any route that's open. Okay, men, let's go."

Bruce Gordon grinned slowly as he swung the stick, and Murdoch's eyes
fell on him. "Earth cop!"

"Two years," Gordon admitted.

"Then you should be ashamed to be in this mess. But whatever your
reasons, you'll be useful. Take those two and give them some lessons,
while I do the same with these."

For a second, Gordon cursed himself. Murdoch had fixed it so he'd be a
squad leader, and that meant he'd be unable to step out of line. At
double standard pay, with normal Mars expenses, he might be able to pay
for passage back to Earth in three years--if Security let him.
Otherwise, it would take thirty.

He began wondering about Security, then. Nobody had tried to get in
touch with him. Were they waiting for him to get up on a soapbox?

There was a crude lighting system here, put up by the citizens. At the
front of each building, a dim phosphor bulb glowed; when darkness fell,
they would have nothing else to see by.

Murdoch bunched them together. "A good clubbing beats hanging," he told
them. "But it has to be _good_. Go in for business, and don't stop just
because the other guy quits. Give them hell!"

Moving in two groups of threes, at opposite sides of the street, they
began their beat. They were covering an area of six blocks one way, and
two the other.

They had traveled the six blocks and were turning down a side street
when they found their first case; it was still daylight. Two of the
Stonewall boys were working over a tall man in a newer airsuit. As the
police swung around, one of the thugs casually ripped the airsuit open.

A thin screech like a whistle came from Murdoch's Marspeaker, and the
captain went forward, with Gordon at his heels. The hoodlums tossed the
man aside easily, and let out a yell. From the buildings around, an
assortment of toughs came at the double, swinging knives, picks, and
bludgeons.

There was no chance to save the citizen, who was dying from lack of air.
Gordon felt the solid pleasure of the finely turned club in his hands.
It was light enough for speed, but heavy enough to break bones where it
hit. A skilled man could knock a knife, or even a heavy club, out of
another's hand with a single flick of the wrist. And he'd had practice.

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