Police Your Planet

L >> Lester del Rey >> Police Your Planet

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He saw Murdoch's club dart in and take out two of the gang, one on the
forward swing, one on the recover. Gordon's eyes popped at that. The man
was totally unlike a Martian captain, and a knot of homesickness for
Earth ran through his stomach.

He swallowed the sentiment; his own club was moving now. Standing beside
Murdoch, they were moving forward. The other four cops had come in
reluctantly.

"Knock them out and kick them down!" Murdoch yelled. "And don't let them
get away!"

Gordon was after a thug who was attempting to run away. He brought him
to the ground with a single blow across the kidneys.

It was soon over. They rounded up the men of the gang, and one of the
cops started off. Murdoch called, "Where are you going?"

"To find a phone and call the wagon."

"We're not using wagons," Murdoch told him. "Line them up."

When the hoods came to, they found themselves helpless, and facing
police with clubs. If they tried to run, they were hit from behind; if
they stood still, they were clubbed carefully. If they fought back, the
pugnaciousness was knocked out of them at once.

Murdoch indicated one who stood with his shoulders shaking and tears
running down his cheeks. The captain's face was as sick as Gordon felt.
"Take him aside. Names."

Gordon found a section away from the others. "I want the name of every
man in the gang you can remember," he told the man.

Horror shot over the other's bruised features. "Colonel, they'd kill me!
I don't know."

His screams were almost worse than the beating but names began to come.
Gordon took them down, and then returned with the man to the others.

Murdoch took his nod as evidence enough, and turned to the wretched
toughs. "He squealed," he announced. "If he should turn up dead, I'll
know you boys are responsible, and I'll find you. Now get out of this
district, or get honest jobs! Because every time one of my men sees one
of you, this will happen again. And you can pass the word along that the
Stonewall gang is dead!"

He turned and moved off down the street, the others at his side. Gordon
nodded. "I've heard the theory, but never saw it in practice. Suppose
the whole gang jumps us at once?"

Murdoch shrugged. "Then we're taken. The old book I got the idea from
didn't mention that."

* * * * *

Trouble began brewing shortly after, though. Men stood outside, studying
the cops on their beat. Murdoch sent one of the men to pick up a second
squad of six, and then a third. After that, the watchers began to melt
away.

"We'd better shift to another territory," Murdoch decided. Gordon
realized that the gang had figured that concentrating the police here
meant other territories would be safe.

Two more groups were given the treatment. In the third one, Bruce Gordon
spotted one of the men who'd been beaten before. He was a sick-looking
spectacle.

Murdoch nodded. "Object lesson!"

The one good thing about the captain, Gordon decided, was that he
believed in doing his own dirtiest work. When he was finished, he turned
to two of the other captives.

"Get a stretcher, and take him wherever he belongs," he ordered. "I'm
leaving you two able to walk for that. But if _you_ get caught again,
you'll get still worse."

The squad went in, tired and sore; all had taken a severe beating in the
brawls. But there was little grumbling. Gordon saw grudging admiration
in their eyes for Murdoch, who had taken more punishment than they had.

Gordon rode back in the official car with Murdoch and both were silent
most of the way. But the captain stirred finally, sighing. "Poor
devils!"

Gordon jerked up in surprise. "The gang?"

"No, the cops they're giving me. We're covered, Gordon. But the
Stonewall gang is backing Wayne. He's let me come in because he figures
it will get him more votes. But afterwards, he'll have me out; and then
the boys with me will be marks for the gang when it comes back. Besides,
it'll show on the books that they didn't kick into his fund. I can
always go back to Earth, and I'll try to take you along. But it's going
to be tough on them."

Bruce Gordon grimaced. "I've got a yellow ticket, from Security."

Murdoch blinked. He dropped his eyes slowly. "So you're _that_ Gordon?
But you're still a good cop."

They rode on further in silence, until Gordon broke the ice to ease the
tension. He found himself liking the other.

"What makes you think Wayne will be re-elected? Nobody wants him, except
a gang of crooks and those in power."

Murdoch grinned bitterly. "Ever see a Martian election? No, you're a
firster. He can't lose! And then hell is going to pop, and this whole
planet may be blown wide open!"

It fitted with the dire predictions of Security, and with the spying
Gordon was going to do--according to them.

He discussed it with Mother Corey, who agreed that Wayne would be
re-elected.

"Can't lose," the old man said. He was getting even fatter, now that he
was eating better food from the fair restaurant around the corner.

"He'll win," Mother Corey repeated. "And you'll turn honest all over,
now you're in uniform. Take me, cobber. I figured on laying low for a
while, then opening up a few rooms for a good pusher or two, maybe a
high-class duchess. Cost 'em more, but they'd be respectable. Only now
I'm respectable myself, they don't look so good. But this honesty stuff,
it's like dope. You start out on a little, and you have to go all the
way."

"It didn't affect Honest Izzy," Gordon pointed out.

"Nope. Because Izzy is always honest, according to how he sees it. But
you got Earth ideas of the stuff, like I had once. Too bad." He sighed
ponderously.

* * * * *

The week moved on. The groups grew more experienced, and Murdoch was
training a new squad every night. Gordon's own squad was equipped with
shields now, and they were doing better. The number of muggings and
holdups in the section was going down. They seldom saw a man after he'd
been treated.

One of the squads was jumped by a gang of about forty, and two of the
men were killed before the nearest other squad could pull a rear attack.
That day the whole force worked overtime hunting for the men who had
escaped; and by evening the Stonewall boys had received proof that it
didn't pay to go against the police in large numbers.

After that, they began to go hunting for the members of the gang. They
had the names of nearly all of them, and some pretty good ideas of their
hide-outs.

It wasn't exactly legal; but nothing was, here. If a doctor's job was to
prevent illness, instead of merely curing it, then why shouldn't it be a
policeman's job to prevent crime? Here, that was best done by wiping out
the Stonewall gang to the last member.

This could lead to abuses, as he'd seen on Earth. But there probably
wouldn't be time for it if Mayor Wayne was re-elected.

The gang had begun to break up, but the nucleus would be the last to go.
The police had orders to beat any member on sight, now. Citizens were
appearing on the streets at night for the first time in years. And there
were smiles--hungry, beaten smiles, but still genuine ones--for the
cops.

Chapter V

RECALL

It was night outside, and the phosphor bulbs at the corners glowed
dimly, giving him barely enough light by which to locate the way to the
extemporized precinct house. Bruce Gordon reached the outskirts of the
miserable business section, noticing that a couple of the shops were
still open. It had probably been years since any had dared risk it after
the sun went down. And the slow, doubtful respect on the faces of the
citizens as they nodded to him was even more proof that Haley's system
was working. Gordon nodded to a couple, and they grinned faintly at him.
Damn it, Mars could be cleaned up....

He grinned at himself, then something needled at his mind, until he
swung back. The man who had just passed was carrying a lunch basket, and
was wearing the coveralls of one of the crop-prospector crews; but the
expression on his face had been wrong.

Red hair, too heavily built, a lighter section where a mustache had been
shaved and the skin not quite perfectly powdered.... Gordon moved
forward quickly, until he could make out the thin scar showing through
the make-up over the man's eyes. He'd been right--this was O'Neill, head
of the Stonewall gang.

Gordon hit the signal switch, and the Marspeaker let out a shrill
whistle. O'Neill had turned to run, and then seemed to think better of
it. His hand darted down to his belt, just as Gordon reached him.

The heavy locust stick met the man's wrist before the weapon was half
drawn--another gun! Guns suddenly seemed to be flourishing everywhere.
The gun dropped from O'Neill's hand as the wrist snapped, and the
Stonewall chief let out a high-pitched cry of pain. Then another cop
came around a corner at a run.

"You can't do it to me! I'm reformed; I'm going straight! You damned
cops can't...." O'Neill was blubbering. The small crowd that was
collecting was all to the good, Gordon knew, and he let O'Neill go on.
Nothing could help break up the gangs more than having a leader break
down in public.

The other cop had yanked out O'Neill's wallet, and now tossed it to
Gordon. One look was enough--the work papers had the telltale
over-thickening of the signature that had showed up on other papers,
obviously forgeries. The cops had been passing them on the hope of
finding one of the leaders.

Some turned away as Gordon and the other cop went to work, but most of
them weren't squeamish. When it was over, the two picked up their
whimpering captive. Gordon pocketed the revolver with his free hand.
"Walk, O'Neill!" he ordered. "Your legs are still whole. Use them!"

The man staggered between them, whimpering at each step. If any members
of the gang were around, they made no attempt to rescue him.

Jenkins, the other cop, had been holding the wallet. Now he held it out
toward Gordon. "The gee was heeled, Corporal. Must of been making a big
contact in something. Fifty-fifty?"

"Turn it in to Murdoch," Gordon said, and then cursed himself. There
must have been over two thousand credits in the wallet.

* * * * *

The captain's face had been buried in a pile of papers, but now Murdoch
came around to stare at the gang leader. He inspected the forged work
papers, and jerked his thumb toward one of the hastily built cells where
a doctor would look O'Neill over--eventually. When Gordon and Jenkins
came back, Murdoch tossed the money to them. "Split it. You guys earned
it by keeping your hands off it. Anyhow, you're as entitled to it as he
was--or the grafters back at Police Headquarters. I never saw it.
Gordon, you've got a visitor!"

His voice was bitter, but he made no opening for them to question him as
he picked up the papers and began going through them again. Gordon went
down the passage to the end of the hall, in the direction Murdoch had
indicated. Waiting for him was the lean, cynical little figure of Honest
Izzy, complete with uniform and sergeant's stripes.

"Hi, gov'nor," the little man greeted him. "Long time no see. With you
out here and me busy nights doing a bit of convoy work on the side, we
might as well not both live at Mother's."

Bruce Gordon nodded, grinning in spite of himself. "Convoy duty, Izzy?
Or dope running?"

"Whatever comes to hand, gov'nor. The Force pays for my time during the
day, and I figure my time's my own at night. Of course, if I ever catch
myself doing anything shady during the day, I'll have to turn myself in.
But it ain't likely." He grinned in satisfaction. "Now that I've dug up
the scratch to buy these stripes and get made sergeant--and that takes
the real crackle--I'm figuring on taking it easy."

"Like this social call?" Gordon asked him.

The little man shook his head, his ancient eighteen-year-old face
turning sober. "Nope. I've been meaning to see you, so I volunteered to
run out some red tape for your captain. You owe me some bills, gov'nor.
Eleven hundred fifty credits. You didn't pay up your pledge to the
campaign fund, so I hadda fill in. A thousand, interest at ten per cent
a week, standard. Right?"

Gordon had heard of the friendly interest charged on the side here, but
he shook his head. "Wrong, Izzy. If they want to collect that dratted
pledge of theirs, let them put me where I can make it. There's no graft
out here."

"Huh?" Izzy turned it over, and shook his head. Finally he shrugged.
"Don't matter, gov'nor. Nothing about that in the pledge, and when you
sign something, you gotta pay it. You _gotta_."

"All right," Gordon admitted. He was suddenly in no mood to quibble with
Izzy's personal code. "So you paid it. Now show me where I signed any
agreement saying I'd pay _you_ back!"

For a second, Izzy's face went blank; then he chuckled. "Jet me! You're
right, gov'nor. I sure asked for that one. Okay; I'm bloody well
suckered, so forget it."

Gordon shrugged and gave up. He pulled out the bills and handed them
over. "Thanks, Izzy."

"Thanks, yourself." The kid pocketed the money cheerfully, nodding. "Buy
you a beer. Anyhow, you won't miss it. I came out to tell you I got the
sweetest beat in Marsport--over a dozen gambling joints on it--and I
need a right gee to work it with me. So you're it!"

For a moment, Gordon wondered what Izzy had done to earn that beat, but
he could guess. The little guy knew Mars as few others did, apparently,
from all sides. And if any of the other cops had private rackets of
their own, Izzy was undoubtedly the man to find it out, and use the
information. With a beat such as that, even going halves, and with all
the graft to the upper brackets, he'd still be able to make his pile in
a matter of months.

But he shook his head. "I'm assigned here, Izzy, at least for another
week, until after elections...."

"Better take him up, Gordon," Murdoch told him bitterly. The captain
looked completely beaten as he came into the room and dropped onto the
bench. "Go on, accept, damn it. You're not assigned here any more. None
of us are. Mayor Wayne found an old clause in the charter and got a
rigged decision, pulling me back under his full authority. I thought I
had full responsibility to Earth, but he's got me. Wearing their uniform
makes me a temporary citizen! So we're being smothered back into the
Force, and they'll have their patsies out here, setting things up for
the Stonewall boys to come back by election time. So grab while the
grabbing's good, because by tomorrow morning I'll have this all closed
down!"

He shook off Gordon's hand and stood up roughly, to head back up the
hallway. Then he stopped and looked back. "One thing, though, I've still
got enough authority to make you a sergeant. It's been a pleasure
working with you, Sergeant Gordon!"

He swung out of view abruptly, leaving Gordon with a heavy weight in his
stomach. Izzy whistled, and began picking up his helmet, preparing to go
outside. "So that's the dope I brought out, eh? Takes it kind of hard,
doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Gordon answered. There was no use trying to explain it to Izzy.
"Yeah, we do. Come on."

Outside, Gordon saw other cops moving from house to house, and he
realized that Murdoch must be sending out warnings to the citizens that
things would soon be rough again.

Izzy held out a hand to Gordon. "Let's get a beer, gov'nor--on me!"

It was as good an idea as any he had, Gordon decided. He might as well
enjoy what life he still had while he could. The Stonewall gang--what
was left of it--and all its friends would be gunning for him now. The
Force wouldn't have been fooled when Izzy paid his pledge, and they'd
mark him down as disloyal--if they didn't automatically mark down all
who'd served under Murdoch. And he didn't have the ghost of an idea as
to what Security wanted of him, or where they were hiding themselves.

"Make it two beers, Izzy," he said. "Needled!"

Chapter VI

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.

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