Police Your Planet

L >> Lester del Rey >> Police Your Planet

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"Hi, princess." He got up slowly, trying to grin. "Didn't know who it
was. Sorry. Ever get that louse you were out for?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I got him. That's him--my husband! What's wrong with
you, Rusty? You've lost fifty pounds, and--"

"Things are a mite tough out here, princess. No deliveries. Closed my
bar, been living sort of hand to mouth, but not much mouth." His eyes
bulged greedily as she dug into a bag and began to drag out the
sandwiches she must have packed for the trip. But he shook his head. "I
ain't so bad off. I ate something yesterday. But if you can spare
something for the Kid--Hey, Kid!"

A thin boy of about sixteen crept out from behind some rubble, staring
uncertainly. Then, at the sight of the food, he made a lunge, grabbed
it, and hardly waited to get it through the slits of his suit before
gulping it down. Rusty sat down, his lined old face breaking into a
faint grin. He hesitated, but finally took some of the food.

"Shouldn't oughta. You'll need it. Umm." He swallowed slowly, as if
tasting the food all the way down. "Kid can't talk. Cop caught him
peddling one of Randolph's pamphlets, cut out part of his tongue. But
he's all right now. Come on, Kid, hurry it up. We gotta convoy these
people."

They were following a kind of road when headlights bore down on them.
Gordon's hand was on his gun as they leaped for shelter, but there was
no hostile move from the big truck. He studied it, trying to decide what
a truck would be doing here. Then a Marspeaker-amplified voice shouted
from it. "Any muckrakers there?"

"One," Gordon shouted back, and ran toward it, motioning the others to
follow. He'd always objected to the nickname, but it made a good code.
Randolph's frail hand came down to help them up, but a bigger paw did
the actual lifting.

"Why didn't you two wait?" Mother Corey asked, his voice booming out of
his Marspeaker. "I figured Izzy'd stop by first. Here, sit over there.
Not much room, with my stuff and Randolph's, but it beats walking."

"What in hell brings you back?" Gordon asked.

The huge man shrugged ponderously. "A man gets tired of being
respectable, cobber. And I'm getting old and sentimental about the
Chicken Coop." He chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "But not so old
that I can't handle a couple of guards that are stubborn about trucks,
eh, Izzy?"

"Messy, but nice," Izzy agreed from the pile above them. "Tell those
trained apes of yours to cut the lights, will you, Mother? Somebody must
be using the Coop."

They stopped the truck before reaching the old wreck. In the few dim
lights, the old building still gave off an air of mold and decay. Gordon
shuddered faintly, then followed Izzy and the Mother into the
semi-secret entrance.

Izzy went ahead, almost silent, with a thin strand of wire between his
hands, his elbows weaving back and forth slowly to guide him. He was
apparently as familiar with the garrote as the knife. But they found no
guard. Izzy pressed the seal release and slid in cautiously, while the
others followed.

In the beam of Gordon's torch, a single figure lay sprawled out on the
floor halfway to the rickety stairs to the main house. Mother Corey
grunted, and moved quickly to the coughing, battered old air machine.
His fingers closed a valve equipped with a combination lock.

"They're all dead, cobbers," he wheezed. "Dead because a crook had to
try his hand on a lock. Years ago, I had a flask of poison gas attached,
in case a gang should ever squeeze me out."

In the filthy rooms above, Gordon found the corpses--about fifteen of
them, and some former members of the Jurgens organization. He found the
apelike bodyguard stretched out on a bunk, a vacant smile on his face.

A yell from the basement called him back down to where Izzy was busily
going through piles of crates and boxes stacked along one wall. He was
pointing to a lead-foil-covered box. "Dope! And all that other stuff's
ammunition!"

He shivered, staring at the fortune in his hands. Then he grimaced and
shoved the open can back in its case. He threw it back and began
stacking ammunition cases in front of the dope. Gordon went out to get
the others and start moving in the supplies and transferring the corpses
to the truck for disposal. Randolph scurried off to start setting up his
makeshift plant in the basement.

Mother Corey was staring about when they returned. "Filthy," he wailed.
"A pigpen. They've ruined the Coop, cobber. Smell that air--even _I_ can
smell it!" He sniffed dolefully.

Mother Corey sighed again. "Well, it'll give the boys something to do,"
he decided. "When a man gets old, he likes a little comfort, cobber.
Nice things around him..."

Gordon found what had been his old room and dumped his few things into
it. Sheila watched him uncertainly, and then took possession of the next
room. She came back a few minutes later, staring at the ages-old filth.
"I'll be cleaning for a week," she said. "What are you going to do now,
Bruce?"

He shook his head, and started back down the stairs. He hurried down
into the basement where Randolph was arranging his mimeograph.

The printer listened only to the first sentence, and shook his head
impatiently. "I was afraid you'd think of that, Gordon. Look, you never
were a reporter--you ran a column. I've read the stuff you wrote. You
killed and maimed with words. But you never dug up news that would help
people, or tell them what they didn't suspect all along. And that's what
I've got to have."

"Thanks!" Gordon said curtly. "Too bad Security didn't think I was as
lousy a reporter as you do!"

"Okay. I'll give you a job, for one week. See what outer Marsport is
like. Find what can be done, if anything, and do it if you can. Then
come back and give me six columns on it. I'll pay Mother Corey for your
food--and for your wife's--and if I can find one column's worth of news
in it, maybe I'll give you a second week. I can't see a man's wife
starve because he doesn't know how to make an honest living!"

* * * * *

Rusty and one of Mother Corey's men were on guard, and the others had
turned in. Gordon went up the stairs and threw himself onto the bed in
disgust.

"Bruce!" Sheila stood outlined in the doorway against the dim glow of a
phosphor bulb. Her robe was partly open, and hunger burned in him; then,
before he could lift himself, she bent over and began unfastening his
boots. "You all right, Bruce? I heard you tossing around."

"I'm fine," he told her mechanically. "Just making plans for tomorrow."

He watched her turn back slowly, then lay quietly, trying not to disturb
her again. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he'd find some kind of an
answer; and it wouldn't be Randolph's charity.

Chapter XV

MURDOCH'S MANTLE

There were three men, each with a white circle painted on chest and left
arm, talking to Mother Corey when Bruce Gordon came down the rickety
steps. He stopped for a second, but there was no sign of trouble. Then
the words of the thin man below reached him.

"So we figured when we found the stiffs maybe you'd come back, Mother.
Damn good thing we were right. We can sure use that ammunition you
found. Now, where's this Gordon fellow?"

"Here!" Gordon told the man. He'd recognized him finally as Schulberg,
the little grocer from the Nineteenth Precinct.

The man swung suspiciously, then grinned weakly. There was hunger and
strain on his face, but an odd authority and pride now. "I'll be
doggoned. Whyn't you say he was with Murdoch?"

"They want someone to locate Ed Praeger and see about getting some food
shipped in from outside, cobber," Mother Corey told him. "They got some
money scraped together, but the hicks are doing no business with
Marsport. You know Ed--just tell him I sent you. I'd go myself, but I'm
getting too old to go chasing men out there."

"What's in it?" Gordon asked, reaching for his helmet.

There was a surprised exchange of glances from the others, but Mother
Corey chuckled. "Heart like a steel trap, cobber," he said, almost
approvingly. "Well, you'll be earning your keep here--yours and that
granddaughter's, too. Here--you'll need directions for finding Praeger."

He handed the paper with his scrawled notes on it over to Gordon and
went shuffling back. Gordon stuck it into his pouch, and followed the
three. Outside, they had a truck waiting; Rusty and Corey's two henchmen
were busy loading it with ammunition from the cellar.

Schulberg motioned him into the cab of the truck, and the other two
climbed into the closed rear section. "All right," Gordon said, "what
goes on?"

The other began explaining as he picked a way through the ruin and
rubble. Murdoch had done better than Gordon had suspected; he'd laid out
a program for a citizens' vigilante committee, and had drilled enough in
the ruthless use of the club to keep the gangs down. Once the police
were all busy inside the dome with their private war, the committee had
been the only means of keeping order in the whole territory beyond. It
was now extended to cover about half the area, as a voluntary police
organization.

He pointed outside. It was changed; there were fewer people outside.
Gordon had never seen group starvation before....

They passed a crowd around a crude gallows, and Schulberg stopped. A man
was already dead and dangling. "Should turn 'em over to us cops,"
Schulberg said. "What's he hanged for?"

"Hoarding," a voice answered, and others supplied the few details. The
dead man had been caught with a half bag of flour and part of a case of
beans. Schulberg found a scrap of something and penciled the crime on
it, together with a circle signature, and pinned it to the body.

"All food should be turned in," he explained to Gordon as they climbed
back into the truck. "We figure community kitchens can stretch things a
bit more. And we give a half extra ration to the guys who can find
anything useful to do. We got enough so most people won't starve to
death for another week, I guess. But you'd better get Praeger to send
something, Gordon. Here, here's the scratch we scraped up."

He passed over a bag filled with a collection of small bills and coins.
"We can trust you, I guess," he said dully. "Remember you with Murdoch,
anyhow. And you can tell Praeger we got plenty of men looking for work,
in case he can use 'em."

He pulled up to shout a report through the big Marspeaker as they passed
the old building Murdoch had used as a precinct house. It now had a
crude sign proclaiming it voluntary police HQ and outland government
center. Then he went on until they came to a spur of the little electric
monorail system, with three abandoned service engines parked at the end.

"Extra air inside, and the best we could do for food. Was gonna try
myself, but I don't know Praeger," Schulberg said. He handed over a key,
and nodded toward the first service engine. "Good luck, Gordon--and damn
it, we're--we gotta eat, don't we? You tell him that! It ain't much--but
get what you can!"

He swung the truck, and was gone. Gordon climbed into the enclosed cab
and pulled back questioningly on the only lever he could see. The engine
backed briefly; he reversed the control. Then it moved forward, picking
up speed. Apparently there was still power flowing in from the automatic
atomic generators.

He got off to puzzle out a switch, using Mother Corey's scrawled
instructions.

He had vaguely expected to see more of Mars, but for eight hours there
was only the bare flatness and dunes of unending sandy surface and
scraggly, useless native plants, opened out to the sun. Marsport had
been located where the only vein of uranium had been found on Mars, and
the growing section was closer to the equator.

Then he came to villages. Again there was the sight of children running
around without helmets. He stopped once for directions, and a man stared
at him suspiciously and finally threw a switch reluctantly.

He was finally forced to stop again, sure that he was near, now. This
time, it was in what seemed to be a major shipping center in the heart
of the lines that ran helter-skelter from village to village. Another
suspicious-eyed man studied him. "You won't find Praeger on his
farm--couldn't reach it in that, anyhow," he said finally. Then he
turned up his Marspeaker. "Ed! Hey, Ed!"

Down the street, the seal of a building opened, and the big, bluff
figure of Praeger came out. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Gordon; then
he grinned and waved his visitor forward.

Inside, there was evidence of food, and a rather pretty girl brought out
another platter and set it before Gordon. He ate while they exchanged
uncertain, rambling information; finally, he got down to his errand.

Praeger seemed to read his mind. "I can get the stuff sent, Gordon. I'm
head of the shipping committee for this quadrant. But why in hell should
I? The last time, every car was looted in Outer Marsport. If they won't
let us get the oil and chemicals we need, why should we feed them?"

"Ever see starvation?" Gordon asked, wishing again someone else who'd
felt it could carry the message. He told about a man who'd committed
suicide for his kids, not stopping as Praeger's face sickened slowly.
"Hell, who wouldn't loot your trains if that's going on?"

"All right, if Mother Corey'll back up this volunteer police group. I've
got kids of my own.... Look, you want food, we want to ship. Get your
cops to give us an escort for every shipment through to the dome, and
we'll drop off one car out of four for the outlands."

Gordon sat back weakly. "Done!" he said. "Provided the first shipment
carries the most we can get for the credits I brought."

"It will--we've got some stuff that's about to spoil, and we can let you
have a whole train of it." He took the sack of credits and tossed it
toward a drawer, uncounted. "A damned good thing Security's sending a
ship. Credits won't be worth much until they get this mess straightened
out."

Gordon felt the hair at the base of his neck tingle. "What makes you
think Security can do anything? They haven't shown a hand yet."

"They will," Praeger said. "You guys in Marsport feed yourselves so many
lies you begin to believe them. But Security took Venus--and I'm not
worried here, in the long run. Don't ask me how."

His voice was a mixture of bitterness and an odd certainty. "They set
Security up as a nice little debating society, Gordon, to make it easy
for North America to grab the planets by doing it through that Agency.
Only they got better men on it than they wanted. So far, Security has
played one nation against another enough to keep any from daring to
swipe power on the planets. And this latest trick folded up, too. North
America figured on Marsport folding up once they got a police war
started, with a bunch of chiseling profiteers as their front; they
expected the citizens to yell uncle all the way back to Earth. But out
here, nobody thinks of Earth as a place to yell to for help, so they
missed. And now Security's got Pan-Asia and United Africa balanced
against North America, so the swipe won't work. We got the dope from our
southern receiver. North America's called it all a mistaken emergency
measure and turned it back to Security."

"Along with how many war rockets?" Gordon asked.

"None. They never gave any real power, never will. The only strength
Security's ever had comes from the fact that it always wins, somehow.
Forget the crooks and crooked cops, man! Ask the people who've been
getting kicked around about Security, and you'll find that even most of
Marsport doesn't hate it! It's the only hope we've got of not having all
the planets turned into colonial empires! You staying over, or want me
to give you an engineer and drag car so you can ride back in comfort?"

Gordon stared at the room, where almost everything was a product of the
planet, at Praeger, and at the girl. Here was the real Mars--the men who
liked it here, who were sure of their future. "I'll take the drag car."

* * * * *

He found Randolph waiting in a scooter outside the precinct house after
he'd reported his results. He climbed in woodenly, leaving his helmet on
as he saw the broken window. "A good job," the little man said. "And
news for the paper, if I ever publish it again. I came over because I
wasn't much use at the Coop, and everyone else was busy."

"Doing what?" Gordon asked.

Randolph grinned crookedly. "Running Outer Marsport. The Mother's the
only man everybody knows, I guess--and his word has never been broken
that anyone can remember. So he's helping Schulberg make agreements with
the sections the volunteers don't handle. Place is lousy with people
now. Heard about Mayor Wayne?"

Gordon shook his head, not caring, but the man went on. "He must have
had his supply of drugs lifted somehow. He holed up one day, until it
really hit him that he couldn't get any more. Then he went gunning for
Trench, with some idea Trench had swiped the stuff--so Trench is now
running the Municipals. And I hear the gangs are just about in control
of both sections, lately."

* * * * *

The Chicken Coop was filled, as Randolph had said, but he slipped in and
up the stairs, leaving the news to the publisher. The place had been
cleaned up more than he had expected, and there must have been new
plants installed beside the blower, since the air was somewhat fresher.

He found his own room, and turned in automatically...

"Bruce?" A dim light snapped on, and he stared down at Sheila. Then he
blinked. His bunk had been changed to a wider one, and she lay under the
thin covering on one side. Down the center, crude stitches of heavy cord
showed where she had sewed the blanket to the mattress to divide it into
two sections. And in one corner, a couple of blanket sections formed a
rough screen.

She caught his stare and reddened slowly. "I had to, Bruce. The Coop is
full, and they needed rooms--and I couldn't tell them that--that--"

"Forget it," he told her. He dropped to his own side, with barely enough
room to slide between the bed and the wall, and began dragging off his
boots and uniform. She started up to help him, then jerked back, and
turned her head away. "Forget all you're thinking, Cuddles. I'm still
not bothering unwilling women--and I'll even close my eyes when you
dress."

She sighed, and relaxed. There was a faint touch of humor in her voice
then. "They called it bundling once, I think. I--Bruce, I know you don't
like me, so I guess it isn't too hard for you. But--sometimes ... Oh,
damn it! Sometimes you're--nice!"

"Nice people don't get to Mars. They stay on Earth, being careful not to
find out what it's like up here," he told her bitterly. For a second he
hesitated, and then the account of the newsboy and his would-be killers
came rushing out.

She dropped a hand onto his, nodding. "I know. The Kid--Rusty's
friend--wrote down what they did to him."

Gordon grunted. He'd almost forgotten about the tongueless Kid. For a
second, his thoughts churned on. Then he got up and began putting on his
uniform again. Sheila frowned, staring at him, and began sliding from
her side, reaching for her robe. She followed him down the creaking
stairs, and to the room where Schulberg, Mother Corey, and a few others
were still arguing some detail.

They looked up, and he moved forward, dragging a badge from his pouch.
He slapped it down on the table in front of them. "I'm declaring myself
in!" he told them coldly. "You know enough about Security badges to know
they can't be forged. That one has my name on it, and rating as a Prime.
Do you want to shoot me, or will you follow orders?"

Randolph picked it up, and fumbled in his pocket, drawing out a tiny
badge and comparing them. He nodded. "I lost connection years ago,
Gordon. But this makes you my boss."

"Then give it all the publicity you can, and tell them Security has just
declared war on the whole damned dome section! Mother, I want all the
dope we found!" With that--about the only supply of any size left--he
could command unquestioning loyalty from every addict who hadn't already
died from lack of it. Mother Corey nodded, instant understanding running
over his puttylike face.

Schulberg shrugged. "After your deal with Praeger, we'd probably follow
you anyhow. I don't cotton to Security, Gordon--but those devils in
there are making our kids starve!"

Mother Corey heaved his bulk up slowly, wheezing, and indicated his
chair at the head of the table. But Gordon shook his head. He'd made his
decision. His head was emptied for the moment, and he wanted nothing
more than a chance to hit the bed and forget the whole business until
morning.

Sheila was staring at him as he shucked off his outer clothes
mechanically and crawled under the blanket. She let the robe fall to the
floor and slid into the bed without taking her eyes off him. "Is it true
about Security sending a ship?" she asked at last. He nodded, and her
breath caught. "What happens when they arrive, Bruce?"

She was shivering. He rolled over and patted her shoulder. "Who knows?
Who cares? I'll see that they know you weren't guilty, though. Stop
worrying about it."

She threw herself sideways, as far from him as she could get. Her voice
was thick, muffled in the blanket. "Damn you, Bruce Gordon. I _should_
have killed you!"

Chapter XVI

GET THE DOME!

To Gordon's surprise, the publicity Randolph wrote about his being a
Security Prime seemed to bring the other sections of Outer Marsport
under the volunteer police control even faster. But he was too busy to
worry about it. He left general co-ordination in the hands of Mother
Corey, while Izzy and Schulberg ran the expanding of the police force.

Praeger arrived with the first load of food, and came storming up to
him. "Why didn't you tell me you were a Security Prime! I'm grade three
myself."

"And I suppose that would have meant you'd have shipped in all the food
we needed free?" Gordon asked.

The other stopped to think it over. Then he laughed roughly. "Nope.
You're right. The growers would starve next year if they gave it all
away now. Well, we'll get in enough food this way to keep you going for
a while--couple of weeks, at least."

It sounded good, and might have worked if there had been the normal food
reserve, or if the other three quadrants had been willing to do as much.
But while the immediate pressure of starvation was lifted, Gordon's own
stomach told him that it wasn't an adequate diet. Signs of scurvy and
pellagra were increasing.

Bruce Gordon whipped himself into forgetting some of that. His army was
growing. Or rather, his mob. There was no sense in trying to get more
than the vaguest organization.

It was the eighth day when he led them out in the early dawn. He had
issued extra dope and managed a slight increase in the ration, so they
made a brave showing--until they reached the dome.

There were no rifles opposed to him, as he had expected, and the guard
at the gate was no heavier. But the warning had somehow been given, and
both forces were ready.

Stretching north from the gate were the Municipals with members of some
of the gangs; the other gangmen were with the Legals to the south. And
they stood within inches of the dome, holding axes and knives.

A big Marspeaker ran out from the gate, and the voice of Gannett came
over it. "Go back! If just one of you gets within ten feet of the dome
or entrance, we're going to rip the dome! We'll destroy Marsport before
we'll give in to a doped-up crowd of riffraff! You've got five minutes
to get out of sight, before we come out with rifles and knock you off!
Now beat it!"

Gordon got out of the car the Kid was driving and started toward the
entrance, just as the moaning wail of the crowd behind him built up.

"You fools!" he yelled. "They're bluffing. They wouldn't dare destroy
the dome! Come on!"

But already the men were evaporating. He stared at the rout, and
suddenly stopped fighting the hands holding him. Beside him, the Kid was
crying, making horrible sounds of it. He turned slowly back to the car,
and felt it get under way. His final sight was that of the Legals and
Municipals wildly scrambling for cover from each other.

Mother Corey met him, dragging him back to a small room where he dug up
an impossibly precious bottle of brandy. "Drink it all, cobber. So one
of your Security badges had the wrong man attached to it, and word got
back. Couldn't be helped. You just ran into the sacred law of
Marsport--the one they teach kids. Be bad, and the dome'll collapse. The
dome made Marsport, and it's taboo!"

Gordon nodded. Maybe the old man was right. "If the dome gives them a
perfect cover, why let me make a jackass of myself, Mother?" he asked
numbly.

Corey shook his head, setting the heavy folds of flesh to bouncing.
"Gave them something to live for here, cobber. And when you get over
this, you're gonna announce new plans to try again. Yes, you are! But
right now, you get yourself drunk!"

He left Gordon and the bottle. After a while, the bottle was gone. He
felt number, but no better, by the time Izzy came in.

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