Remembering what had happened in the final test on Earth, Archman glanced in all directions. Then he sprang forward, running full tilt at the unseeing renegade.
The man grunted and staggered forward as Archman cracked into him. Lon snatched the renegade’s zam-gun and tossed it to one side. Then he grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic and yanked him around.
He was a scrawny, hard-eyed fellow with fleshless cheeks and thin lips—probably a cheap crook who thought he stood better pickings serving Darrien than making a go of it on Earth. Archman hit him.. The renegade doubled in pain, and Archman hit him again—hard. The man crumpled like a wet paper doll.
Again the Intelligence man glanced warily around. He was a quick learner, and he wanted to improve that 97.003% score to 100%. 100% meant survival on this mission, and Archman wasn’t particularly anxious to die.
No one was in sight. He stripped off the unconscious guard’s clothing, then peeled out of his own. The chill Martian winds whipped against his nakedness. Hastily he donned the guard’s uniform. Now he was wearing the uniform of Darrien’s brigade of filthy renegades.
Drawing his zam-gun, he incinerated his own clothing. The wind carried the particles away, and there was no trace. Then he glanced at the naked, unconscious renegade, already turning blue, frozen cold. Without remorse Archman killed him, lifted the headless body, carried it fifty feet to a sand dune, shoved it out of sight.
Within minutes the man would be buried by tons of sand. Archman had considered this first step carefully, had originally planned to exchange clothing with the guard and assume his identity. But that was risky. This was safer. Men often got lost in the Martian desert and vanished in the sand. When the time came for changing of the guard, that would be what they would report of this man.
So far, so good. Archman tightened the uniform at the waist until it was a convincing fit. Then he began to trot over the shifting sand toward the city ahead.
About ten minutes later he was inside Canalopolis. The guards at the gate, seeing him in Darrien’s uniform, passed him without question.
The city was old—old and filthy, like all of Mars. Crowded streets loomed before him, streets thick with shops and bars and dark alleys, lurking strangers ready to rob or gamble or sell women. It wasn’t a pleasant place. Archman smiled grimly. This was a fitting planet for Darrien to have set up his empire. Dirty and dark, justice-hating like Darrien himself.
Well, Archman thought, I’ve got to begin somewhere. Getting to Darrien would be a slow process—especially if he wanted to live through it.
The city’s streets were thronged with aliens of all sorts: bushy-tailed Venusians, swaggering boldly with their deadly stingers at the end of their black tails; blue Mercurians, almost impregnable inside their thick shells; occasionally a Plutonian, looking like a fish with legs with their finned hands; and, of course, the vicious, powerful Martians, all of them showing their sneering tusks.
Here and there there was an Earthman, like Darrien himself a renegade. Archman hated those worst of all, for they were betraying their home world.
He stood still and looked around. Far ahead of him, in the middle of the city, rose a vaulting palace sculptured from shimmering Martian quartz. That was undoubtedly Darrien’s headquarters. Surrounding it were smaller buildings, barracks-like—and then the rest of the city sprawled around it. Darrien had built himself a neat little fortress, thought Archman.
He wasn’t at all sure how he was going to reach Darrien. But that would come in time. The first action, he thought, would be to get a couple of drinks under his belt and to have a look around the town.
A sign in three languages beckoned to him: BAR.
He cut his way through the milling traffic and entered. It was a long, low-ceilinged room which stank of five planets’ liquor. A Martian bartender stood before a formidable array of exotic drinks; along the bar, men of five worlds slumped in varying degrees of drunkenness. Farther back, lit by a couple of dusty, sputtering levon-tubes, there were some secluded booths.
Archman stiffened suddenly. In one of the booths was a sight that brought quick anger to him—anger that he just as quickly forced to subside.
A blue Mercurian was leaning over, pawing a near-nude, sobbing Earth-girl. There were two Venusians in the booth with them, both slumped over the table, lying in utter stupor face-down in little pools of slops.
An Earth-girl? Here? And what the hell was that hardshell doing pawing her?
Archman’s first thoughts were murderous. But then he realized such a situation gave him a chance to make a few contacts on this unfriendly planet. He shouldered past a couple of drozky-winos at the bar, choking back his disgust, and moved toward the booth in the back.
The levon-tube was sputtering noisily, going griz-griz every few seconds. Energy leakage, thought Archman. He reached the booth, and the Mercurian left the girl alone and looked up inquisitively at him.
“Hello, Mercurian. Nice bit of flesh you’ve got there.”
“Isn’t she, though? I just bought her off these sots you see before you.” The Mercurian indicated the drunken Venusians, and laughed. “We ought to cut their tails off before they wake!”
Archman eyed the alien stonily. “Drunk they may be, but they wear Darrien’s uniform—which is more than you can say, stranger.”
“I’m here to join up, though. Don’t leap to conclusions. I’m as loyal to Darrien as you are, maybe more so.”
“Sorry,” Archman apologized. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead. Dump one of the tailed ones on the floor. They’re so drunk they’ll never feel it.”
Casually Archman shoved one of the Venusians by the shoulder. The alien stirred, moaned, and without complaining slid into a little heap on the floor. Archman took his seat, feeling the girl’s warmness next to him.
“My name’s Archman,” he said. “Yours?”
“Hendrin. Just arrived from Mercury. A fine wench, isn’t she?”
Archman studied the girl appreciatively. Her face was set in sullen defiance, and despite her near-nudity she had a firm dignity about her that the Earthman liked. She seemed to be staring right through the Mercurian rather than at him, and the fact that her breasts were nearly bare and her lovely legs unclad hardly disturbed her.
“Where are you from, lass?”
“Is it your business—traitor?”
Archman recoiled. “Harsh words, pretty one. But perhaps we’ve met somewhere on Earth. I’m curious.”
“I’m not from Earth. I was a colonist on Planetoid Eleven until—until—”
“An attractive bit of property,” Archman told the Mercurian. “You capture her yourself?”
Hendrin shook his domed head. “No. I bought her from these Venusians here. I mean to sell her to our lord Darrien, for use as a plaything.”
Archman smiled casually. “I could almost use one like her myself. Would you take a hundred credas for her?”
“I paid a hundred-eighty.”
“Two hundred, then?”
“Not for a thousand,” said the Mercurian firmly. “This girl is for Darrien himself.”
“Beasts,” the girl muttered.
The Mercurian slapped her with a clawed fist. A little trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, and Archman had to force himself to watch coldly.
“You won’t sell, eh?” Archman said. That was unfortunate, he thought. Having merchandise such as this to offer might conceivably get him close to Darrien quickly. And the girl was just that—merchandise. As an Intelligence agent went, Archman knew that all lives including his own were expendable in the struggle to assassinate Darrien.