“Just a bit o’ camouflage,” the backseat tough explained. “Can’t leave yer front door open fer just any Tom, Dick, or Paddy t’ walk in, y’ know.”
“No, definitely not.” Dar’s eyes fairly bulged out of his head as the car swept into the cave, and a line of glow-plates lit up along the length of the walls, lighting their way onward. The floor sloped away in front of them, spiraling down at a thirty-degree angle. Rog held the car to a continuing hairpin turn, slowing down only as much as was absolutely necessary. Sam swung over against Dar and stayed there, which would’ve been very pleasant, if Dar hadn’t had to keep fighting to hold himself away from the backseat tough, who might not have understood, especially since that was his gun-hand.
The ramp leveled off and the car straightened out, but Sam stayed over against Dar. He counted it a hopeful sign, but was no longer sure he cared, now that he’d seen Lona.
The tunnel flared out into a huge cavern. Brilliant glow-plates spread a cold greenish light over alleyways between towering gray plastrete slabs.
“I’d almost think those were buildings,” Dar said, in hushed tones, “if they had windows.”
“They are buildings,” the tough affirmed. “What’d y’ need windows for, down ‘ere? Whacher gonna look at?”
Rog pulled the car into a slot between a small van and another car. They got out, and found themselves surrounded by a fleet of trucks and vans, parked in very orderly rows.
“Yes,” Dar mused, “your boss isn’t exactly hurting, is he?”
“Ask ‘im,” the tough invited. “Y’ve got an appointment—immediate.”
The door slid aside, and they stepped into a leather-and-mahogany office with a rug as thick as graft.
“Citizens Dar Mandra and Sam Bine,” said the bald man behind the acre of desktop, almost lost in the vast swivel chair. “Come in.”
They came in slowly, feeling as though there were guns pointed at their backs from all angles. Ridiculous, of course; the guns were probably aimed from the front.
“Sit.” It was an order, not an invitation. Under the circumstances, Dar wasn’t disposed to argue. He sat at the lefthand corner of the desk; Sam sat at the right. That’s where the chairs were. They didn’t look as though they’d move.
“What is this—our invitation to join the Underground?” Dar joked, with a tight smile.
It died under the look the little man gave him. Did he always have to make the right guess at the wrong time?
Their host wasn’t tall, but he was very broad across the shoulders and chest—and not fat. In fact, he was very hard, in the flesh—and, from the look of him, in the soul, too. He wore a quiet brown business tunic with a muted yellow ascot—conservative, punctiliously correct, with the look of a very high price. His nails were manicured, and his eyes were hidden behind brown lenses.
“You’re in the House of Houses,” he grated.
Dar stiffened and tried to keep his face immobile. Even buried on a prison planet, he’d heard of the I.D.E.’s biggest organized crime ring.
“The House of …” Sam’s voice choked off. She cleared her throat. “Uh, not the head offices, of course.”
The brown lenses swiveled toward her. The little man nodded slowly.
“But the head offices have to be on Terra!”
The brown lenses turned slowly from side to side. “We like it better here.”
Dar clenched his fists to hide their quivering. “And, uh, whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”
The brown lenses tracked back toward him. “I’ve got a lot of names.”
“Any one will do.” Dar tried to grin.
“Call me Sard, then—Thalvor Sard. I’m the Syndic.”
“The Syndic?” Sam gasped. “The biggest boss criminal in all of Terran space?”
“A businessman,” Sard said, a bit impatiently, “only a businessman. Just a little impatient with government regulation, that’s all.
“Right?” His masked gaze swung to Dar.
“Right,” Dar mumbled. From what he’d heard, Sard’s “impatience” amounted to a running war on fifteen planets, and underground anarchy on most of the rest.
“But—here?” Sam spluttered. “On a frontier planet halfway to the marches?”
“Not so much of a frontier, as you’ve maybe noticed. The folks here like their comfort—like it enough to be glad to have us handy, and make sure their cops can’t do much about us.”
“And because they don’t have radios,” Dar guessed.
Sard’s head swiveled back to him. “My, you’re the quick one, though. Right, this time—radios cost so much, the cops don’t have ‘em. That means we can stay one jump ahead out here. Oh, they can move efficiently enough inside the town, where they can use couriers—but not out here. I’m what little law there is, outside the bounds of Haskerville.”
Dar nodded slowly.
“And the law can do a lot for you.” Sard nodded back at Dar. “Safety and protection, and a fat salary. What’ll the town law give you, the I.D.E. law? Arrest and, probably, a quick death.”
“Arrest? Whoa! What is this?” Dar protested. “We’re not in trouble with the cops!”
Sard just stared at him.
“Well … okay. Maybe they did try to bushwhack us in that tavern,” Dar amended. “And maybe they were trying to take us in when your, ah, people intervened. But we haven’t done anything illegal.”
“You’re there,” Sard said. “That’s enough.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a telepath—or your woman is. And all the government sees is that, in the wrong hands, your power could be a real threat to them.” He leaned back. “They’re right, too.”
Dar found his voice again. “Telepath? Me?”
Sard shrugged. “All right, play innocent, if you want. They’ll be out after you, just the same. That’s why that BOA man faked being murdered right next to you—to give the cops a reason for arresting you.”
“No!” Dar cried. “He’s trying to stop us from taking the new governor of Wolmar’s resignation back to Terra!”
“Sure,” Sard said slowly. “Right.”
“Uh … what would we have to do for this salary-plus-benefits of yours?” Sam put in.
The dark glasses swiveled toward her. “Nothing much. Just tell us what certain people are planning to do. You’d travel a lot—especially to Terra.”
“Handsome offer,” Sam said slowly. “Unfortunately, neither of us is a telepath.”
The glasses swung toward Dar.
“ ‘Fraid that’s true,” Dar seconded. “Either I.D.E.’s got its signals crossed, or you do.”
“My signals don’t get crossed,” Sard corrected. “I.D.E. might, but not the LORDS—and they’re the ones who’re out after telepaths.”
“The exception proves the rule,” Sam said. “This is it.”
Sard shook his head slowly. “Too bad. Such nice young kids.”
“What’s too bad?” Dar felt a premonition walking up his spine.
“Your untimely deaths.” Sard leaned forward. “One of you is a telepath, whether or not the other one knows it—and that telepath must’ve already picked up enough information to pack half of my people off to prison worlds, maybe enough to shut down the whole House of Houses. And you’d do it, too, ‘cause you’d think it’d buy the LORDS off your back.”
“But we’re not telepaths.”
“Sorry.” Sard shook his head. “Can’t take the chance. Either you join, or you leave in an urn.” He pushed a button. “Don’t say anything right now—think it over. This shouldn’t be a snap judgment, you understand.”
Two tall, muscular men, impeccably dressed, came in.
“These gentlemen will conduct you to your accommodations,” Sard explained. “You’ll get better ones if you join up, of course. Think it over.”
The accommodations had a door made of steel bars and a very elaborate combination lock.