The first one to reach Jeb Stuart Ho grabbed his arm, and tried to twist it up his back. Ho relaxed for an instant and then straightened his arm with a snap. The LDC man reeled with a scream.
‘He’s dislocated my goddamn shoulder.’
A second cop swung at Ho with a nightstick. His armoured forearm flashed up to meet it. The two met with a crack, and the stick shattered. The cop looked at the broken end in disbelief. He backed away a couple of paces. His two partners also stopped. The first one to attack Ho leaned against the wall groaning and clutching his shoulder. There was a moment of stillness. It seemed as though they were all waiting to see who would make the next move. Then the cop dropped the useless handle of the nightstick and reached for his gun. The gun cleared the holster, but before the cop could fire, Jeb Stuart Ho’s sword was in his hand. It flashed at inhuman speed and completely severed the cop’s right hand at the wrist. The gun, with the dead hand still clutching at it, fell to the pavement. The cop sank silently, staring at the bleeding stump with the blankness of total shock.
Things suddenly happened very fast. One cop leaped to help his companion. The other threw his nightstick at Ho’s head. Ho caught it with his left hand and whirled, looking for the next attack. A sleep gas grenade burst at his feet. Ho dropped the nightstick, and whipped his cloak up to his face. He emptied his lungs in a single high-pitched gasp and held his breath. His trained response was fast, but it didn’t beat the gas. It was already being absorbed through the pores of his skin. The street faded to black and white. It became two dimensional and began to recede. The focus failed, and it went out altogether.
When it came on again Jeb Stuart Ho was staring at a bright white light set in a smooth white ceiling. He carefully turned his head and the waist of a rumpled brown suit moved into the centre of his field of vision.
‘So you woke up?’
Jeb Stuart Ho focused his eyes.
‘What place is this?’
‘Department of Correction.’
The voice sounded as though it was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. It was a voice that enjoyed its power.
‘May I sit up?’
‘If you do, I’ll blow you apart.’
‘May I turn my head?’
‘Sure. I don’t see how you can do any harm by that. Help yourself. Just don’t make any sudden moves. If you do, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.’
Jeb Stuart Ho looked round. The room was completely bare except for the concrete slab on which he was lying, and a simple collapsible chair in which the man was sitting. The man wore a creased brown suit, a white shirt and a wide necktie with a painting of a bound and naked woman on it. The tie was loosened and the top of his shirt was undone. He was sweating slightly. The man was of medium height, thickset and overweight. His face had the coarse bulldog look of a determined and methodical bully. The chewed end of a cigar was clenched between his teeth. Across his knees he cradled a wide-barrelled riot gun. When he caught Jeb Stuart Ho looking at him, he smiled grimly and patted the gun.
‘I could cut you in half with this before you could reach me, however fast you are.’
Jeb Stuart Ho looked down at himself. He still had his one-piece black suit, but everything else had been taken away. He swung his gaze back to the man in the chair.
‘Do you know who I am?’
The man took the cigar out of his mouth.
‘A big league hit man.’
‘An executive of the brotherhood.’
The man’s lip curled.
‘Like I said, a big league hit man.’
‘The brotherhood would not view my detention by your people favourably. What is your name?’
‘I’m Bannion. Chief-Agent Bannion.’
‘My mission is of the utmost priority, Chief-Agent Bannion.’
‘You attacked four of my patrolmen.’
‘Quite the opposite. I was defending myself from their unprovoked attack.’
‘You casually lopped off one of their hands.’
‘I’m sorry. The man was about to shoot me and I overreacted. I trust he has been taken care of?’
Bannion scowled.
‘He’s dead.’
Jeb Stuart Ho looked surprised.
‘Dead?’
‘Dead.’
‘But how? If he received prompt medical attention he should have recovered. It would even have been possible to replace the severed limb.’
Bannion stared at Ho grimly.
‘The shock was too much for him. He shot himself. Left handed.’
Jeb Stuart Ho said nothing. There was a long silence. Bannion finally broke it.
‘I think we’ve completed the decent silence.’
‘How can you estimate a man’s worth in silence?’
‘I have a feeling you’re just burning to tell me what bad news it will be if the brotherhood find out we ain’t been treating you right.’
‘The basic computations that support the city’s gambling economy and even its basic stasis and life support all come from the brotherhood.’
‘And it might just get cut off if they found we’d messed you up?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘That’s why my men aren’t beating you to death right now.’
‘You stopped them?’
‘I stopped them.’
‘And what will happen to me now?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘You’re here to kill?’
‘I’m here on an executive task.’
‘You’re here to kill?’
‘Yes.’
Bannion sighed.
‘That’s more like it. Okay, who?’
‘A woman who lives in this town.’
‘Why?’
‘If her course of action is not terminated, the eventual outcome could be a major disaster.’
‘Is this woman a native of Litz?’
Jeb Stuart Ho shook his head.
‘A visitor.’
Bannion took out another cigar and lit it.
‘That’s a relief. Having a human killing machine running round the city would be bad enough, but letting you kill born and bred citizens is out of the question. What’s this woman’s name?’
‘A.A. Catto.’
Bannion stood up, walked over to the door and banged on it with his fist. After a moment, the door opened and a blue-helmeted head appeared.
‘Yes, Chief?’
‘Get me all we have on a female called A.A. Catto.’
The door closed again. Bannion returned to his chair. Jeb Stuart Ho raised his head slightly.
‘Could I sit up now?’
Bannion’s eyes narrowed.
‘You sure you won’t try and jump me?’
‘I have no reason to attack you.’
‘Okay, sit up, but keep your hands on the slab.’
Jeb Stuart Ho eased himself into a sitting position. He crossed his legs, and Bannion appeared to relax. The door opened, and a uniformed patrolman came in carrying a red plastic folder. He handed it to Bannion, stared hard at Jeb Stuart Ho and then left. Bannion leafed through the file and then looked up at Ho.
‘There seems to be no reason why you shouldn’t kill her. We don’t encourage the slaying of rich out-of-towners, but I suppose we have to go along with what the brotherhood wants. You’ll have to make it legitimate, though.’
‘Legitimate?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘You file a claim.’
‘A claim?’
Bannion looked at Jeb Stuart Ho as though he was talking to an idiot.
‘An Assassin’s Claim to Victim, form DY 7134/B. You fill it out. I approve it. We notify the security services. They withdraw any protection they might be renting to the victim and you go in and kill her. Normally the processing of a claim takes about six months.’
‘Six months?’
‘But in your case we’ll do it immediately. Although you’ll have to grease a few palms.’