"Purpose of the assembly?" Spangler snapped.
"Insurrection, thirty-one per cent, plus or minus two. Sabotage, twenty-six per cent, plus or minus two. Unauthorized attempt to leave Earth, eighteen per cent, plus or minus four. Correlation with Rithian activity, still low but rising, eleven per cent, plus or minus three."
"All right—that's good enough," Spangler said. He glanced at a memex that lay open on the desk beside him. "Plan H, 103, red alert."
"Acknowledged," said Makaris. You never had to tell the man anything twice, and no order ever seemed to surprise him. He was a good subordinate—too good, perhaps. The matter was one which had occupied Spangler's thoughts before. At present, at least, Makaris was not a danger. Under certain circumstances, it would not be disagreeable to think of Makaris taking over the Commissioner's post… if, for example, Spangler had moved up to the position now occupied by Keith-Ingram…
Plan H 103 was another of the detailed, thorough operational plans which had lain unused in DeptSecur's files for over a century. It provided for protective detention, under maximum security, of up to ten thousand resident aliens. At this moment, orders would be flowing out to activate the detention centers, assign personnel, check and issue equipment.
Through his edge of excitement, Spangler felt a moment's contempt for his adversaries. This was like a game of chess— the intentions of each side were unknown to the other, except as they could be deduced from the moves on the board. But Spangler could put any number of pieces into play—powerful pieces, unlimited by any rules—armored queens, bishops bristling with machine-guns…
One of the smaller screens on the console still showed the exterior of the warehouse; the door was closed. Four more gave Spangler a view of the armed squads in jump suits now massed on rooftops near the warehouse; a sixth, seventh and eighth, the squat shapes of Gun Units in subsurface tubes now cleared of civil traffic, around the area. The ninth, tenth and eleventh screens showed variations of the same view—the interior of the anteroom behind the closed warehouse door.
Spangler cast his mind back over his handling of the situation; and could find no flaw. He was probing into the area of the seditious meeting by means least calculated to alarm the Outworlders. Every stage was backed up by another, all the way to power sufficient to crush an armed uprising.
He had resisted every temptation to take Outworlders into custody as they approached the meeting place. That was doctrine—keep a loose net, catch all the fish. Yet a feeling of uneasiness persisted. What had he overlooked?
Motion caught his eye. On the exterior warehouse screen, two more figures were approaching—a fat woman and a gangling youth. The door opened; they entered.
On the three interior screens, the now-familiar playlet was enacted. The little man came out, smiling.
"Ben, ben, a von ora—pesh!"
"No so tardé?"
"No, no, a von ora."
On the translator screen:
COME COME AT A GOOD TIME HURRY WE NOT LATE NO NO…
Spangler tensed. As the woman and the boy began to move through the inner door, the doorway seemed to swell on all three screens. Three spy-eyes were making the attempt at once.
The heads of the woman and boy ballooned, swelled out of sight. Once more, on all three screens, there was a blur of movement, then a sudden flare of light: but not before Spangler had glimpsed, on one of the three, a raised fist holding a bright plastic cylinder, an intent dark face behind it.
"Run that over!" he said sharply.
After a moment's pause, a larger screen lighted up. The spy-eye was moving forward in dream-slow motion. It turned; the face, the hand with the lifted cylinder swam into view. A cloud of glittering particles appeared at the tip of the cylinder, slowly expanded.
Spangler barely felt his fist strike the surface of the desk. A tide of exasperation threatened to choke and drown him.
"Insect spray, by God!"
In the darkness, Langtree was jackknifed into the narrow refuse chute, working his way upward a foot at a time, like a mountaineer in a rock chimney. His flash illuminated the chute above him in a hot yellow-white glare, but the darkness flowed upward against his body with an inexorable, insistent pressure. His back was against one wall of the chute, feet against the other. His back and leg muscles were already trembling with the strain, though he had climbed only a few meters. Somewhere above him was light and air; someday he would reach it, and then he would be able to resume his duty. But now there was only the darkness and the choking pressure of the chute, and the slow, painful movements that hitched his body upward.
Far up the chute, the flash picked out something anomalous, a dark thin line across the wall. Langtree stared at it, tilted his neck awkwardly. Faint sounds drifted down the chute—an indistinguishable murmur of voices, isolated shouts, all distant and blurred. There was his goal. All he had to do was to master himself, keep moving upward until he reached it. He straightened his legs, feeling his back scrape up along the wall. He raised one foot, then the other. He could feel sweat trickling along his ribs; his tunic was soaked, clinging to his skin. He pushed with his feet again: another infinitesimal gain, another pause to rest. Push again, with muscles that jerked and trembled. The dark line above was a little nearer. The sounds grew louder.
Outworlders—how he detested them! Ugly, uncouth, insolent brown faces… The thought gave him strength enough for another lurch upward. The darkness, pressing in, squeezing him tight inside this narrow box, like a fist closing around his chest so that he could not get his breath… Langtree locked his jaws, heaved upward again.
Louder now, the sounds washed down around Langtree as he inched up toward the dark line. Now, when he turned the flash away from it, he could make out a hairline of yellow light outlining three sides of a square. It was the hatchway, the exit from the chute. He was almost there.
The noise swelled to a confused roar. Straining for breath, his whole body shaking, Langtree hitched himself up the last meter until his feet were planted just above the square hatch. Now the noise was a din that made the chute vibrate and boom around him, squeezing him tighter, making it impossible to think. With the last of his strength, he raised one foot, kicked the hatch. It gave. It was swinging open, letting in a deafening blast of sound and a dazzle of light. Langtree felt himself slipping; he grabbed desperately for the top of the hatchway, clamped his hands hard, swung himself out into a confusion of color and noise.
Something huge and impossible was drifting toward him through the air…wings, fierce eyes… Then, as he staggered for balance on rubbery legs, hands seized him from behind. Something dark and smothering dropped over his face. A touch on his palm—his fingers closed around something long and heavy— A club, a weapon! It was all happening too fast, he could not think, get his balance. A shove from behind—he went reeling into darkness toward that impossible thing…
Both hands clenched around the club, he swung it with the strength of panic. There was a jolt that ran all the way up to his shoulders, a crash of something broken, yells, screams all around him. Langtree was yelling too, spittle flying from his lips, but he could not hear his own voice. The club was gone; he was clawing at the cloth over his head, dragging it away, blinking wildly in the sudden glare of light.
Over his head, suspended from a ceiling trolley, a huge gray bird swayed upright in the air—wings spread, yellow eyes glaring fiercely. Under its great clawed feet something else was dangling—circling and spinning at the end of a cord— and under that, all around Langtree, what seemed like hundreds of yelling children were milling, down on all fours, fighting and scrambling to get at the heap of bright objects that lay under the gray bird.