“My group watches lizards. Of what special use is a lizard-watcher, hi?”
“I can’t imagine. Why watch lizards, anyway?”
“Have you ever watched them?”
“No,” admitted Mowry, without shame.
“Then you don’t know the fascination of it.”
Podgy turned round and said with a superior air, “My group builds model rockets.”
“Kid stuff,” defined Skinny.
“That’s what you think. I’ll have you know every member is a potential rocket-engineer and in time of war a rocket-engineer is a valuable—”
“Move up,” said Skinny, nudging him. They shuffled forward, stopped. Skinny said to Mowry, “What’s your crowd do?”
“We etch glass.”
“Well, that’s a high form of art. I have seen some very attractive examples of it myself. They were luxury articles though. A bit beyond the common purse.” He let go a loud sniff. “What good are glass-etchers for winning battles?”
“You guess,” Mowry invited.
“Now take rockets,” put in Podgy. “The rocket is essential to space-war and—”
“Move up,” ordered Skinny again.
They reached the stack of forms, were each given one off the top. The group dispersed, going their various ways while a long line of later comers edged toward the counter. Mowry went to the main post office, sat at a vacant table, filled up the form carefully and neatly. He got some satisfaction out of doing it with a government pen and government ink.
Title of organisation: Dirac Angestun Gesept. Purpose of organisation: Destruction of present government and termination of war against Terra. Customary meeting place: Wherever Kaitempi can’t find us. Names and addresses of elected officers: You’ll find out when it’s too late. Attach hereto complete list of members: Nar. Signature: Jaime Shallapurta.
That last touch would get someone hopping mad. It was calculated insult to the much revered Statue of Jaime. loosely translated it meant James Stoneybottom.
He bought an envelope, was about to mail it back to the bureau when it occurred to him to hot it up still more. Forthwith he took the form to his room, shoved it into the embossing machine and impressed it with the Kaitempi cartouche. Then he posted it.
This performance pleased him immensely. A month ago it would have been too childish to bother with and the recipients would have dismissed it as the work of someone feeble-minded. But today the circumstances were vastly different. The powers-that-be had revealed themselves as annoyed if not frightened. They were in poor mood to relish a raspberry. With moderate luck the sardonic registration-form would boost their anger and that would be all to the good because a mind filled with fury cannot think in cool, logical manner.
When one is fighting a paper-war one uses paper-war tactics that in the long run can be just as lethal as high explosive. And the tactics are not limited in scope by use of one material. The said material is very variable in form. Paper can convey a private warning, a public threat, secret temptation, open defiance; wall-bills, window-stickers, leaflets dropped by the thousands from the roof-tops, cards left on seats or slipped into pockets and purses… Money.
Yes, money.
With paper money he could buy a lot of the deeds needed to back up the words. With paper money he could persuade the Sirian foe to kick himself good and hard in the pants and thereby save the Terrans a tedious chore.
At the proper hour he set out for the Cafe Susun.
Not having yet received the D.A.G.’s thumb-on-nose registration the Jaimecan authorities were still able to think in a calculating and menacing way. Their countermoves had not been confined to that morning’s new law. They had taken matters further by concocting a dangerous technique, namely, that of the snap-search.
It almost caught Mowry at the first grab. He did not congratulate. himself on his escape, realising that to avoid one trap might be merely to fall into another. The risk was great, the trick being of such a type that none could tell when or where the next blow would fall.
He was heading for his rendezvous when suddenly a line of uniformed police extended itself across the street. A second line simultaneously did likewise four hundred yards farther on. From the dumbfounded mob trapped between the lines appeared a number of plainclothes members of the Kaitempi. These at once commenced a swift and expert search of everyone thus halted in the street. Meanwhile both lines of police kept their full attention inward, watching to see that nobody ducked into a doorway and bolted through a house to escape the mass-frisk.
Thanking his lucky stars that he was outside the trap and being ignored, Mowry faded into the background as inconspicuously as possible and beat it home fast. In his room he burned all documents relating to Shir Agavan, crumbled the ashes into fine dust. That identity was now dead for ever and ever, amen. It would never be used again.
From one of his packages he took a new set of papers swearing before all and sundry that he was Krag Wulkin, special-correspondent of a leading news agency, with a home address on Diracta. In some ways it was a better camoufiage than the former one. It lent added plausibility to his Mashambi accent. Moreover a complete check on it would involve wasting a month referring back to the Sirian home planet.
Thus armed he started out again. Though better fitted to face awkward questions the risk of being asked them had been greatly boosted by this latest technique and he took to the streets with the queezy feeling that somehow or other the hunt at last had picked up the scent.
There was no way of telling exactly what the snap-searchers were seeking. Maybe they were trying to catch people carrying subversive propaganda on their persons. Or perhaps they were looking for treacherous sokos with D.A.G. membership cards. Or could be they were haphazardly groping around for a dynocar renter named Shir Agavan. Whatever their reasons, the tactic proved that someone among Jaimec’s big shots had become aggravated.
Luckily no more traps opened in his path before he reached the Cafe Susun. He went in, found Arhava and two others seated at the far table where they were half-concealed in dim light and could keep watch on the door.
“You’re late,” greeted Arhava. “We thought you weren’t coming.”
“I got delayed by a police raid on the street. The cops looked surly. You fellows just robbed a bank or something?”
“No, we haven’t” Arhava made a casual gesture toward his companions. “Meet Gurd and Skriva.”
Mowry acknowledged them with a curt nod, looked them over. They were much alike, obviously brothers. Flat-faced, hard-eyed with pinned-back ears that came up to sharp points. Each looked capable of selling the other into slavery provided there was no comeback with a knife.
“We haven’t heard your?ame,” said Gurd, speaking between long, narrow teeth.
“You aren’t going to, either,” responded Mowry.
Gurd bristled. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t really care what my name is,” Mowry told him. “If the thing atop your neck has a steady tick it’s a matter of total indifference to you who gives you a load of guilders.”
“Yar, that’s right,” chipped in Skriva, his eyes glittering.
“Money is money regardless of who hands it over. Shut up, Gurd.”
“I only wanted to know.” mumbled Gurd, subdued.
Arhava took over with the mouth-watering eagerness of one on the make. “I’ve given these boys your proposition. They’re interested.” He turned to them. “Aren’t you?”
“Yar,” said Skriva. He concentrated attention upon Mowry.
“You want someone in his box. That right?”