A flood of superfast thoughts raced through his startled brain as he stood with arms extended above his head. Thank heavens he’d got rid of that money; they’d have been unpleasantly inquisitive about so large a sum being carried in one lump. If they were looking for Shir Agavan they were dead out of luck. In any case, he wasn’t going to let them take him in, even for questioning. Not if he could help it. Most people who survived a Kaitempi interrogation did so as physical wrecks. It would be better at the last resort to break this searcher’s neck and run like blazes.
“If the cops shoot me down it’ll be a quicker and easier end. When Terra gets no more signals from me, Wolf will choose my successor and feed the poor sap the same—”
“Hi?” The Kaitempi agent broke his train of thought by holding Mowry’s wallet open and gazing with surprise at Pigface’s card reposing therein. The tough expression faded from his heavy features as if wiped away with a cloth. “One of us? An officer?” He took a closer look at the other. “But I do not recognise you.”
“You wouldn’t,” informed Mowry, showing just the right degree of arrogance. “I arrived only today from H.Q. on Diracta.” He pulled a face. “And this is the reception I get.”
“It cannot be helped,” apologised the agent. “The revolutionary movement must be suppressed at all costs and it’s as big a menace here as on any other planet. You know how things are on Directa well, they’re not one whit better on Jaimec.”
“It won’t last,” Mowry responded, speaking with authority. “On Diracta we expect to make a complete clean-up in the near future. After that you won’t have much trouble here. The movement will collapse from sheer lack of leadership. When you cut off the head, the body dies.”
“I hope you’re right. The Spakum war is enough without an army of traitors sniping in the rear.” He closed the wallet, gave it back. His other hand held the Krag Wulkin documents at which he had not yet looked. Waiting for Mowry to pocket the wallet, he returned the remaining material and. said jocularly, “Here are your false papers.”
“Nothing is false that has been officially issued,” said Mowry, frowning disapproval.
“No, I suppose not. I hadn’t thought of it in that light” The agent backed off, anxious to end the talk. “Sorry to have troubled you. I suggest you call at local headquarters as soon as possible and have them circulate your photo so that you’ll be known to us. Otherwise you may be stopped and searched repeatedly.”
“I’ll do that,” promised Mowry, unable to imagine anything he’d less intention of doing.
“You’ll excuse me—I must tend to these others.” So saying, the agent attracted the attention of the nearest police, pointed to Mowry. Then he made for a sour-faced civilian wha was standing nearby waiting to be searched. Reluctantly the civilian lifted his arms and permitted the agent to dip into his pockets.
Mowry walked toward the line of police which opened and let him pass through. At such moments, he thought, one is supposed to be cool, calm and collected, radiating supreme self-confidence in all directions. He wasn’t like that at all. On the contrary he was weak in the knees and had a vague feeling of sickness in the stomach. He had to force himself to continue steadily onward with what appeared to be absolute nonchalance.
He made six hundred yards, reached the next corner before some warning instinct made him look back. Police were still blocking the road but beyond them four of the Kaitempi had clustered together in conversation. One of them, the agent who had released him, pointed his way. The other three shot a glance in the same direction, resumed talking with vehement gestures. There followed what appeared to be ten seconds of heated argument before they reached a decision.
“Stop him!”
The nearest police turned round startled, their eyes seeking a fleeing quarry. Mowry’s legs became filled with an almost irresistible urge to get going twenty to the dozen. He forced them by an effort of will to maintain their steady pace.
There were a lot of people in the street, some merely hanging around and gaping at the trap, others walking the same way as himself. Most of the latter wanted no part of what was going on higher up the road and considered it expedient to amble someplace else. Mowry kept with them, showing no great hurry. That baffled the police; for a few valuable seconds they stayed put, hands on weapons, while they sought in vain for visible evidence of guilt.
It provided sufficient delay to enable him to get round the corner and out of sight. At that point the shouting Kaitempi realised that the police were stalled. They lost patience, broke into a furious sprint. Half a dozen clumping cops immediately raced with them, still without knowing who was being chased or why.
Overtaking a youth who was sauntering dozily along, Mowry gave him an urgent shove in the back. “Quick!—they’re after you! The Kaitempi!”
“I’ve done nothing. I—”
“How long will it take to convince them of that? Run, you fool!”
The other used up a few moments gaping sceptically before he heard the oncoming rush of heavy feet, the raucous shouts of pursuers nearing the corner. He lost colour, tore down the road at velocity that paid tribute to his innocence. He’d have overtaken and passed a bolting jackrabbit with no trouble at all.
Unhurriedly entering an adjacent shop, Mowry—threw a swift look around to e what it sold, said casually, “I wish ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops and—”
The arm of the law thundered round the corner fifty strong. The hunt roared past the shop, its leaders baying with triumph as they spotted the distant figure of him who had done nothing. Mowry stared at the window in dumb amazement. The corpulent Sirian behind the counter eyed the window with sad resignation.
“Whatever is happening?” asked Mowry.
“They’re after someone,” diagnosed Fatty. He sighed, rubbed his protruding belly. “Always they are after someone. What a world! What a war!”
“Makes you tired, hi?”
“Aie, yar! Every day, every minute there is something. Last night, according to the news-channels, they destroyed the main Spakum space-fleet for the tenth time. Today they are pursuing the remnants of what is said to have been destroyed. For months we have been making triumphant retreats before a demoralised enemy who is advancing in utter disorder.” He made a sweeping motion with a podgy hand. It indicated disgust. “I am fat, as you can see. That makes me an idiot. You wish-?”
“Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut—”
A belated cop pounded past the window. He was two hundred yards behind the pack and breathless but plain stubborn. As he thudded along he let go a couple of shots into the air just for the heck of it.
“See what I mean?” said Fatso. “You wish-?”
“Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops. I also wish to order a special celebration-cake to be supplied five days hence. Perhaps you can show me some examples or help me with suggestions, hi?”
He managed to waste twenty minutes within the shop and the time was well worth the few guilders it cost. If he’d wanted he could have stayed longer. Twenty minutes, he estimated, would be just enough to permit local excitement to die down while the pursuit continued elsewhere. But the longer he extended the time the greater the risk of falling into the hands of frustrated huntsmen who’d returned to comb out the area.
Halfway home he was tempted to donate the cakes to a mournful looking cop, but refrained. The time for having fun had gone by and some restraint was called for. The more he had to dodge authority’s frantic fly-swattings the harder it was to play like a wasp and get a laugh out of it.