And if a government fears to admit even the pettiest facts of war, how much faith can the common man place in the leadership’s claim not to be afraid of anything? Hi?
A disease gains in menace when it spreads, popping up in places far apart and taking on the characteristics of an epidemic. For that reason Mowry’s first outing from his new abode was to Radine, a town two-forty miles south of Pertane. Population three hundred thousand, hydro-electric power, bauxite mines, aluminum extraction plants.
He caught an early morning train. It was overcrowded with all those people compelled to move around by the various needs of war: sullen workers, bored soldiers, self-satisfied officials, colourless nonentities. The seat facing him was occupied by a heavy-bellied character with bloated, porcine features, a caricaturist’s idea of the Jaimec Minister of Food.
The train set off, hit up a fast clip. People piled in and out at intermediate stations. Pigface contemptuously ignored Mowry, watched the passing landscape with lordly disdain, finally fell asleep and let his mouth hang open. He was twice as hoglike in his slumbers and would have attained near-perfection with a lemon between his teeth.
Thirty miles from Radine the door from the coach ahead slammed open, a civilian policeman entered. He was accompanied by two burly, hard-faced characters in plain clothes. This trio halted by the nearest passenger.
“Your ticket,” demanded the cop.
The passenger handed it over, his expression scared. The policeman examined it front and back, passed it to his companions who studied it in turn.
“Your identity-card.”
That got the same treatment, the cop looking it over as if doing a routine chore, the other two surveying it more critically and with concealed suspicion.
“Your movement permit.”
It passed the triple scrutiny, was given back along with the ticket and identity-card. The recipient’s face showed vast relief, The cop picked on the passenger sitting next to him.
“Your ticket,”
Mowry, seated two-thirds the way along the coach, observed this performance with much curiosity and a little apprehension. His feelings boosted to alarm when they reached the seventh passenger.
For some reason best known to themselves the tough-looking pair in plain clothes gazed longer and more intently at this one’s documents. Meanwhile, the passenger developed visible signs of agitation. They stared at his strained face, weighing him up. Their own features wore the hungry expressions of predatory animals about to tear down a victim.
“Stand up!” barked one of them.
The passenger shot to his feet and stood quivering. He swayed slightly and it was not due to the rocking of the train. While the cop looked on, the two frisked the passenger with speed and professional thoroughness. They took things out of his pockets, pawed them around, shoved them back. They patted his clothes all over, showing no respect for his person.
Finding nothing of significance, one of them muttered an oath then yelled at the victim, “Well, what’s giving you the shakes?”
“I don’t feel so good,” said the passenger, feebly.
“Is that so? What’s the matter with you?”
“Travel sickness. I always get this way in trains.”
“It’s a story, anyway.” He glowered at the other, lost patience and made a careless gesture. “All right, you can sit”
At that the passenger collapsed into his seat and breathed heavily. He had the mottled complexion of one almost sick from fear and relief. The cop eyed him a moment, let go a sniff and turned attention to number eight.
“Ticket.”
There were ten more to be chivvied before these inquisitors reached Mowry. He was willing to take a chance on his documents passing muster but he dared not risk a search. The cop was just a plain, ordinary cop. The other two were members of the all-powerful Kaitempi; if they dipped into his pockets the balloon would go up once and for all. And in due time, when on Terra it was realised that his silence was the silence of the grave, a cold-blooded specimen named Wolf would give with the sales talk to another sucker.
“Turn around. Walk bow-legged. We want you to become a wasp.”
By now most of the passengers were directing their full attention along the aisle, watching what was going on and meanwhile trying to ooze an aura of patriotic rectitude. Mowry slid a surreptitious look at Pigface who was still lolling opposite with head hanging on chest and mouth wide open. Were those sunken little eyes really closed or were they watching him between narrowed lids?
Short of pushing his face right up against the other’s unpleasant countenance he couldn’t tell for certain. But it made no difference, the trio were edging nearer every moment and he had to take a risk. Furtively he felt behind him, found a tight but deep gap in the upholstery where the bottom of the backrest met the rear of the seat. Keeping his attention riveted upon Pigface, he edged a pack of stickers and two crayons out of his pocket, crammed them into the gap, poking them well out of sight. The sleeper opposite did not stir or blink an eyelid.
Two minutes later the cop gave Pigface an irritable shove on the shoulder and that worthy woke up with a snort. He glared at the cop, then at the pair in plain clothes.
“So! What is this?”
“Your ticket,” said the cop.
“A traffic check, hi?” responded Pigface; showing sudden understanding. “Oh, well—” Inserting fat fingers in a vest pocket he took out an ornate card embedded in a slice of transparent plastic. This he exhibited to the trio as if it were the equivalent of the keys to the kingdom. The cop stared at it and became servile. The two toughies stiffened like raw recruits caught dozing on parade.
“Your pardon; Major,” apologised the cop.
“It is granted,” assured Pigface, showing a well-practised mixture of arrogance and condescension. “You are only doing your duty.” He favoured the rest of the coach with a beam of triumph born of petty power, openly enjoying the situation and advertising himself as being several grades above common herd.
Eyeing him with concealed dislike, Mowry became obsessed with the notion that some buttocks have been designed by Nature specifically to be kicked good and hard and that such a target was within foot-reach right now. His right shoe got the fidgets at the thought of it but he kept it firmly on the floor.
Leery and embarrassed, the cop switched to Mowry, said, “Ticket.”
Mowry handed it over, striving to look innocent and bored. Pseudo-nonchalance didn’t come easy because now he was the focal point of the coach’s battery of eyes. Almost all the other passengers were looking his way, Pigface was surveying him speculatively and the two Kaitempi agents were giving him the granite-hard stare.
“Identity-card.”
That got passed across.
“Movement permit.”
He surrendered it, braced himself for the half-expected command of, “Stand up!”
It did not come. Anxious to get away from the fat Major’s cold, official gaze, the three examined the papers, handed them back without comment and moved on. Mowry shoved the documents into his pocket, tried to keep a great relief out of his voice ras he spoke to the other.
“I wonder what they’re after.”
“It is no business of yours,” said Pigface, as insultingly as possible.
“No, of course not,” agreed Mowry.
There was silence between them. Pigface sat mooning through the window and showed no inclination to resume his slumbers. Damn the fellow, thought Mowry, retrieving the hidden stickers was going to prove difficult with that slob awake and alert.
A door crashed shut as the cop and Kaitempi agents finished with that coach and went through to the following one. A minute later the train pulled up with such suddenness that a couple of passengers were thrown from their seats. Outside the train and farther back toward the rear end voices started shouting.