Part 11 (2/2)

”It should,” Gordon said.

”No! We've studied these things. Mars won't give up--and Earth wants a plum, not responsibility. You'll have civil war and the whole planetary development ruined. Security's the only hope, Gordon--the only chance Mars had, has, or will have! Believe me, I know. Security has to be notified. There's a code message I had ready--a message to a friend--even you can send it. And they'll be watching. I've got the basic plans in the book here.”

He slumped back. Gordon frowned, then found the book and pulled it out as gently as he could. It was a small black memo book, covered with pages of shorthand. The back was an address book, filled with names--many crossed out. A sheet of paper in normal writing fell out.

”The message ...” Murdoch took another swallow of brandy. ”Take it.

You're head of Security on Mars now. It's all authorized in the plans there. You'll need the brains and knowledge of the others--but they can't act. You can--we know about you.”

The old woman sighed. She put down the hot water and picked up the bottle of brandy, starting down the stairs.

”Gordon!” Murdoch said faintly.

He turned to put his head down. From the stairs, a sudden cry and thump sounded, and something hit the floor. Gordon jumped toward the sound, to find the old lady bending over the inert figure of Sheila Corey.

”I heard someone,” the woman said. She stared at the brandy bottle sickly. ”_Gott in Himmel_, look at me. Am I a killer, too, that I should strike a young and beautiful girl. She comes into my house, and I sneak behind her ... It is an evil time, young man. Here, you carry her inside. I'll get some twine to tie her up. The idea, spying on you!”

Gordon picked the girl up roughly. That capped it, he thought. There was no way of knowing how much she'd heard, or whether she'd tipped others off. He dropped her near the bed, and went over to Murdoch. The man was dying now.

”So Security wants me to contact the others in the book and organize things?”

”Yes.” Murdoch swallowed. ”Not a good chance, then--but a chance. Still time--I think. Gordon?”

”What else can I do?” Bruce Gordon asked.

He knew it was no answer, but Asa Murdoch apparently accepted it as a promise. The gray-speckled head relaxed and rolled sideways on the b.l.o.o.d.y pillow.

”Dead,” Gordon said to the woman, as she came up with the twine. ”Dead, fighting wind-mills. And maybe winning. I don't know.”

He turned toward Sheila--a split second too late. The girl came up from the floor with a single push of her arm. She pivoted on her heel, hit the door, and her heels were clattering on the stairs. Before Gordon could reach the entrance, she was whipping around into an alley.

He watched her go, sick inside, and the last he saw was the hand she held up, waving the little black book at him!

He turned back into the liquor shop; the woman seemed to read his face.

”I should have watched her. It is a bad day for me, young man. I failed Pappa; I failed the poor man who died--and now I have failed you. It is better...”

He caught her as she fell toward him. She relaxed after a second.

”Upstairs, please,” she whispered, ”beside Pappa. There was nothing else. And these Martian poisons--they are so sure, they don't hurt. Five minutes more, I think. Stay with me, I'll tell you how Pappa and I got married. I want somebody should know how it was with us once, together.”

He stayed, then picked the two bodies up and moved them from the floor onto the bed where he had first seen the old man. He moved Murdoch's body aside, and covered the two gently. Finally, he went down the stairs, carrying Murdoch with him. The man's weight was a stiff load, even on Mars; but, somehow, he couldn't leave his body with the old couple.

He stopped finally ten blocks of narrow alleys away, and put Murdoch down.

Now he had no witnesses, except Sheila Corey. He had no book, no clues as to whom to see and what to do.

He heard the sound of a mobile amplifier, and strained his ears toward it. He got enough to know that Wayne had won a thumping victory, better than three to two.

Isaiah Trench was still captain of the Seventh Precinct.

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