An angry buzz had already started through the room.
But Fielder held up a hand.
He said, his mouth twisted in half mockery, “You will notice, Coaids, that the Commissariat of Information is represented by Assistant Deputy Bauserman, as well as by the estimable Ross Westley, who by his own confession is a misfit in his position. Coaid Bauserman was invited to this meeting in anticipation of just such an occurrence as this. Indeed, it was he who first brought to my attention, as Deputy of Surety, the fact that Coaid Westley is not quite as veracious as he might project when he tells us so nobly that he cannot act the traitor.”
“What are you driving at?” Ross growled.
“It was through Coaid Bauserman that my men first became aware of the fact that Coaid Westley had fallen under the feminine charms of a Betastani national now known to be a leader of saboteurs, ECE agents and guerrillas taking active action against our forces here in Alphacity and elsewhere. Further, our own ECE agents in New Betatown inform us that the Betastani General Staff is in possession of information that could only have originated in meetings of the Central Comita.”
Fielder’s eyes flashed out over the conference table. “This man is a traitor to Alphaland, Coaids!”
He turned dramatically and pointed to the door. “You will leave at once.” His voice went into a sneer. ” Coaid Westley.”
Ross took a deep breath, opened his mouth as though to retort, closed it again and shrugged. Without further word, he turned and marched toward the door.
Angry voices echoed after him. He ignored them.
He opened the heavy door and stepped out into the Corridor beyond. Two Surety agents fell in step beside him.
“This way,” one of them grunted.
They departed the Ministry of War by another route than the one by which he had entered.
He wondered emptily about the scene just through, still amazed at his own temerity. Had he supported Fielder and his gang, would the other have kept the secret of Tilly Trice and his connection with her? He didn’t know. Perhaps he could have found a position in the new government for himself, had he kowtowed to the other. It made no difference now. Nor did much else.
He had to smile inwardly in self-deprecation. It was only a matter or time, anyway, before Job Bauserman got his job. The Holy Ultimate knew, the man was more capable of holding it.
His two guards ushered him downstairs to a dark garage and to a Surety police semi-armored car. He was hustled into the back seat, a bully-boy on each side, and noted in mild surprise that the vehicle was chauffeur driven rather than being auto. It must have been designed to be used in rough country where coordinates couldn’t be dialed.
They took off, zooming up a ramp to the boulevard outside.
“Where are we going?” Ross said, not expecting an answer.
He didn’t get it.
The eternal goons, he thought.
They turned a corner, and immediately the driver smashed on the brakes. Careening toward them was a fast moving civilian car, another immediately behind it, as though the two were racing.
Racing? Here in the downtown area of Alphacity? Both cars seemed overflowing with kids.
The Surety driver swerved frantically, and uselessly. The lead racing car sideswiped them one way. He spun the wheel in desperation. The following car swiped them on the opposite side. There was screaming and rasping of tortured metal.
And over they went, rolling, crashing ultimately against a store front.
And all went black for Ross Westley.
Far, far away, and as though in a dream, he seemed to see Tilly, done up as she had been dressed that day when she’d told him she belonged to an archery club—in boy’s clothing, a Robin Hood-like cap on her head. She was bending, now, over one of the Surety men who had been thrown out onto the pavement. She was looking over the papers she had evidently pulled from his pockets, seemingly in no great hurry. She held a small shooter in one hand, as though she were very used to having a shooter in hand. And then the black rolled in again.
Chapter X
He came out of it to feel his head cushioned warmly and to feel the sensation of rapid movement still. Confusedly, he thought it must be impossible. The vehicle in which he rode had turned over.
A faraway voice said, “He isn’t hurt badly.”
Another voice—was there a feminine quality?—said ominously, “He’d better not be. You cloddies are on the precipitous side when it comes to rescues.”
Still a third voice said, in defense, “That Surety car was armored, Till. How’d you expect us to take it, especially with such short warning?”
Ross opened his eyes. “What in Zen’s happened?” he asked.
Tilly Trice grinned down at him. “The cavalry arrived in the nick of time,” she said. She patted his head. “Now you relax. Well have a medico look at you shortly.”
His head was in her lap. He closed his eyes again. Who was he to argue?
He tried to make sense of his position.
Evidently, the underground guerrillas were even more highly organized than the Alphaland authorities had suspected. Somehow, they had known of that meeting. Somehow they had suspected his arrest would follow. Somehow they had rescued him, for whatever purpose. It was quite a collection of somehows.
He must have dozed off again. When next he brought his mind to bear on his surroundings, he was being hustled, albeit gently, from the car in which he had been riding into what looked like an ordinary commercial garage, though of considerable size.
Their vehicle had pulled to the far end where customers could hardly have seen it. He was helped out, supported at each arm, and half led, half carried, into a room beyond. It appeared to be an office of some sort. Someone pushed a large file which swung on hinges, revealing still another room beyond.
It brought back to memory the cement bunker under Tilly’s bookstore. And he vaguely wondered just how long the Betastani had been preparing for this offbeat war.
They put him into a lower bunk and he shortly felt the administrations of someone who was obviously a medico.
A voice said from great distances, “A mild concussion. There is nothing seriously wrong.”
Ross Westley felt protest. Nothing wrong, indeed. Everything was wrong.
Number One, Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland, glared at his three top associates.
“For thirty years,” he said heavily, “it has been a basic of this government that I not be disturbed upon retiring to my private apartments. Even the Presidor needs rest eventually.”
Mark Fielder shook his head, as though in regret. “Your Leadership, the most fast rule must on occasion have its exception.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon, already dark of face, simply returned his superior’s glare.
Jon Matheison was not a man of action. His eyes darted uncomfortably about the room, taking in the bar, the fireplace, and the rounded Pater Riggin seated quietly beside it.
Fielder said to Number One’s old companion, “Pater, I suggest you leave. This conference is of first priority.”
Pater Riggin’s eyes went to his lifelong companion.
“Jim?”