Someone called his name, and then a hand grasped his sleeve. It was Speros Moulios, the grey little tobacco dealer, whose two sons drank too much. "Mr. Cudyk, please, what do you think? Should we go, like he says?"
The others of the group followed him; in a moment Cudyk was surrounded. He felt helpless. "I can't advise you, Mr. Moulios," he said. "To be truthful, I don't know what I am going to do myself."
Nobilio Villaneuva, the druggist, said, "I have worked fifteen years, saved all my money. What am I going to do with it if I go to this New Earth? And what about my daughter?"
Someone came elbowing his way through the crowd. He signaled to Cudyk. "Laszlo!" It was bald, cheerful Mike Moskowitz, one of the Quarter's two doctors. He said, "Some of the fellows want to form a delegation, to go back and ask Rack some questions. They asked me to serve, but I've got to get back to the hospital. Same thing with Seu, he's got six things on his hands already. Father Exarkos isn't here. Will you take over? Good. I'll see you later."
Cudyk sighed. The men around him were watching him expectantly. He stepped over to the bar, picked up an empty glass and rapped with it on the counter until the room quieted.
"It's been suggested," he said, "that a delegation be formed to ask Captain Rack for more information. Do you all want that?"
There was an affirmative murmur.
"All right," said Cudyk. "Nominations?"
They ended up with a committee of five: Cudyk as spokesman, Moulios, Chong Yin, the painter Prokop Vekshin, and the town clerk, Martin Paz. Cudyk had slips of paper passed out, and collected a hundred-odd questions, most of them duplicates and some of them incoherent. Paz made a neat list of those that remained, and the delegation moved toward the stairs.
At the foot of the stairway Cudyk saw Burgess standing, blinking uncertainly around him. He dropped back and put his hand on the man's arm. "Hello, Louis. I'm glad to see you. How is Kathy?"
Burgess straightened a trifle. "Oh—Laszlo. She's all right, thank you. Feeling a little low, just now, of course...." His voice trailed off.
"Of course," said Cudyk sympathetically. "I wish there were something I could do."
"No—no, there's nothing. Time will cure her, I suppose. Where are you going now?"
Cudyk explained. "Were you at the meeting, earlier?" he asked.
"No. I was not invited. I only heard—ten minutes ago. Perhaps it would be all right if I came upstairs with you? In that way—But if I would be a nuisance—" His features worked.
Cudyk felt obscurely uneasy. He recalled suddenly that it was a long time since he had seen Burgess looking perfectly normal. He said reluctantly, "I think it will be all right. Why not? Come along."
Rack was sitting at the end of the long table on the far side of the room, talking to Ferguson. Ferguson's hatchet-man, Vic Smalley, was leaning watchfully against the far wall. Monk and Spider sat at Rack's left. De Grasse, pale and red-eyed, sat halfway down the table, away from the others. He stared at the table in front of him, paying no attention to the rest.
Cudyk had heard that De Grasse was still with Rack, and had wondered what he had done to expiate his sin. The obvious answer was one that he had not wanted to believe: that De Grasse had been given the task of murdering Harkway.
He had done it, probably, with a tormented soul and under Rack's eye, but he had done it. So much, Cudyk thought wearily, for the selfless nobility of man.
Rack looked up expressionlessly as the five men approached. "Yes?"
Cudyk said, "We have been chosen to ask you some questions about your previous statement."
"Ask away," said Rack, leaning back in his chair. Before him was a glass of the dark, smoky liquor Ferguson imported for his special use. He was smoking a tremendously long, black Russian cigarette.
Cudyk took the list from Paz and read the first question. "What is the status of New Earth as to housing, utilities and so on?"
"Housing and utilities are adequate for the present population," said Rack indifferently. "More units will be built as needed."
Paz scribbled in his notebook. Cudyk read, "Will every new colonist be expected to serve as a member of New Earth's fighting forces?"
Rack said, "Every man will work where he's needed. Common sense ought to tell you that middle-aged men with pot bellies and no military training won't be asked to man battleships."
"What is the size of New Earth's navy?"
"Next question."
"Will new colonists be allowed to retain their personal fortunes?"
Rack stared at him coldly. "The man who asked that," he said, "had better stay in the Quarter. If by his personal fortune he means Galactic currency, he can use it to stuff rat-holes. Any personal property of value to the community, and in excess of the owner's minimum needs, will be commandeered and dispensed for the good of the community."
"Will new colonists be under military dis—"
"Look out!" said De Grasse suddenly. He lurched to his feet, upsetting his chair.
Someone stumbled against Paz, who fell heavily across Cudyk's legs, bringing him down. Someone else shouted. From the floor, Cudyk saw Burgess standing quietly with a tiny nickeled revolver in his hand.
"Please don't move, Mr. Ferguson," said Burgess. "I don't trust you. All of you, stand still, please."
Cudyk carefully got his legs under him and slowly stood up. The men on the other side of the table were still sitting or standing where they had been a moment before. De Grasse stood in an attitude of frozen protest, one big hand flat against his trousers pocket. He looked comically like a man who has left the house without his keys.
They must have taken his gun away, Cudyk thought, after that affair yesterday.
Monk and the aged Spider were sitting tensely, trying to watch Rack and Burgess at the same time. Rack, as always, was inhumanly calm. Ferguson looked frightened. The gunman, Vic Smalley, had straightened away from the wall; he looked alert and unworried.
"Captain Rack," said Burgess, "you killed that man Harkway."
Rack said nothing.
"I did it," De Grasse said hoarsely. "If you have to shoot somebody, shoot me."
Burgess turned slightly. Rack, without seeming to hurry, picked up the glass in front of him and half rose to fling the black liquor at Burgess' face.
The gun went off. Burgess stumbled back a step and then toppled over, with a knife-handle sprouting magically between neck and shoulder. De Grasse came hurtling across the table top, dived onto Burgess' prostrate body and came up with the gun. Not more than two seconds had gone by since Rack lifted the glass.
The delegates were moving away, leaving a clear space around De Grasse and Burgess. Cudyk heard some of them clattering down the stairs.
Rack was leaning over the table, supporting himself with one hand, while the other rested at his waist. His attitude, together with his frozen expression, suggested that he was merely bending over to examine Burgess' body. But in the next moment he turned slightly, lifted the hand that was pressed to his side, and looked at the dark stain that was spreading over his shirt.
De Grasse stood up. Cudyk went to Burgess and knelt beside him. The man was conscious and moving feebly. "Lie still," said Cudyk. Someone pushed his shoulder roughly, and he looked up to see De Grasse transferring the revolver from his left hand to his right. The youngster's lips were compressed. "Get out of the way," he said harshly.
"No," said Rack. "Leave him alone." He sat down carefully. After a moment De Grasse went around the table and joined him.
Cudyk lifted Burgess' jacket carefully. There was not much bleeding, and he did not think the wound was dangerous. Burgess said weakly, "Did I kill him, Laszlo?"
"No," said Cudyk. "No one was killed."