"Not with your self-exploding guns," I said. "Here's what I want." It was the false identoplate section. I began to rake through its bins.
"Wait a minute. Those things key into the immediate arrest list." I smiled at him. I picked out one for Army Intelligence. It looked real good. Officer Timp Snahp. I put it in my pocket. "Now," I said, "you are going to make me two counterfeits."
"I can't do that!" he wailed. "(Bleep) it, Gris! You make so many crazy mistakes you are liable to pull an investigation in on me!"
"Oh, Raza," I said, mockingly sad. "A person in your position, talking about someone making mistakes. Tch. Tch." He went over to the machine himself and told the operator to leave. I gave him the names of Professor Gyrant Slahb and Prahd Bittlestiffender and all particulars. This identoplate maker at the Provocation Section is the exact same model of machine that they use in the Finance Department to make real ones. But it is ordinarily used just to make false ones.
I will say Raza Torr was doing a first-rate job. He finished up and then aged the plates in an aging buffer and spray. He said, "You're dangerous, Gris. You can get executed for using a real counterfeit, even in the Provocation Section. There are limits."
"Good," I said, "let's hit one." I handed him the phony Army Intelligence identoplate. "Now make one with this same name but change the series number so it won't trigger an arrest alarm. And promote 'Officer Timp Snahp' to Grade Thirteen and base him on Flisten. Right?"
"It won't respond in the computers," he protested.
"No, but it will rattle around for twenty-four hours because it won't match up to anything. And who knows what Army Intelligence in Flisten is up to? Do it. Officer Timp Snahp might want to take somebody's mistress out to dinner." His hands clenched so hard that he was in danger of breaking their bones. But he did need reminding now and then that blackmail isn't something that is lightly held.
He was actually gritting his teeth as he did it. He made a mistake and had to get another blank.
When he was done, I did a final wander around, picked up an item or two I thought I might like. And then that was all.
I patted him consolingly on the shoulder. He needed soothing. "The originals are in a perfectly safe place. There's not a soul that will find them unless something happens to me. You haven't a thing to worry about. So don't look so worried. Nothing is going to happen to me: those originals will never get mailed to the Commander of the Death Battalion." His hand had been gripping his beltgun. And as I spoke, it sprang clear of it convulsively. Color had drained from his face.
I patted him again. I took my loot and turned my back on him and left.
To Hells with Raza Torr. My game was Jettero Heller. He was right in my sights.
This was coming off as smooth as high-priced tup and every bit as heady.
Heller was going on his mission and he was going to go on it at my total mercy and he was never going to come back!
Chapter 9
Physically bugging someone so that even he does not know it is not a simple project, particularly when that someone is knowledgeable about wavelengths. But Heller was stupid on the subject of espionage. Complicating the project was the fact that I was determined that not only Heller would remain ignorant of it: no one anywhere would know of it except myself. I wanted no intruders on my private line!
However, my considerable skill as an Apparatus officer could surmount the huge obstacles. In my present mood I was confident I could get it done.
What I needed now was a secret operating room. Hovering at ten thousand feet above the traffic lanes of Government City, I considered it. Then I remembered the Widow Tayl.
Early in my days with the Apparatus, I had been serving on the night watch desk, a routine posting for new officers. A call had come in from the Domestic Police Execution Center to the effect that they had a criminal who was begging to be put in contact with the Apparatus. They sometimes do this, hoping that, instead of being executed, they will be transferred to an Apparatus regiment under a false identity. Purely routine.
I had gone over, somewhat bored, to find a scrawny, quivering wretch in the Awaiting Execution cell block, grovelling around, pleading not to be exterminated. He had been picked up while attempting to burglarize the residence of the Pausch Hills Chief of Police! It was such a stupid act that I didn't think even the Apparatus would want him, but I interviewed him anyway. I told him he was too stupid and he tried to prove to me that he wasn't: that he had done some smart things in his day. So I demanded that he convince me.
It seems that two or three years before he had been robbing an estate on the outskirts of Pausch Hills and, elbow-deep in the silverware, he found himself challenged by a small female holding a big gun. But to his amazement, she didn't call the bluebottles. She seemed glad to see him. She even had him sit down and have some bubblebrew to quiet his nerves.
Apparently she had wanted to be a widow for a long time. Her husband was a retired and invalid industrialist and she was a young female who was the last of a long string of demised wives.
Rather than reside in a hospital where he belonged, her aged but filthy rich husband had caused to be built a small structure on the back edge of the property – actually, a complete hospital in miniature. And there he invalided along in company with a doctor and a communications system that ran all the staff of the main house. No one could move anywhere on the property without him knowing about it or supervising it from his sickbed.
The aged husband had another twenty years to go and his present wife wasn't getting any younger. So she looked on this fresh-caught burglar as something sent from the heavens.
She wanted her husband murdered.
So they arranged that she would go on a visit to her mother's, this scrawny burglar nut would enter the miniature hospital, make it look like a burglary, murder the husband convincingly and she would pay him five hundred credits.
It had all gone off as planned. But this stupid nut hadn't counted on one thing: the Widow Tayl was a nymphomaniac. She had then tried to blackmail himin return for regular company in bed. He couldn't stand her! He had run off to Flisten and had only now come back.
The stupid fool had gotten no blackmail evidence on her. He didn't have any evidence now. So it was pretty useless.
I was clever, however. I had him write it all down in confession form. Then I went and got it stamped as a deathbed confession and told the guards to run him through the garbage shredder on schedule at dawn. He was too stupid even for the Apparatus.
It wasn't enough to extort money with, but the paper was worth something. I didn't even turn it in as, with his death, all his records were destroyed anyway. One idle day I had gone to see the Widow Tayl.
It was a nice, five-acre suburban estate with a large house up front and way back in some trees was this fully equipped miniature hospital. She was preserving it, a sign on the gate said, in memorium to her dear departed spouse.
I should have been warned when a young man burst out the side door and sped away on his speedwheel when I, in uniform, knocked at the front.
The Widow Tayl heard me out, was glad to be reassured that I really was her friend, told me the place was always at my disposal and tried to get me into the bedroom. No fear there. Just lust. I stayed away from the place.
But now I had a use for it and shortly my driver landed in the back yard target. And there in the trees sat the miniature hospital. And there was the Widow Tayl, scantily dressed, by her swimming bath, deelighted! to see me.
She started to spring up.
The corner of her robe was caught under the chair leg.
The robe fluttered to the pool edge.
I turned brick red.