Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

The three Earthmen didn’t answer. Their eyes shifted.

Joe Chessman looked to young Taller and then to Reif. “What else?” he demanded.

“We need a scapegoat,” Reif said without expression.

Joe Chessman thought about that. He looked at Barry Watson again.

Isobel said petulantly, “What’ya mean, a scapegoat?”

“Shut up,” Chessman growled.

Watson said, “The whole Texcocan State is about to topple. Not only do we have to give them immediate reform, but we’re going to have to blame the past hardships and mistakes on somebody. Somebody has to take the rap, be thrown to the wolves. If not, maybe we’ll all wind up taking the blame.”

“Ah,” Chessman said. His red-rimmed eyes went around them again, thoughtfully. “We should be able to dig up a few local chieftains and some of the Security Police heads. Or, would it be better to drag some of the old rebels out of the concentration camps and give them a big public trial? Accuse them of sabotaging the State’s plans.”

They shook their heads.

“What’s all this about?” Isobel said petulantly. “What’re you all talking about so grimly. Let’s all have a nice big drink. It’s too glum around this damn palace.”

“It has to be somebody big,” Natt Roberts said thickly. “A few of my Security Police won’t do it.”

Joe Chessman’s eyes went to Reif. “The Khan is the highest ranking Texcocan of all,” he said, finally. “The Khan and some Security Police heads would satisfy them.”

Reif’s face was as frigid as the Earthman’s. He said, “I am afraid not, Joseph Chessman. You are Number One. It is your statue that is in every commune square. It is your portrait that hangs in every distribution center, every messhall, every schoolroom. You are the Number One—as you have so often pointed out to us. My title, Khan of all the People, has become meaningless.”

Isobel shrilled. “Joe! Call your guards!” Joe Chessman spat out a curse, fumbled the gun into his hand and fired before the Tulan soldiers could get to him. In a moment they had wrested the weapon from his hand and had his arms bound. It was too late.

Reif had been thrown backward two paces by the blast of the heavy calibered gun. Now he held a palm over his belly and staggered to a chair. He collapsed into it, looked at his son, let a wash of amusement pass over his face, said, “Khan,” meaninglessly, and died.

Isobel, squealing dismay, scurried from her chair and to his side. She knelt, her hands went out, suddenly professional.

She looked up, a strangeness in her eyes. “He’s dead,” she said.

Natt Roberts shrilled at Chessman: “You fool! We were going to give you a big, theatrical trial. Sentence you to prison, and then, later, claim you’d died in your cell and smuggle you out to the Pedagogue ,”

Watson snapped to the guards. “Take him outside and shoot him!”

Isobel, her eyes wide, put the back of her hand to her mouth. “Barry!” she squealed.

The Tulans began dragging the snarling, cursing Chessman to the door.

Taller said, “A moment, please.”

Watson, Roberts, Hawkins and Isobel Sanchez looked at him.

Taller said, “This, perhaps, can be done more effectively.”

His voice was completely emotionless. “This man has killed both my father and grandfather, both of them Khans of Tula, elected heads of the most powerful city on all Texcoco, before the coming of you from First Earth.”

The guards hesitated. Barry Watson detained them with a motion of his hand.

Taller said, “I suggest you turn him over to me, to be dealt with in the traditional way of the People.”

“No,” Chessman said hoarsely. “Barry, Dick, Natt. Send me back to the Pedagogue . I’ll be out of things there. Or maybe Mayer can use me on Genoa.”

They didn’t bother to look in his direction. Roberts muttered savagely, “We told you, all that was needed was a spark. Now you’ve killed the Khan, the most popular man on Texcoco. There’s no way of saving you.”

Isobel’s eyes were darting. They were narrowed and speculative.

Taller said, “None of you have studied our traditions, our customs. But now, perhaps, you will understand the added effect of my taking charge. It will be more…profitable. This manner of using the downfall of this…this power-mad murderer.”

Chessman said desperately, “Look, Barry, Natt. If you have to, shoot me. At least give me a man’s death. Remember those human sacrifices the Tulans had when we first arrived? Can you imagine what went on in those temples? Barry, Dick—for old time’s sake, boys!”

Barry Watson said to Taller, “He’s yours. If this doesn’t take the pressure off us, nothing will.”

Mike Dean was on the run.

Swearing, he flung open the door of his office and barged through. He came to an abrupt halt. His secretary, Lange, was bent over the heavy ornate iron safe that sat in one comer. The other heard him, swung around quickly, a hand streaking for a pocket.

Dean’s gun was out first, but he didn’t fire.

He said breathlessly, “The rats are deserting, eh? Don’t bring that shooter out, Lange.”

The secretary stood erect. “What do you want?”

Mike Dean grunted cynical amusement. “Evidently the same thing you do. Get over against that wall.”

The Earthman came up behind the other and nudged him with the short-barreled gun. “Lean up against the wall with both hands, your legs spread, you funker.”

The secretary snarled. “You can’t do this!”

Dean snorted wry amusement again. “Famous last words,” he muttered. He quickly frisked the other, relieving the man of his weapon. Dean slipped it into one of his own pockets.

He went over to the safe and brought forth several heavy leather purses. “For emergencies only,” he said to nobody in particular. He put three of them into his clothing, scowled down at two more. He shook his head. “They’d just weigh me down,” he muttered. “And I’d probably not have any use for it anyway.”

He went over to the window and stared down into the streets, his lips thinning back over his teeth. “Zen!” he growled. “Here come the boys.”

He turned back to Lange and looked at him thoughtfully. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? Why ask, you funker? You must have been the one that turned my papers over to the barons and the Temple. Get out of those clothes.”

The other was startled. “Why?”

“I said get out of those clothes. You’re the most inconspicuously dressed cloddy in town. Get out of those clothes, before I use this shooter on you.”

Mike Dean withdrew to the far end of the office and began rapidly to strip his own body of its rich attire. Lange, slowly, reluctantly, began to do the same.

Dean snarled: “Hurry it up or I’ll strip them off your dead body.”

Lange sped up the operation.

“All right, now get up against the wall over here. Same position as before. And don’t get any silly ideas. I can get this shooter into operation quicker than you have any idea.”

Mike Dean hurriedly dressed himself in the secretary’s conservative garb, remembering at the last moment to transfer his emergency purses to the new pockets. Already, in the outer offices he could hear sounds. He had a few moments. There were several locked doors, heavy, massive doors, between himself and the newcomers. He darted his eyes around the room. At the safe, at his desk. But he shook his head, so that his jowls trembled. He had insufficient time.

He looked at Lange, thoughtfully and brought up his gun.

“No. No, don’t do it,” the other shrilled in terror. “I won’t betray you. I won’t talk.”

Mike Dean snarled at him. The noises from without the heavy office door were growing in magnitude. “I haven’t got the heart,” he growled in self-disgust.