Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

“Well, a little. I’m not very good at this rock’n’swing stuff.”

She stood up. “Neither am I. Let’s try this, it’s an old favorite of mine.”

He took her in his arms and they joined half a dozen other couples on the small dance floor.

They had taken only a few steps before she said, tightly, “That’s what I thought. You’re carrying a shooter, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She stopped dancing, turned and returned to her chair. She began to pick up her half-finished drink, but then sat it down again, decisively.

He lowered himself to his own seat, across from her, and looked into her eyes.

She said bitterly, “It’s that ineffective air of yours. Who are you from?”

He shook his head.

She asked, “How did you know my name?”

“Like I said, I met you yesterday.”

“Yes. You also said your name was Jimmy Smythe, and then managed to forget that, not correcting me, when I called you ‘Jerry’.”

She had him there. Ronny had to laugh aloud.

She said, bitterly, “You look smarter when you laugh. How did you know my name?”

Ronny shook his head, as though sorry she wouldn’t believe him.

She said, “If you met me yesterday, then you probably have something to do with the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.”

“Why should that follow?” he asked mildly.

“Because yesterday”—she hesitated, then plunged on— “through a tip given us by… one of our informants, I went to the Octagon, on an assignment from Dave Rosen. I was memorywashed there, and, now, can’t even remember the assignment.”

Ronny played it out. “Why not ask this—what was his name? Rosen?—what he sent you for?”

“He was memorywashed, too, as you undoubtedly are aware.”

He shrugged. “I thought that was very illegal. Who did it?”

“How could we know? I told you, we were memory-washed.”

Ronny scowled puzzlement at her. “Well, why not just check back with your informant and find out what tip you were working on?”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she said, still bitterly. “Unfortunately, he’s gone all the way to Phrygia.” She got up, preparatory to stomping off. “And don’t ask me why we don’t simply ultra-wave him. All-Planet Press, the Bureau of Investigation and who knows who else, would be listening in. Good-bye, Jerry!”

“Jimmy,” Ronny said mildly. “Sure you wouldn’t like another drink. I was really beginning to enjoy our talk, about being inside and all.”

Rita Daniels wasn’t as much of a lightweight as his first encounter on the spaceliner with her might have indicated. She avoided him for two days, then showed up at his table in the passenger’s mess, while he was finishing off some fruit dessert.

He began to come to his feet, but she slid into a chair before he could invite her.

“Your name is Ronald Bronston,” she informed him. “And you’re an operative for Ross Metaxa in that Section G mystery outfit. In fact,” she added snappishly, “you’re one of his top hatchet-men. I must say, it’s hard to believe.”

He said calmly, “You Interplanetary News people have your resources, haven’t you?”

“What do you want with me?” she asked flatly.

“Nothing,” he told her. He didn’t like this. If he hadn’t been a flat, he would have let the girl alone. Evidently, she had an in with Baron Wyler, or, at least, Interplanetary News did, and she through that organization. Now the Baron would be informed that Agent Bronston was on his way, and the Baron didn’t cotton to Section G.

“Then what are you doing following me?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was, Citizeness Daniels. We’re simply on the same vessel.” He twisted his mouth ruefully. “Why don’t we start all over again?”

“And you continue to pump me? No thanks. Do you deny that you’re going to Phrygia?”

He thought about it. “No. I don’t deny that. But, you know, I could reverse the question. Why are you following me?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Well, we’re on the same spacecraft and you don’t deny you’re going to Phrygia.”

She stood again, abruptly. “I don’t know why I was memorywashed, but, obviously, something big is in the wind and my job is to find out what.”

He murmured mildly. “So that Interplanetary News will be inside, eh?”

She glared at him. “And, don’t be too sure that Section G won’t be outside.”

He wasn’t too sure at all.

A few hours before estimated coming out time, he approached the captain’s private quarters and looked into the door’s screen. He said, “Ronald Bronston, requesting an interview with Captain Henhoff.”

The screen said, “The Captain is busy. Could you state your business?”

He brought forth his badge and held it to the screen. “Important matters involving the Bureau of Investigation.”

In a few moments, the door opened. Ronny stepped through.

Captain Henoff’s quarters were moderately ample, considering that this was, after all, a spacecraft. He was seated at a desk, going through reports, a junior officer across from him, taking orders.

The captain, frowning, said, “Citizen Bronston? What can I do for you? Frankly, I am afraid I’ve never heard of Section G of the Bureau of Investigation.”

Ronny looked at the junior officer. “May I speak to you privately?”

The frown had become a testy scowl. However, the skipper said, “Howard, go on out into the corridor. I’ll call you.”

Howard got up, looked at Ronny, shrugged and left.

The captain said, “Well?”

Ronny laid it on the line. “We’ll be coming out of under-space and setting down at Phrygia in a matter of hours. I’m on a special mission. I have reason to believe an attempt will be made at the spaceport to apprehend me. I want to be smuggled off the ship in some manner.”

Captain Henhoff leaned back in his swivel chair. “That’s asking a lot.”

Ronny said, “I suggest you get in touch with your superiors and ask whether or not you should cooperate with Section G.”

Henhoff looked at him for long moments. He said finally, “I suppose that won’t be necessary.” He thought about it. “They use pilots at Phrygia. Usually, three men pick us up in orbit and supervise setting us down. When we’ve finally set down, a spaceport auto-floater picks them up and runs them back to the spacepilot quarters, while the ship is still going through quarantine procedures. You can leave with them. I’ll see that one of the men fixes you up in a uniform like the pilots wear to get you by. Think that would do it?”

“It should,” Ronny nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”

“You’re not doing anything against the Phrygian government, are you? I don’t want to get into trouble with that gang.”

“Of course not. I’ve shown you my credentials. You don’t think the Department of Interplanetary Justice goes about meddling in the affairs of member planets of UP, do you?” Ronny was very righteous.

“No. Of course not.”

He left the liner in the spacepilot’s auto-floater, as provided; the others couldn’t have cared less. They probably figured he was some Tri-Di entertainment star, beating the fans out of an opportunity to give him the rush, when the regular passengers disembarked.

His precautions had been well merited.

At the foot of the spaceliner’s disembarking ladder, he noted, stood three brawny, though inconspicuously dressed men. He didn’t have to look at their feet to know their calling.

The Supreme Commandant’s welcoming committee for visiting Section G operatives. Citizeness Daniels was doing her best to make certain that whilst Interplanetary News got inside, the Bureau of Investigation didn’t.