Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

The auto-floater left him off at the spacepilot’s quarters, and Ronny Bronston started off up the street immediately. He wanted to get out of the vicinity of the spaceport as soon as possible. He imagined that it would take a half hour or so before the Phrygians realized that he had gotten through their fingers. He didn’t know what their instructions were: Whether they had meant simply not to allow him to disembark, or whether he was to be picked up and questioned by Phrygian authorities. Probably the latter. Undoubtedly, they had their own version of Scop. Nobody, but nobody, stood up under questioning these days.

He had none of the local means of exchange, whatever it was. His instructions had been to go immediately to the United Planets building and get in touch with Section G operative Phil Birdman, who would check him out on the local situation.

The auto-floater he had been in with the spacepilots had been similar to those on Earth, and were fairly general on the more advanced planets. He assumed there were taxis, of some sort or another, and kept his eyes open for something resembling a stand, having no idea of how the locals summoned such a vehicle.

He was struck by a certain sameness about this city. It was, he knew, named Phrygia and was the capital city of the planet of the same name.

The sameness, he decided—even as he strode briskly up a shopping street—came from the fact that so many of the buildings, vehicles, signs, traffic indicators and what not, were those of Earth, Avalon, Shangri-La, Catalina and Jefferson—the most advanced worlds. Evidently, Phrygia was quick to pick up any discoveries and developments pioneered elsewhere. Well, that was commendable.

There was one thing, though. The average person in the street seemed to have a drab quality. Not one person in a hundred seemed up to the styles and general appearances of well-being, that one would find on Earth or Shangri-La. Yes, a gray drabness that you couldn’t quite put your finger upon. They seemed well-fed and healthy enough, however.

He came to what would seem to be a cab stand, and stood, for a moment, looking at the first vehicle in line. He wanted to avoid asking questions and thus branding himself a stranger.

Well, he could only try. If the cab weren’t fitted to take instructions in Earth Basic, he would be out of luck.

He opened the door and slipped into a rear seat. He made himself comfortable, and said into the screen, “The United Planets Building.”

No trouble. The vehicle started up and edged itself into the street traffic.

The UP Building, he found, he could have easily walked to. It was less than a mile from the spaceport.

There were two Space Marines on guard at the door. Ronny Bronston called out to one of them.

The marine marched over and scowled down into the car.

Ronny flashed his badge. “I just came from the spaceport and have no local exchange. Can you pay the cab off for me?”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Certainly. They use credit cards here, sir.” The marine brought one from his pocket and held it to the cab’s screen. The door automatically opened.

Ronny stepped out and said, “Now, quickly, take me to Citizen Phil Birdman.”

The marine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He turned and marched off, Ronny following.

The suite of offices was lettered simply, Interplanetary Trade .

Ronny said, “Thanks. I’ll have that cab fare returned to you.”

“Not necessary, sir,” the space-soldier said stiffly. “We’re on unlimited expense account.” He did an about-face and was off.

Ronny looked after him for a moment. How does it feel to be a professional soldier, when there hasn’t been a war for centuries? He grunted sourly. Perhaps the soldier would be practicing his trade before long.

He opened the door and entered into a reception room. He walked over to the screen and said, “Ronald Bronston, Section G. To see Phil Birdman.”

A door beyond opened immediately and a very dark-complected man, in his mid-forties, well over six feet tall and with a startlingly handsome face, came hurrying out, hand extended.

“Come in!” he said. “Holy Jumping Zen, it’s been two years since I’ve seen a fellow agent from Section G.”

Ronny ignored the hand. He brought his wallet out and showed his badge. He touched it with a finger and the badge glowed silver.

Birdman laughed, said, “Okay, okay, if you want to play it formal.” He fished his own wallet out and displayed his badge. He touched it with a finger, and like Bronston’s it shone brightly.

Ronny stuck out his hand for the shake, grinning self-deprecation.

Birdman cocked his head on one side. “Something must be up.”

“Yes,” Ronny said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The tall dark man looked at him. “Get out to where? Come on in the office and we’ll have some firewater.”

Ronny shook his head impatiently. “I’m already on the run. They’ll probably be here any minute. Surely you’ve got an ultimate hideout—just in case.”

“Wait’ll I get my shooter,” the other clipped. He hurried back into the inner office, returned in moments, shrugging a shoulder holster into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket.

“This way.”

He led Ronny through a series of door and halls, finally emerging at the back of the building. There was a row of hovercars. Birdman slid into one, a speedy-looking model. Ronny slipped into the seat beside him.

“We’re not going very far in this, are we?” Ronny growled. “If it’s yours, it’s spotted.”

“Of course,” Birdman grunted. “Who are you working with?” His hand maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking area and into the traffic stream.

“Directly under the Old Man,” Ronny said.

“Oh? And Sid Jakes? How’s Sid?”

“Chuckling his fool head off,” Ronny said.

They spoke no more for the next fifteen minutes, during which time Phil Birdman put on a show of how to lose a possible tail and leave no possible trail behind, in a big city. They dropped his car after a few miles, sending it back to the UP Building. They took a cab for a time. Then they got out and walked. They took a rolling-road for a time. They took a pneumatic. Then they walked some more.

Finally, in a residential area, they entered a house. It seemed deserted. They entered a closet. The closet was an elevator.

When they left the elevator, they were in a Spartan apartment, well-equipped from the Section G gimmick department, and from Communications and Weaponry.

Ronny looked about and whistled approvingly through his teeth. “Nice setup, considering you’re only one man here.”

Birdman nodded. “I’m going to have to brace Sid Jakes on that. We need a bigger staff. Phrygia is more important than they seem to think back there in the Octagon.” He headed for a manual bar. “Now how about that firewater?”

“Firewater?” Ronny said.

Phil Birdman grinned at him. “Ugh, guzzle, you palefaces call it. I’m from Piegan.”

Ronny frowned in memory. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Colonized by Amerinds. Mostly Blackfeet and Sioux. Diehards, who still wanted to get away from the whiteman and go back to the old tribal society. Setup, kind of a primitive communism, based on clan society.”

“That’s the way it started,” Birdman nodded. “How about pseudo-whiskey?” At Ronny’s nod, he added, “And water?” He finished the drinks and returned with them.

Ronny was already seated. He took the drink and said, “How did it work out?”

“Piegan? Terribly. You can’t go back, no matter how strong the dream.”

“So what happened?”

Birdman grinned at him, wryly. “Section G happened. A few of the boys turned up and subverted our institutions. Best thing that ever happened. We’ve still got an Indian society, but we’re rapidly industrializing. Couple of more decades and well be at least as advanced as Phrygia, here.”