Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

“You mean…” The older man ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. He said, his tone a blend of protest and apology, “I’m forty-five, Ronny. There aren’t many of the good years left.”

“Metaxa would undoubtedly retire you immediately, on full pay, of course.”

The other said slowly, “I don’t want to retire. I like this work. Some day I look forward to making supervisor.”

Ronny said, “All right. I’m only thirty-two.”

Birdman looked up at him, his handsome Indian face working. “It’s fifteen years off your life, Ronny.”

Ronny Bronston nodded, a weary aspect in the gesture. “When I joined up with Section G, I figured I was expendable. This isn’t as bad as copping a slug from some secret police goon on some backward planet, where we’re trying to upgrade their government, or some such.”

He thought of something and said, “By the way, Phil. How’d you get into Section G? What led you to apply?”

“Oh, I didn’t. Sid Jakes looked me up one day while I was still living back on Piegan. I was in the local police. We jawed around a little and before I knew it, I was in.”

“Kind of got jockeyed in, eh?” Ronny said bitterly.

Phil looked at him. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

Ronny got up and went over to the order box on the desk. He said into it, “I want the biggest whale of a meal you can concoct. Very concentrated, rich food, high calorie content.”

Later, they retraced the route the marines had driven him earlier in the day. Phil Birdman was driving now, his own speedy hovercar.

Ronny was pensive. He said, after a long silence, “How close do you figure we can get? That’s important. It’ll cut time.”

Phil said thoughtfully, “On that diagram you drew: You know that ramp this Rita Daniels mopsy took you to, when you were leaving the palace?”

“Yes, sure.”

“I can take you to the top of that.”

“I think that’s the private entry of the Supreme Commandant and his family.”

“I know. As soon as I get to the top, they’ll order me to drive down again. That’s perfect for us. Every split second can count, Ronny. It could be seventeen or eighteen years, you know…”

Ronny Bronston said nothing. For that matter, it had been known to be twenty. Beyond that point, you inevitably died. You starved to death.

The hovercar bore diplomatic identification. The guards did no more than present their spears in a salute as they roared through the palace gates. Phil Birdman kept up a good speed. Not so high as to be conspicuous, but fast enough that their faces were unlikely to be spotted.

They got to the foot of the ramp and started up.

“You’d better take it,” the Indian said tightly, from the side of his mouth.

Ronny took a syrette from a small compartment in the dash and pushed it home in the back of his neck. He reached immediately for some of the energy pills.

Things were jerking frantically by the time they reached the head of the ramp and the entrada there—jerking frantically and already beginning to slow up.

A guard officer moved sluggishly toward them, more sluggish still. As he approached the car, his mouth, slowly, slowly, began to open. But before sound issued forth, he had stopped completely, one foot held in the air, his body in such position that it seemed impossible for him not to fall forward, out of balance.

Ronny Bronston vaulted over the side of the car and darted into the interior. He had done this but once before, in training, and had been under for less than ten seconds, pseudo-time. But this was the real thing. He darted a hand into his jacket pocket and gulped down more pep pills.

All was frozen.

He had no time to waste observing the utterly fantastic phenomenon. The world had stopped .

He retraced the route Rita Daniels had brought him along only a few hours earlier, dodging around the frozen statues that had—moments before—been soldiers and officials, clerks and secretaries, in all their bustling activities.

He came to the private elevator that led into the depths that housed the apartments of the Supreme Commandant. This was his first serious barrier. There was no manner in which he could operate the machinery, nor any other machine, save the equipment he carried.

He whipped out a laser gun, flicked the stud to cut and began beaming a hole through the elevator shaft door. Pure luck was involved now. He grabbed the door handle, and when he had largely cut the door away, pulled it toward him. It was a fantastically thick door. Evidently, Phrygia security took care that it was not easy to get at their Supreme Commandant.

Finally, the door began to fall toward him, slowly, sluggishly, but sped up by the effort he was exerting. It was as though he were pulling it through water, or even a thicker fluid. Before it had half reached the floor, he gave up his efforts and peered into the shaft beyond.

Luck was with him. Built into the metal wall of the shaft were ladder steps, obviously meant for repairmen, and possibly as a last method of emergency exit from the quarters below in case of some extreme disaster.

He vaulted over the falling door, now arrested in its drop, and scurried down the ladder.

Ronny tried to remember how long it had taken him to get down to the Baron’s apartments, when he had been there before, and couldn’t. This was the crucial thing. If the other maintained his rooms five or ten stories down, that was one thing. If they were a hundred stories, that was disaster. He would starve to death in this shaft.

Which brought his needs to mind. He darted a hand into one of his pockets for another handful of energy pills, even as he descended.

Luck was with him still.

His feet hit the top of the elevator cab.

He pulled the gun again, even as he gobbled pep pills, and cut a hole through the top of the elevator cage. He jumped on the circular, cut away a section so that it would fall. As soon as it had fallen sufficiently for him to jump off onto the elevator cage floor, he did so, and turned the gun to the door, cutting that away, too.

Ronny pushed hard against the great inertia, forcing the door inward into the room beyond. He wedged himself through as soon as there was sufficient way.

He was within the Baron’s apartments. Now he needed fortune’s kiss, indeed. Suppose the Baron wasn’t here. Suppose, even though he was, he didn’t have the information on him. Suppose he did have it, but in such form that it was impossible to decipher.

Suppose a lot of things.

He darted his hand into another pocket for a supply of the energy pills, and dashed into the room in which Wyler had invited him earlier in the day. It was unoccupied.

He headed for the door beyond, through which both Count Fitzjames and Rita had entered. Happily, it was open. He sped down the hall that was there, searching frantically. The living quarters of the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia were laid out in similar fashion—though utterly more swank—to any home of an extremely wealthy individual on a score of planets Ronny had visited. He had little trouble in guessing the layout.

From time to time, he would pass frozen statues in this dead world. Servants, guards, what were obviously secretaries or clerks, sometimes, if garb meant anything, evidently some high ranking Phrygia official.

Somewhere along here , Ronny thought, must he some sort of audience chamber, some sort of conference room . It was unlikely that Baron Wyler would be eating at this time of day, and certainly not sleeping. Ronny was gambling on the possibility that Wyler was at work, in conference with underlings, and probably deep in the project for sending the expedition to the Dawnworlds.

The gamble paid off.