Mack Reynolds - Computer War

They slammed down the boulevard at a speed that must have been in excess of city ordinances.

“Hey, uh, madam,” he protested finally. “You want to get picked up by some Alpha fuzz-yoke?”

“No,” she told him. “But this is part of the protective coloring, too. Looks authentic.”

She zoomed finally into the parking zone of a monstrous stone building and skittered to a halt.

Tilly vaulted from her seat exuberantly.

“Come on!” she said.

He followed her, more sedate. “This says it’s for Senior Personnel only,” he whispered.

“I know, I know. Let’s go.”

“Hey, you two kids!” a voice called impatiently. “You can’t leave that scooter there.”

“Aw, why not?” Tilly whined.

A uniformed Surety officer came up. He snapped, “Because I said so, damn it.”

Tilly put her hands on her hips belligerently. “Listen, do you know who my father is?”

A weary expression came over his face. He was a heavy, bullyboy type, a quick-draw holster built into his leather jacket where a left pocket might have been.

But obviously this was no occasion for weight being thrown around.

He said, “No, sonny, my heart is pumping curd, but I don’t know who your daddy is. All I know, if Superintendent Nichols comes in here and finds that souped-up scooter in his parking place, he’ll burn off.”

“I’m just gonna be here for a minute,” Tilly whined.

Her companion got into the act. “Aw, come on, Killer,” he said. “Don’t argue with this cloddy. Park it somewhere else.”

The Surety man eyed him unhappily, opened his mouth as though to growl something, but then shrugged it off.

“Snap it up, boys,” he said. “You just can’t leave it here.”

“All right, all right,” Tilly said. “Give me a hand, Bimbo.” She and Combs took hold of the sports hover and pushed it down the line to a public parking zone.

They then headed for the entrance, where two additional Surety men, both with scrambler rifles, stood post. They had lazily been watching the hassle with the parking attendant.

Tilly said, “Peel your banana.” She pulled her own piece of fruit from her pocket and began to eat it.

Combs asked, “Why all that, back there?”

“Protective coloring,” she said.

They climbed the half dozen stone steps and began entering the building.

“Halt!” one of the guards barked.

“Aw, curd,” Tilly sneered, continuing on her way.

“I said halt, damn it! Where do you kids think you’re going?”

Tilly’s face fell into the expression, known since man issued forth from the caves of Cro-Magnon, of the teenager being put upon.

“Aw,” she whined. “I gotta see my old man. Holy Jumping Zen, I don’t have all morning. I gotta lot of things to do. I’m supposed to see my old man.”

The other guard said, “You can’t go in here, buster. This is government…”

The first guard interrupted him. “Who’s your father, and what are you supposed to see him about?”

“He forgot his pills.”

The long-suffering Surety man rubbed his mouth.

Eating his banana, a sneer of superiority on his face, Combs said, “Aw, the hell with it. Killer. Let’s go see if we can scare up a couple mopsies.”

Tilly said, argumentively, “My old lady said I gotta get these pills to my old man. He’ll drop dead, yet, or something. He’s been taking these pills till they run outa his ears. I never seen them do him any good.”

The second guard said, “What’s your father’s name, sonny?”

Combs chucked. “Sonny, yet, he calls you, Killer.”

Tilly said, “My old man’s Assistant Supervisor Hillary. He swings a lot of weight around this crumby joint, fella.”

“I never heard of him,” the first guard said hesitantly.

“I have. I’ll phone up,” the other one said.

“Aw, curd,” Tilly said. “You’ll take halfa the morning. I know where he is. I know everybody in the department. He wanders around a lot between the offices. I can find him.”

“Let him go, let him go!” the one guard said to the other. “Zen, what difference does it make?”

Tilly waited no longer. She and her companion headed for the door again, still eating their bananas. The second guard muttered something, but they were through the entrance.

Combs said, “Whee. Suppose they’d phoned up to this Supervisor Hillary? Is there any such cloddy?”

She shot him an impish grin. “Sure. You think I’m inefficient? I happen to know that Hillary left the building by another entrance and at this moment is being entertained by his mistress, half a dozen kilometers from here. If they phoned up to his office, his secretary, who covers for him, would have said he was wandering around the building, checking on his underlings.”

Combs shook his head.

They moped along down the building’s corridors, drawing only the slightest attention from bustling bureaucrats, secretaries, building maintenance workers, and the others who teemed the halls.

They got to the part of the building which was their destination and had to saunter up and down a couple of times until the way was clear.

Tilly opened a door and they hurried inside. She barred it behind them.

“We’ve got to work moderately fast,” she said. Prove your worth, Centurion.”

“Where in Zen’s the line?”

“Here, help me push this box away. There you are. I assume you can get that open?”

“I can get anything open.” The youthful looking Betastan operative bent down to look at the metal aperture set into the wall “How’d you ever locate this?”

“My dear boy,” Tilly said, “in a country like this, where the gold Alpha is almighty, spreading them around a bit will buy you just about anything at all.”

He was on his knees working at the tiny door. It swung open to reveal wires beyond.

Tilly said, mildly impressed, “How’d you open that?”

“Hairpin,” he said absently.

Combs opened his jerkin and brought forth a device from an inner garment that resembled a many compartmented money belt. He was humming sourly to himself as he worked.

“Don’t think it all goes this easily,” Tilly said. “There isn’t much of a Surety guard about the Commissariat of Information.”

“Hmmmm,” he murmured, not really hearing her.

It was a full two hours later when they emerged from the building maintenance room. Tilly came out first, shot her eyes up and down the corridor.

“Hurry,” she said.

Combs began to emerge, still stuffing some of his equipment back into his compartmented belt.

At that split moment, a uniformed Surety guard, trailing a scrambler gun at ease, rounded the nearest corner of the hall. It was one of the two who had been posted at the entry.

He came to a halt and blinked at them.

“Hey,” he snapped. “What’re you two kids doing, eh? What in Zen’re you still doing in the building?”

Tilly walked toward him. “Aw,” she said. “I couldn’t find my old man at first. He was out gettin’ a bite, or somethin’.”

Combs slouched along behind her. “Yeah,” he sneered. “We’re spendin’ the whole day around this crumby…”

The guard snapped, “What were you doing in that? Tilly dove for his legs, throwing what little heft she had into the attempt to bring him to the floor.

Behind her, Combs leaped, his hands held chopper fashion.

The guard tumbled, too astonished to yell.

One chopper slashed out, and the guard’s larynx collapsed. Combs banged him again, behind the ear this time.

Breathing deep, the two Betastan agents came to their feet.

Tilly was pale. “We’ve got to work fast,” she said. “If we’re caught, they’ve got the perfect excuse to start the war. Public opinion throughout the neutrals…” She let the sentence fade. “Come on.”