Eric Russell - Wasp

“We’ll have to cut the use of them to the minimum.” Mowry told him. “Take them as late as you can. We’ll park our own cars on that lot the other side of the Asako Bridge. When we leave the jail we’ll beat it straight there and switch over to them.”

“Yar, that is best,” Skriva agreed.

“All right. I’ll be waiting outside the east gate of the municipal park at the two-time hour tomorrow. You come along with two cars and two helpers and pick me up.”

At that point Skriva became strangely restless and showed suspicion. He fidgeted around, opened his mouth, shut it. Watching him curiously, Mowry invited, “Well, what’s the matter? You want to call the whole thing off?”

Skriva mustered his thoughts and burst out with, “Look, Gurd means nothing to you. The others mean even less. But you’re paying good money and taking a big risk to get them out of clink. It doesn’t make sense.”

“A lot of things don’t make sense. This war doesn’t make sense—but we’re in it up to the neck.”

“Curses on the war. That is nothing to do with the matter.”

“It has everything to do with the matter,” Mowry contradicted. “I don’t like it. A lot of people don’t like it. If we kick the government in the rumps often enough and hard enough, they won’t like it either.”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re up to?” Skriva stared at him in frank surprise, thoughts of purely political reasons never having entered his mind. “You’re chivvying the authorities?”

“Any objections?”

“I couldn’t care less,” informed Skriva, and added virtuously, “Politics is a dirty game. Anyone who plays around in it is crazy. All it gets him in the end is a free burial.”

“It’ll be my burial, not yours.”

“Yar, that’s why I don’t care.” Obviously relieved at having got to the bottom of the other’s motives; Skriva finished, “Meet you at the park tomorrow.”

“On time. If you’re late I won’t be there.”

As before, he waited until the other had gone from sight before driving to town. It was a good thing, he thought, that Skriva had a criminal mentality. The fellow just wasn’t interested in politics, ethics, patriotism or anything similar except insofar as it provided opportunity to snatch easy money. It was highly probable that he viewed his recent activities as profitably illegal but not as treacherous. It simply wouldn’t occur to him that there are criminals and there are traitors.

Any one of Skriva’s bunch would surrender his own mother to the Kaitempi, not as a duty to the nation but solely for five thousand guilders. Similarly, they’d hand Mowry over and pocket the cash with a hearty laugh. All that prevented them from selling him body and soul was the fact they’d freely admitted, namely, that one does not flood one’s goldmine.

Providing the cars and helpers could be obtained Skriva would be there on time tomorrow. He felt sure of that.

Exactly at the two-time hour a big, black dyno paused at the east gate, picked up Mowry and whined onward. Another dyno, older and slightly battered, followed a short distance behind.

Sitting four-square at the wheel of the first car, Skriva looked neater and more respectable than he had done for years. He exuded a faint smell of scented lotion and seemed self conscious about it. With his gaze fixed firmly ahead, he jerked a manicured thumb over his shoulder to indicate a similarly washed and scented character lounging beetle-browed in the back seat.

“Meet Lithar. He’s the sharpest wert on Jaimec.”

Mowry twisted his head round and gave a polite nod. Lithar rewarded him with a blank stare. Returning attention to the windshield, Mowry wondered what on earth a wert might be. He’d never heard the word before and dared not ask its meaning. It might be more than an item of local jargon, perhaps a slang word added to the Sirian language during the years he had been away. It wouldn’t be wise to admit ignorance of it.

“The fellow in the other car is Brank,” informed Skriva. “He’s a red-hot wert too. Lithar’s right-hand man. That so, Lithar?”

The sharpest wert on Jaimec responded with a grunt. To give him his due, he fitted the part of an agent of the typically surly type. In that respect Skriva had chosen well.

Threading their way through a series of side-streets they reached a main road, found themselves held up by a long, noisy convoy of half-tracked vehicles crammed with troops. Perforce they stopped and waited. The convoy rolled on and on like a never ending stream. Skriva began to curse under ‘ his breath.

“They’re gaping around like newcomers,” observed Mowry, watching the passing soldiery. “Must have just arrived from somewhere.”

“Yar, from Diracta,” Skriva told him. “Six shiploads landed this morning. There’s a story going the rounds that ten set out but only six got here.”

“That so? It doesn’t look so good if they’re rushing additional forces to Jaimec despite heavy losses en route”

“Nothing looks good except a stack of guilders twice my height,” opined Skriva. He scowled at the rumbling half-tracks. “If they delay us long enough we’ll still be here when a couple of boobs start bawling about their missing cars. The cops will find us just waiting to be grabbed.”

“So what?” said Mowry. “Your conscience is clear, isn’t it?” Skriva answered that with a look of disgust. At last the procession of military vehicles came to an end. The car jolted forward as he rushed it impatiently into the road and built up speed.

“Take it easy” Mowry advised. “We don’t want to be nailed for ignoring some petty regulation.”

At a point a short distance from the jail Skriva pulled in to the kerb and parked. The other dyno stopped close behind. He turned toward Mowry.

“Before we go any farther let’s have a look at that form.”

Extracting it from a pocket, Mowry gave it to him. He pored over it, seemed satisfied, handed it to Lithar.

“Looks all right to me. What d’you think?”

Lithar eyed it impassively, gave it back. “It’s good enough or it isn’t. You’ll find out pretty soon.”

Sensing something sinister in this remark, Skriva became afflicted with new doubts. He said to Mowry, “The idea is that a couple of us walk in, present this form and wait for them to fetch us the prisoners, hi?”

“Correct.”

“What if this form isn’t enough and they ask for proof of our identities?”

“I can prove mine.”

“Yar? What sort of proof?”

“Who cares so long as it convinces them?” Mowry evaded.

“As for you, fix this inside your jacket and flash it if necessary.”

He gave the other Sagramatholou’s badge.

Fingering it in open surprise, Skriva demanded; “Where’d you get this?”

“An agent gave it me. I’ve influence, see?”

“You expect me to believe that? No Kaitempi soko would dream of—”

“It so happened that he had expired,” Mowry put in. “Dead agents are very co-operative, as perhaps you’ve noticed.”

“You killed him?”

“Don’t be nosey.”

“Yar, what’s it to us?” interjected Lithar from the back seat. “You’re wasting time. Put a move on and let’s get the whole thing over—or let’s throw it up and go back home.”

Thus urged Skriva started up and drove forward. Now that he was rapidly coming to the point of committing himself his edginess was obvious. He knew that if the rescue failed and he was caught he’d certainly pay for the attempt with bulging eyes and protruding tongue. If it succeeded there would follow a hue and cry that would make all of them cower in their rat-holes for a month and all he’d have gained would be three henchmen who, for the time being, would be more nuisance than asset.