Eric Russell: Wasp

Apart from the lethal can wired to the lock, the bag held a dozen small parcels, a mass of printed paper and nothing else. The paper was of two kinds: stickers and money. There was plenty of the latter. In terms of Sirian guilders he was, a millionaire. Or with the further supply in that distant cave he was a multi-millionaire.

From the bag he took an inch-thick wad of printed stickers. Not too many of them. Just enough for a day’s fast work and, at the same time, few enough to toss away unobserved should the necessity arise. That done, he refastened the bag with the same care, the same beading of perspiration.

It was a tricky business, this continual fiddling with a potential explosion, but it had one great advantage. If any official nosey-poke took it into his head to search the room and check the luggage he would destroy the evidence along with himself. Moreover, proof of what had happened would be widespread enough to give clear warning to the homecomer: Mowry would turn into the street, take one look at the mess and discreetly fade from sight.

Departing, he caught a cross-town bus, planted the first sticker on the front window of its upper deck at a moment when all other seats were vacant. He dismounted at the next stop, casually watched a dozen people boarding the bus. Half of them went upstairs.

The sticker said in bold, easily readable print: War makes wealth for the few, misery for the many. At the right time, Dirac Angestun Gesept will punish the former, bring aid and comfort to the latter.

That would hit the readers much harder than it would have done a month ago. It was sheer luck that he’d arrived coincidentally with a big boost in the war-tax. It was likely they’d feel sufficiently aggrieved not to tear the sticker down in a patriotic fury. Chances were equally good that they’d spread the news about this new, mysterious movement that had emerged to challenge the government, the military caucus and the Kaitempi. The tale would lose nothing in the telling: gossip is the same any part of the mighty cosmos in that it gains compound interest as it goes the rounds.

Within five and a half hours he’d got rid of eighty stickers without once being caught in the act of fixing them. He’d taken a few risks, had a few narrow squeaks, but never was seen actually performing the dirty deed. What followed the Planting of the fifty-sixth sticker gave him most satisfaction.

A minor collision on the street caused abusive shouts between drivers and drew a mob of onlookers. Taking prompt advantage of the situation, Mowry slapped number fifty-six bang in the middle of a shop window while backed up against it by the crowd all of whom were looking the other way. He then wormed himself forward and got well into the mob before somebody noticed the window’s adornment and attracted general attention to it. The audience turned around, Mowry with them, and gaped at the discovery.

The finder, a gaunt, middle-aged Sirian with pop eyes, pointed an incredulous finger and stuttered, “Just l-l-look at that! They must be m-mad in that shop. The Kaitempi will take them all to p-p-prison.”

Mowry edged forward for a better look and read the sticker aloud. “ Those who stand upon the platform and openly approve the war will stand upon the scaffold and weepingly regret it. Dirac Angestun Gesept.." He put on a frown. “The people in the shop can’t be responsible for this—they wouldn’t dare.”

“S-somebody’s dared,” said Pop Eyes, quite reasonably.

“Yar.” Mowry gave him the hard eye. “You saw it first. So maybe it was you, hi?”

“Me?” Pop Eyes went a very pale mauve, that being the nearest a Sirian could get to sheet-white. “I didn’t put it there. You think I’m c-crazy?”

“Well, as you said, somebody did.”

“It wasn’t me,” denied Pop Eyes, angry and agitated. “It must have been s-some crockpat”

“Crackpot,” Mowry corrected.

“That’s what I just s-said.”

Another Sirian, younger and shrewder, chipped in with, “That’s not a looney’s work. There’s more to it than that.”

“Why?” demanded Pop Eyes.

“A solitary nut would be more likely to scribbie things. Silly ones too” He nodded indicatively toward the subject of discussion. “That’s a professional print job. It’s also a plain. straightforward threat. Somebody risked his neck to plaster it up there but that didn’t stop him. I’ll bet there’s an illegal organisation back of that stunt”

“It says so, doesn’t it?” interjected a voice. “The Sirian Freedom Party.”

“Never heard of it,” commented another.

“You’ve heard of it now,” said Mowry.

“S-s-somebody ought to do s-something about it,” declared Pop Eyes, waving his arms around.

S-s-somebody did, to wit, a cop. He muscled through the crowd, looked on the pavement for the body, bent down and felt around in case the victim happened to be invisible. Finding nothing, he straightened up, glowered at the audience and growled, “Now, what’s all this?”

Pop Eyes pointed again, this time with the proprietary air of one who has been granted a patent on the discovery. “S-see what it s-says on the window.”

The cop looked and saw. Being able to read, he perused it twice while his face went several shades more purple. Then he returned attention to the crowd.

“Who did this?”

Nobody knew.

“You’ve got eyes—don’t you use them?”

Apparently they didn’t.

“Who saw this first?”

“I did,” said Pop Eyes proudly.

“But you didn’t see anyone put it up?”

“No”

The cop stuck out his jaw. “You sure of that?”

“Yes, officer,” admitted Pop Eyes, becoming nervous. “There was an accident in the s-street. We were all watching the two d-d-d—” He got himself into a vocal tangle and choked.

Waving him away, the cop addressed the crowd with considerable menace. “If anyone knows the identity of the culprit and refuses to reveal it, he will be deemed equally guilty and will suffer equally when caught.”

Those in front backed off a yard or two, those in the rear suddenly discovered they had business elsewhere. A hard core of thirty of the incurably curious stayed put, Mowry among them.

Mowry said mildly, “Maybe they could tell you something in the shop”

The cop scowled. “I know my job, Shortass.”

With that, he gave a loud snort, marched into the shop and bawled for the manager. In due course that worthy came out, examined his window with horror and swiftly acquired all the symptoms of a nervous wreck.

“We know nothing of this, officer. I assure you that it is no work of ours. It isn’t inside the window, officer. It is outside, as you can see. Some passer-by must have done it. I cannot imagine why he should have picked on this window. Our patriotic devotion is unquestioned and -—”

“Won’t take the Kaitempi five seconds to question it,” said the cop, cynically.

“But I myself am a reserve officer in the -—”

“Shut up!” He jerked a heavy thumb toward the offending sticker. “Get it off.”

“Yes, officer. Certainly, officer. I shall remove it immediately.”

The manager started digging with his nails at the sticker’s corners in attempt to peel it off. He didn’t do so good because Terran technical superiority extended even to common adhesives. After several futile efforts he threw the cop an apologetic looks, went inside, came out with a knife and tried again. This time he succeeded in tearing a small triangle from each corner, leaving the message intact.

“Get hot water and soak it off,” commanded the cop, rapidly losing patience. He turned and shooed the audience. “Beat it. Go on, get moving.”

The crowd mooched reluctantly away. Mowry glanced back from the far corner, saw the manager emerge with a steaming bucket and get busy swabbing the notice. He grinned to himself, knowing that hot water was just the thing to release and activate the hydrofluoric base beneath the print.