Mack Reynolds: Ability Quotient

Jim, who was looking a little blurry around the edges as a result of the sampling of the bottled goods, snorted. “With that machining?”

His old comrade in arms handled the weapon professionally, expertly. He slapped the side and dislodged the power pack. There was a red dot at the top.

Jim muttered, “Loaded.” He looked at the other laser hand guns “There’s enough firepower here to bring down half of this building. And look at that supply of extra power packs; ammo enough to stand off a division.”

Bert put the folding rifle back into its place. He said unhappily, “The professor told me that the suites upon this level were for V.I.P.s. The last occupant of this one was the president himself. I suppose they get a lot of visiting foreign dignitaries, that sort of thing. Maybe the Department of Security has this little cache here for emergencies.”

“Some little cache,” Jim said skeptically.

Bert looked at the tiny keyhole in the secret door, then at his companion. “How’d you find this, and how’d you ever get the lock open?”

Jim looked innocent. “Didn’t I ever tell you what I did before the army snagged me?”

“No.”

“I was an apprentice second story man.”

“Second story man? What in the hell’s that? More of your grandfather’s slang?”

“Secondary story man, second story man; a burglar.”

Bert winced. “My old buddy,” he murmured. “What’d you mean, apprentice?”

“It runs into the family,” Jim told him earnestly. “My old man was breaking me in.”

“Oh, great. I thought the army didn’t induct felons.”

“Felon?” Jim said indignantly. “We weren’t amateurs. My family hasn’t taken a fall in three generations. There’s nothing on my police record any worse than a couple of traffic violations.”

Bert was intrigued, in spite of himself. “Well, now that the war’s over, how come you’re here in school on a lousy Guaranteed Annual Income set-up?”

Jim nodded “My old man’s teed off, sort of like I was betraying the family traditions, but the fact in crime doesn’t pay any more. Not enough, at least. The flatfeet.”

“The who?”

“The fuzz, the coppers, the police. My grandfather used to call ’em flatfeet. Anyway, they’re so advanced today it’s a hazard. Besides, with the Universal Credit Identity Card and the cashless-checkless exchange system, you can’t gloam, uh, swipe, uh, put the snatch on.”

“Kay, kay. I get the import.”

“Cash money. And with the computers and the National Data Banks it’s practically impossible to fence jewelry or any other items of much value.” A slightly indignant element came into Jim Hawkins’ voice. “They’ve automated us right out of business. ”

Bert Alshuler closed the door of the arms cache with a sigh. He said, “So you’re a retired apprentice burglar. Just take it easy from now on keeping your hand in practice around my digs, old buddy, old buddy.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Jim said penitently. “Listen, this booze is beginning to work on me. What do you say we look up Jill and get her to dig up a friend and we’ll go out on the town tonight. You haven’t been shown the entertainment spots the area offers. I got all checked out last year.”

Bert led the way back to the bar, saying, “Dig up a friend? What kind of corpses does Jill associate with?”

“Aw, they’re not as bad as all that,” Jim protested.

Bert Alshuler thought about it as he made them a final drink for the road. Why not? He had spent so much time the past two days sitting at the auto-teacher that he felt a little relaxation was in order. Besides, admit it, he wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of Jill, even though she would be Jim’s date rather than his own. He had the feeling that his attraction to her was reciprocated.

The drinks down, they made their way to the suite’s door, talking about army acquaintances they had lost track of in the short time that had elapsed since they had been in Asia.

Jim Hawkins was saying, “What the devil ever happened to Dick Ruhling and Pirtle?” as they emerged into the corridor and came to an abrupt halt.

Down the hall, a dozen yards or so, another group was emerging from the neighboring suite. There were four men and a girl and she was putting up a worthy fight considering that she was only pint-sized and had a man on each arm and a tape over her mouth.

The girl was Jill Masterson.

Jim Hawkins blurted, “Come on!” and his lanky, always lazy-like body exploded forward, his arms extended in a karate attack readiness, a Kiai yell blasting from his throat.

Bert was immediately behind, fading slightly to the left to give operating room. But they skidded to a halt. One of the four had come up with a handgun.

He snarled, “Get out of here, you two. This is a private matter.”

“You ain’t just a whistlin’ Dixie,” Jim Hawkins snapped, his right hand blurring for his belt, his legs spread and slightly crouched in a practiced gunman’s stance, his left arm extended to the left and forward for balance.

The eyes of the armed kidnapper widened and he fired, went far off aim, fired again, and Jim Hawkins’ gun arm went limp.

He grunted pain and snapped, “Killer! Catch!” and obviously with a supreme effort flicked the gun in Bert’s direction.

Bert Alshuler, in much the same stance as his wartime comrade had assumed, caught it in mid-air There was no need to flick off the safety, nor to depress the range stud, Jim would have already done that automatically.

The gunman was swinging his gyro-jet pistol around to bring it to bear on his new foe.

Bert muttered, “Tyro,” even as he burnt the man’s face off. The other’s last act in life was to scream agony.

The elevator door was open and the others, dragging Jill with them, were backing into it, their faces in full alarm.

He couldn’t fire, not with anything as sweeping as a laser beam. Inadequately, Bert yelled, “Halt!” dashing forward.

The elevator door slammed shut, just as Bert crashed against it. He made two steps back, in frustration, yelling over his shoulder, “How bad?”

Jim Hawkins, leaning against a wall, his face pale, said, “Not too bad. Double entry, side and right arm. I’m okay… get them !”

Bert snatched his pocket phone from his jacket pocket, nipped the lid open with his thumb, pressed the activating stud and snapped, “Emergency! Building Security Four men have just kidnapped a girl from the top floor of the Administration…”

He came to a halt and glared down at the instrument The screen was a blur. He ran over to his companion. “Where’s your phone?”

“In my right pocket. I can’t get at it.”

Bert grabbed at the pocket, brought forth the other’s phone and opened it. He flicked the stud, flicked it again. The screen remained a blur.

Jim groaned, “They’ve got some kind of a musher around.”

The other’s eyes darted up and down the corridor “It has to be a portable. It can’t be too…”

Jim was pointing with his left hand at the crumpled corpse. “It has to be on him. It can’t be anywhere else, unless it’s in that apartment they just came out of.”

Bert bent over the body, frisking it rapidly, ignoring the mess that was the former gunman’s head. Bert Alshuler had seen blood and gore before. He came up finally with an electronic device, slammed it to the floor and ground his heel down on it.

He brought his pocket phone out again and opened it, but then looked up at the elevator and shook his head in despair. “They’re already gone.”

Jim said urgently, “Try it anyway.”

But Bert said, “No No, they’re willing to shoot. Why, I wouldn’t know. They’re willing to shoot and they’ve got Jill. Besides, I doubt if whatever Security officers a building like this has ordinarily go around heeled.”