Chapter VII
ELECTIONEERING
As Bruce Gordon came out from the precinct house, he noticed the soundsfirst. Under the huge dome that enclosed the main part of the city, theheavier air pressure permitted normal travel of sound; and he'd becomesensitive to the voice of the city after the relative quiet of theNineteenth Precinct. But now the normal noise was different. There wasan undertone of hushed waiting, with the sharp bursts of hammering andlast-minute work standing out sharply through it. Voting booths werebeing finished here and there, and at one a small truck was deliveringballots. Voting by machine had never been established here. Wherever thebooths were being thrown up, the nearby establishments were rushinggates and barricades in front of the buildings.
Most of the shops were already closed--even some of the saloons. To makeup for it, stands were being placed along the streets, carrying bannersthat proclaimed free beer for all loyal administration friends. The fewbars that were still open had been blessed with the sign of some mob,and obviously were well staffed with hoodlums ready to protect theproprietor. Private houses were boarded up. The scattering oflast-minute shoppers along the streets showed that most of the citizenswere laying in supplies to last until after election.
Gordon passed the First Marsport Bank and saw that it was surrounded bybarbed wires, with other strands still being strung, and with a signproclaiming that there was high voltage in the wires. Watching theoperation was Jurgens; it was obvious that his hoodlums had been hiredfor the job.
Toward the edge of the dome, where Mother Corey's place was, thenarrower streets were filling with the gangs, already half-drunk andmarching about with their banners and printed signs. Curiously enough,all the gangs weren't working for Wayne's re-election. The big StarPoint gang had apparently grown tired of the increasing cost ofprotection from the government, and was actively campaigning for Nolan.Their home territory reached nearly to Mother Corey's, before it raninto the no man's land separating it from the gang of Nick the Croop.The Croopsters were loyal to Wayne.
Gordon turned into his usual short-cut, past a rambling plastics plantand through the yard where their trucks were parked. He had halfexpected to find it barricaded, but apparently the rumors that Nick theCroop owned it were true; it would be protected in other ways, with thetrucks used for street fighting, if needed. He threaded his way betweentwo of the trucks.
Then a yell reached his ears, and something swished at him. An egg-sizedrock hit the truck behind him and bounced back, just as he spotted ahoodlum drawing back a sling for a second shot.
Gordon was on his knees between heartbeats, darting under one of thetrucks. He rolled to his feet, letting out a yell of his own, andplunged forward. His fist hit the thug in the elbow, just as the man'shand reached for his knife. His other hand chopped around, and the edgeof his palm connected with the other's nose. Cartilage crunched, and ashrill cry of agony lanced out.
But the hoodlum wasn't alone. Another came out from the rear of one ofthe trucks. Gordon ducked as a knife sailed for his head; they werestupid enough not to aim for his stomach, at least. He bent down tolocate some of the rubble on the ground, cursing his folly in carryinghis knife under his uniform. The new beat had given him a false sense ofsecurity.
He found a couple of rocks and a bottle and let them fly, then bent formore.
Something landed on his back, and fingernails were gouging into hisface, searching for his eyes!
Instinct carried him forward, jerking down sharply and twisting. Thefigure on his back sailed over his head, to land with a harsh thump onthe ground. Brassy yellow hair spilled over a girl's face, and herbreath slammed out of her throat as she hit. But the fall hadn't beenenough to do serious damage.
Bruce Gordon jumped forward, bringing his foot up in a savage swing, butshe'd rolled, and the blow only glanced against her ribs. She jerked herhand down for a knife, and came to her knees, her lips drawn backagainst her teeth. "Get him!" she yelled. Then he recognized her--SheilaCorey.
The two thugs had held back, but now they began edging in. Gordonslipped back behind another truck, listening for the sound of theirfeet. He'd half-expected another encounter with the Mother'sgranddaughter.
They tried to outmaneuver him; he stepped back to his former spot,catching his breath and digging frantically for his knife. It came out,just as they realized he'd tricked them.
Sheila was still on her knees, fumbling with something, and apparentlypaying no attention to him. But now she jerked to her feet, her handgoing back and forward.
It was a six-inch section of pipe, with a thin wisp of smoke, and thethrow was toward Gordon's feet. The hoodlums yelled, and ducked, whileSheila broke into a run away from him. The little homemade bomb landed,bounced, and lay still, with its fuse almost burned down.
Gordon's heart froze in his throat, but he was already in action. Hespat savagely into his hand, and jumped for the bomb. If the fuse waspowder-soaked, he had no chance. He brought his palm down against it,and heard a faint hissing. Then he held his breath, waiting.
No explosion came. It had been a crude job, with only a wick for a fuse.
Sheila Corey had stopped at a safe distance; now she grabbed at herhelpers, and swung them with her. The three came back, Sheila in thelead with her knife flashing.
Gordon side-stepped her rush, and met the other two head-on, his knifeswinging back. His foot hit some of the rubble on the ground at the lastsecond, and he skidded. The leading mobster saw the chance and jumpedfor him. Gordon bent his head sharply, and dropped, falling onto hisshoulders and somersaulting over. He twisted at the last second, jerkinghis arms down to come up facing the other.
Then a new voice cut into the fracas, and there was the sound ofsomething landing against a skull with a hollow thud. Gordon got hishead up just in time to see a man in police uniform kick aside the firsthoodlum and lunge for the other. There was a confused flurry; then thesecond went up into the air and came down in the newcomer's hands, toland with a sickening jar and lie still. Behind, Sheila Corey laycrumpled in a heap, clutching one wrist in the other hand and cryingsilently.
Bruce Gordon came to his feet and started for her. She saw him coming,cast a single glance at the knife that had been knocked from her hands,then sprang aside and darted back through the parked trucks. In thestreet, she could lose herself in the swarm of Nick's Croopsters; Gordonturned back.
The iron-gray hair caught his eyes first. Then, as the solidly builtfigure turned, he grunted. It was Captain Murdoch--now dressed in theuniform of a regular beat cop, without even a corporal's stripes. Andthe face was filled with lines of strain that hadn't been there before.
Murdoch threw the second gangster up into a truck after the first oneand slammed the door shut, locking it with the metal bar which hadapparently been his weapon. Then he grinned wryly, and came back towardGordon.
"You seem to have friends here," he commented. "A good thing I wastrying to catch up with you. Just missed you at the Precinct House, cameafter you, and saw you turn in here. Then I heard the rumpus. A goodthing for me, too, maybe."
Gordon blinked, accepting the other's hand. "How so? And what happened?"He indicated the bare sleeve.
"One's the result of the other," Murdoch told him. "They've got me sewedup, and they're throwing the book at me. The old laws make me a citizenwhile I wear the uniform--and a citizen can't quit the Force. That putsme out of Earth's jurisdiction. I can't even cable for funds, and Iguess I'm too old to start squeezing money out of citizens. I was comingto ask whether you had room in your diggings for a guest--and I'm hopingnow that my part here cinches it."
Murdoch had tried to treat it lightly, but Gordon saw the red creepingup into the man's face. "Forget that part. There's room enough for twoin my place--and I guess Mother Corey won't mind. I'm damned glad youwere following me."
"So'm I, Gordon. What'll we do with the prisoners?"
"Leave 'em; we couldn't get a Croopster locked up tonight for anything."
He started ahead, l
eading the way through the remaining trucks and backto the street that led to Mother Corey's. Murdoch fell in step with him."This is the first time I've had to look you up," he said. "I've beengoing out nights to help the citizens organize against the Stonewallgang. But that's over now--they gave me hell for inciting vigilanteaction, and confined me inside the dome. The way they hate a decent cophere, you'd think honesty was contagious."
"Yeah." Gordon preferred to let it drop. Murdoch was being given thebusiness for going too far on the Stonewall gang, not for refusing totake normal graft.
They came to the gray three-story building that Mother Corey now owned.Gordon stopped, realizing for the first time that there was no trace ofefforts to protect it against the coming night and day. The entrance wasunprotected. Then his eyes caught the bright chalk marks aroundit--notices to the gangs to keep hands off. Mother Corey evidently hadpull enough to get every mob in the neighborhood to affix its seal.
As he drew near, though, two men edged across the street from a clumpwatching the beginning excitement. Then, as they identified Gordon, theymoved back again. Some of the Mother's old lodgers from the ruin outsidethe dome were inside now--obviously posted where it would do the mostgood.
Corey stuck his head out of the door at the back of the hall as Gordonentered, and started to retire again--until he spotted Murdoch. Gordonexplained the situation hastily.
"It's your room, cobber," the old man wheezed. He waddled back, to comeout with a towel and key, which he handed to Murdoch. "Numberforty-two."
His heavy hand rested on Gordon's arm, holding the younger man back.Murdoch gave Gordon a brief, tired smile, and started for the stairs."Thanks, Gordon. I'm turning in right now."
Mother Corey shook his head, shaking the few hairs on his head and face,and the wrinkles in his doughy skin deepened. "Hasn't changed, that one.Must be thirty years, but I'd know Asa Murdoch anywhere. Took me to thespaceport, handed me my yellow ticket, and sent me off for Mars. A nice,clean kid--just like my own boy was. But Murdoch wasn't like the rest ofthe neighborhood. He still called me 'sir,' when my boy was walkingacross the street, so the lad wouldn't know they were sending me away.Oh well, that was a long time ago, cobber. A long time."
He rubbed a pasty hand over his chin, shaking his head and wheezingheavily. Gordon chuckled. "Well, how--?"
Something banged heavily against the entrance seal, and there was thesound of a hot argument, followed by a commotion of some sort. Coreyseemed to prick up his ears, and began to waddle rapidly toward theentrance.
It broke open before he could reach it, the seal snapping back to show agiant of a man outside holding the two guards from across the street,while a scar-faced, dark man shoved through briskly. Corey snapped out aquick word, and the two guards ceased struggling and started back acrossthe street. The giant pushed in after the smaller thug.
"I'm from the Ajax Householders Protection Group," the dark manannounced officially. "We're selling election protection. And brother,do you need it, if you're counting on those mugs. We're assessing you--"
"Not long on Mars, are you?" Mother Corey asked. The whine was entirelymissing from his voice now, though his face seemed as expressionless asever. "What does your boss Jurgens figure on doing, punk? Taking over_all_ the rackets for the whole city?"
The dark face snarled, while the giant moved a step forward. Then heshrugged. "Okay, Fatty. So Jurgens is behind it. So now you know. AndI'm doubling your assessment, right now. To you, it's--"
A heavy hand fell on the man's shoulder, and Mother Corey leaned forwardslightly. Even in Mars' gravity, his bulk made the other buckle at theknees. The hand that had been reaching for the knife yanked the weaponout and brought it up sharply.
Gordon started to step in, then, but there was no time. Mother Corey'sfree hand came around in an open-palmed slap that lifted the collectorup from the floor and sent him reeling back against a wall. The knifefell from the crook's hand, and the dark face turned pale. He saggeddown the wall, limply.
The giant opened his mouth, and took half a step forward; but the onlysound he made was a choking gobble. Mother Corey moved without seeminghaste, but before the other could make up his mind. There was a seriesof motions that seemed to have no pattern. The giant was spun around,somehow; one arm was jerked back behind him, then the other was forcedup to it. Mother Corey held the wrists in one hand, put his other underthe giant's crotch, and lifted. Carrying the big figure off the floor,the old man moved toward the seal. His foot found the button, snappingthe entrance open. He pitched the giant out overhanded; holding theentrance, he reached for the dark man with one hand and tossed him ontop of the giant.
"To me, it's nothing," he called out. "Take these two back to youngJurgens, boys, and tell him to keep his punks out of my house."
The entrance snapped shut then, and Corey turned back to Gordon, wipingthe wisps of hair from his face. He was still wheezing asthmatically,but there seemed to be no change in the rhythm of his breathing. "As Iwas going to say, cobber," he said, "we've got a little social gamegoing upstairs--the room with the window. Fine view of the parades. Weneed a fourth."
Gordon started to protest that he was tired and needed his sleep; thenhe shrugged. Corey's house was one of the few that had kept somerelation to Earth styles by installing a couple of windows in the secondstory, and it would give a perfect view of the street. He followed theold man up the stairs.
* * * * *
Two other men were already in the surprisingly well-furnished room, atthe little table set up near the window. Bruce Gordon recognized one asRandolph, the publisher of the little opposition paper. The man's paleblondness, weak eyes, and generally rabbity expression totally beliedthe courage that had permitted him to keep going at his hopeless task oftrying to clean up Marsport. The _Crusader_ was strictly a one-manweekly, against Mayor Wayne's _Chronicle_, with its Earth-comics anddaily circulation of over a hundred thousand. Wayne apparently let thepaper stay in business to give himself a talking point about fair play;but Randolph walked with a limp from the last working over he hadreceived.
"Hi, Gordon," he said. His thin, high voice was cool and reserved, inkeeping with the opinion he had expressed publicly of the police as abody. But he did not protest Corey's selection of a partner. "This is EdPraeger. He's an engineer on our railroad."
Gordon acknowledged the introduction automatically. He'd almostforgotten that Marsport was the center of a thinly populated area,stretching for a thousand miles in all directions beyond the city,connected by the winding link of the electric monorail. "So there reallyis a surrounding countryside," he said.
Praeger nodded. He was a big, open-faced man, just turning bald. Hishandshake was firm and friendly. "There are even cities out there,Gordon. Nothing like Marsport, but that's no loss. That's where the realpopulation of Mars is--decent people, men who are going to turn thisinto a real planet some day."
"There are plenty like that here, too," Randolph said. He picked up thecards. "First ace deals. Damn it, Mother, sit down-wind from me, won'tyou? Or else take a bath."
Mother Corey chuckled, and wheezed his way up out of the chair,exchanging places with Gordon. "I got a surprise for you, cobber," hesaid, and there was only amusement in his voice. "I got me in fiftygallons of water today, and tomorrow I do just that. Made up my mindthere was going to be a cleanup in Marsport, even if Wayne does win. Andstop examining the cards, Bruce. I don't cheat my friends. The readersare put away for old-times' sake."
Randolph shrugged, and went on as if he hadn't interrupted himself."Ninety per cent of Marsport is decent. They have to be. It takes atleast nine honest men to support a crook. They come up here to startover--maybe spent half their life saving up for the trip. They hear aman can make fifty credits a day in the factories, or strike it richcrop prospecting. What they don't realize is that things cost ten timesas much here, too. They plan, maybe, on getting rich and going back toEarth...."
"Nobody goes back," Mother Corey wheezed.
"_I_ know." His eyes rested onGordon.
"A lot don't want to," Praeger said. "I never meant to go back. I've gotme a farm up north. Another ten years, and I retire to it. My kids areup there now--grandkids, that is. They're Martians; maybe you won'tbelieve me, but they can breathe the air here without a helmet."
The others nodded. Gordon had learned that a fair number ofthird-generation people got that way. Their chests were only a triflelarger, and their heartbeat only a few points higher; it was an internaladaptation, like the one that had occurred in test animals reared at asimulated forty-thousand-feet altitude on Earth, before Mars was eversettled.
"They'll take the planet away from Earth yet," Randolph agreed."Marsport is strictly artificial. It's kept going only because it's theonly place where Earth will set down her ships. If Security doesn't doanything, time will."
"Security!" Gordon muttered bitterly. Security was good at gettingpeople in trouble, but he had seen no other sign of it.
Randolph frowned over his cards. "Yeah, I know. The government set themup, gave them a mixture of powers, and has been trying to keep them fromworking ever since. But somehow they did clean up Venus; and every crookhere is scared to death of the name. How come a muckraking newspapermanlike you never turned up anything on them, Gordon?"
Gordon shrugged. It was the first reference he'd heard to hisbackground, and he preferred to let it drop.
But Mother Corey cut in, his voice older and hoarser, and the skin onhis jowls even grayer than usual. "Don't sell them short, cobber. Idid--once.... You forget them, here, after a while. But they'rearound...."
Bruce Gordon felt something run down his armpit, and a chill creep uphis back....
Out on the street, a sudden whooping began, and he glanced down. Theparade was on, the Croopsters in full swing, already mostly drunk. Themain body went down the street, waving fluorescent signs, whileside-guards preceded them, armed with axes, knocking aside the flimsierbarricades as they went. He watched a group break into a small grocerystore to come out with bundles. They dragged out the storekeeper, hiswife, and young daughter, and pressed them into the middle of theparade.
"If Security's so damned powerful, why doesn't it stop that?" he askedbitterly.
Randolph grinned at him. "They might do it, Gordon. They just might. Butare you sure you want it stopped?"
"All right," Mother Corey said suddenly. "This is a social game,cobbers."
Outside, the parade picked up enthusiasm as smaller gangs joined behindthe main one. There were a fair number of plain citizens who had beenimpressed into it, too, judging by the appearance of little frightenedgroups in the middle of the mobsters.
Gordon couldn't understand why the police hadn't at least been kept onduty, until Honest Izzy came into the room. The little man found a chairand bought chips silently; he looked tired.
"Vacation?" Mother Corey asked.
Izzy nodded. "Trench took forever giving it to us, Mother. But it's thesame old deal; all the police gees get tomorrow off--you, too, gov'nor.No cops to influence the vote, that's the word. We even gotta wearcivvies when we go out to vote for Wayne."
Gordon looked down at the rioters, who were now only keeping up apretense of a parade. It would be worse tomorrow, he supposed; and therewould be no cops. The image of the old woman and her husband in thelittle liquor store where he'd had his first experience came back tohim. He wondered how well barricaded they were.
He felt the curious eyes of Mother Corey dancing from him to Izzy andback, and heard the old man's chuckle. "Put a uniform on some men andthey begin to believe they're cops, eh, cobber?"
He shoved up from the table abruptly and headed for his room, swearingto himself.