Cities in Flight

Amalfi was silent until they were safe within the city and in a cab. Then he said, “You have to be careful, Carrel, in dealing with outsiders. You take to it well, but you’re inexperienced. Never say anything outside the city, even to me, that doesn’t fit your part. Now then—I agree with you about that scientist; I was watching him. And now he knows you, so I can’t use you against him. Is there someone in your organization who’s done undercover work for Mark who hasn’t been out of the city since we hit Gort? An experienced hand?”

“Sure, four or five, at least. I can put my finger on any of ’em.”

“Good. Find a fairly husky one, a man that could pass for a thug with a minimum of make-up, and send him to Indoctrination for hypnopaedia. In the meantime, you’ll have to see that scientist again. Get a picture of him somewhere, a tri-di if they have them here. When you talk to him, answer any questions he asks you.”

Carrel looked puzzled. “Any questions?”

“Any technical questions, yes. It won’t matter what he knows very shortly. Here’s another lesson in practical public relations for you, Carrel. When on a strange planet, you have to use its social system to the best advantage possible. On a world like this one, where the struggle for power is plenty raw, assassination must be very common—and nine chances to one there’s a regular Assassins’ Guild, or, at least, plenty of free-lance killers for hire.”

“You’re going to—have Doctor Schloss assassinated?”

The shocked expression on Carrel’s face made Amalfi abruptly sodden with weariness. Training a new city manager up to the point where his election would be endorsed by the City Fathers was a long and heartbreaking task, for so much of the training had to be absorbed the hard way. He felt too old for such a job now, and much too aware of some failure in his methods, the failure which alone had made the job necessary now.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a shame, but it has to be done. In other circumstances we’d take the man into the city— he doesn’t care who he works for—but the Hruntans would look for him, and find him, too. There has to be an inarguable corpse, and if possible, a local culprit. Your operative, after a suitable course in this Balkanese they speak here, will scout the rivalries among the scientific clique and try to pin the killing on one of those hawk-nosed laboratory chieftains. But the man must be killed—for the survival of the city.”

Carrel did not protest, for the final formulation was the be-all and end-all of Okie logic; but it was plain that the waste of intelligence the plot necessitated upset him. Amalfi decided silently to keep Carrel exceptionally busy in the city for a while—at least until the Hruntans had their anti-friction installation well under way.

Now, anyhow, was the time to put another needle into the cops; Hazleton’s timetable called for it, and although Amalfi had already been forced to abandon much of Hazleton’s strategy—Hazleton’s timetable, for instance, had called for a treacherous Utopian landing on Gort, with the full force of the Hamiltonians thrown behind delivering the Hruntan planet into the hands of the Earth police—the notion of bargaining with the cops for the planet still seemed to have merit.

Dismissing Carrel, Amalfi went to his office, where he took the flexible plastic dust cover off a little-used instrument: the Dirac transmitter. It was the only form of communication which the Hruntans—and, of course, the Hamiltonians—did not have; the want of it had cost them an empire, for it operated instantaneously over any distance. Amalfi thrust a cigar absently between his teeth and sent out a call for the captain of police.

The obsolete model had no screen, but the captain’s voice conveyed his feelings graphically. “If you’re going to rub my nose in the fact that we’re obliged to protect you because the Hruntans have violated the contract,” he snarled, “you can save your breath. I’ve half a mind to blow up the planet anyhow. Some one of these years the Okie laws are going to be changed, and then—”

“You wouldn’t have blown up the planet in any case,” Amalfi said tranquilly. “The shock wave would have detonated the local sun and destroyed the whole system, and your superiors would have had your scalp. What I’m trying to do is save you some trouble. If you’re interested, make me an offer.”

The cop laughed.

“All right,” Amalfi said. “Laugh, you jackass. In about ten months you’ll be yanked back to patrolling a stratosphere beat on Earth that sees a plane once every two years, and braying about how unjust it all is. As soon as the home office hears that you let the Hruntans and the Hamiltonians join forces, and that the war is going to cost Earth two or three hundred billion Oc dollars and last maybe twenty-five years—”

“You’re a bum liar, Okie,” the cop said. The bravado behind the pun seemed a little strained, however. “They been fighting each other a century now.”