Cities in Flight

“No, I didn’t. I’ve got a bad rip or two under that rag to prove I had reasons to kill him; but I wasn’t the guy who did it, and I couldn’t have done it, either. But that’s done too, and can’t be undone. Right now I’m trying to help you, and I’ve got about three minutes left to do it in, so if you don’t shut up and listen it’ll be too late. You need help, Red; can’t you understand that?”

“Why do you bother?” Chris said bitterly.

“Because you’re a bright kid and a fighter, and I like that. But that’s not going to be enough aboard an Okie city, believe me. You’re in a situation now that’s totally new to you, and if you’ve got any skills you can make a career on here, I’ll be darned surprised, I can tell you that. And Scranton isn’t going to start educating you this far along in your life. Are you smart enough to take some advice, or aren’t you? If you aren’t, there’s no sense in my bothering. You’ve got about a minute left to think it over.”

What the big man said made a bitter dose to have to swallow, but it did seem to make sense. And it did seem likely, too, that the man’s intentions were good—otherwise, why would he be taking the trouble? Nevertheless Chris’s emotions were in too much of a turmoil for him to trust himself to speak; instead, he merely nodded mutely.

“Good for you. First of all, I’m taking you to see the boss—not the mayor, he doesn’t count for much, but Frank Lutz, the city manager. One of the things he’ll ask you is what you do, or what you know about. Between now and when we get there, you ought to be thinking up an answer. I don’t care what you tell him, but tell him something. And it had better be the thing you know the most about, because he’ll ask you questions.”

“I don’t know anything—except gardening, and hunting,” Chris said grimly.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean! Don’t you have any book subjects? Something that might be useful in space? If you don’t, he’ll put you to work pitching slag—and you won’t have much of a lifetime as an Okie.”

The cab slowed, and then began to settle.

“And if he doesn’t seem interested in what you tell him, don’t try to satisfy him by switching to something else. No true specialist really knows more than one subject, especially at your age. Stick to the one you picked and try to make it sound useful. Understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“No time left for ‘buts.’ One other thing: If you ever get into a jam on board this burg, you’ll need to know somebody to turn to, and it’d better not be Frank Lutz. My name is Frad Haskins—not Fred but Frad, F-R-A-D.”

The cab hovered for a moment, and then its hull grated against the cobblestones and the doors slid open. Chris was thinking so hard and in so many directions that for a long moment he did not understand what the press-gang chief was trying to convey by introducing himself. Then the realization hit home, and Chris was struggling unsuccessfully to blurt out his thanks and to give his own name at the same time.

“Destination, gentlemen,” the Tin Cabby said primly.

“Shaddup. Come along, Red.”

Frank Lutz, the city manager of Scranton-in-flight, reminded Chris instantly of a skunk—but by this Chris meant not at all what a city boy would have meant by a skunk. Lutz was small, sleek, handsome, and plump, and even sitting behind his desk, he gave an appearance of slight clumsiness. As he listened to Haskins’ account of the two impressments, even his expression had something of the nearsighted amiability of the wood-pussy; but as Haskins finished, the city manager looked up suddenly—and Chris knew, if he had ever been in any doubt about it before, that this animal was also dangerous … and never more so than when it seemed to be turning its back.

“That impressment law was a nuisance. But I suppose we’ll have to make a show of maintaining our pickups until we get to some part of space where the police aren’t so thick.”

“We’ve got no drug for them, that’s for sure,” Haskins agreed obscurely.

“That’s not a public subject,” Lutz said, with such deadly coldness that Chris was instantly convinced that the slip, whatever its meaning, had been intended by Haskins for his own ears. The big man was a lot more devious than his size or his bluffness suggested. That much was becoming clearer every minute. “As for these samples, I don’t suppose they can do anything. They never can.”

The deceptively mild hazel eyes, watery and inoffensive, swung suddenly to bear on the red-neck. “What’s your name?”

“Who wants to know? That’s what I want to know. You got no right—”

“Don’t buck me, bum, I haven’t got the time. So you’ve got no name. Have you a trade?”

“I’m no bum, ’m a puddler,” the red-neck said indignantly. “A steel puddler.”

“Same thing. Anything else?”

“I been a puddler twenty years. ’M a Master Puddler, fair an’ square. I got seniority, see? I don’ need to be anything else, see? I got a trade. Nobody knows it like I do.”

“Been working lately?” the city manager said quietly.

“No. But I got seniority. And a card. ’M no bum, ’m a craftsman, see?”