Chapter 15: Murdoch's Mantle

There were three men, each with a white circle painted on chest and left arm, talking to Mother Corey when Bruce Gordon came down the rickety steps. He stopped for a second, but there was no sign of trouble. Then the words of the thin man below reached him.

“So we figured when we found the stiffs maybe you’d come back, Mother. Damn good thing we were right. We can sure use that ammunition you found. Now, where’s this Gordon fellow?”

“Here!” Gordon told the man. He’d recognized him finally as Schulberg, the little grocer from the Nineteenth Precinct.

The man swung suspiciously, then grinned weakly. There was hunger and strain on his face, but an odd authority and pride now. “I’ll be doggoned. Whyn’t you say he was with Murdoch?”

“They want someone to locate Ed Praeger and see about getting some food shipped in from outside, cobber,” Mother Corey told him. “They got some money scraped together, but the hicks are doing no business with Marsport. You know Ed--just tell him I sent you. I’d go myself, but I’m getting too old to go chasing men out there.”

“What’s in it?” Gordon asked, reaching for his helmet.

There was a surprised exchange of glances from the others, but Mother Corey chuckled. “Heart like a steel trap, cobber,” he said, almost approvingly. “Well, you’ll be earning your keep here--yours and that granddaughter’s, too. Here--you’ll need directions for finding Praeger.”

He handed the paper with his scrawled notes on it over to Gordon and went shuffling back. Gordon stuck it into his pouch, and followed the three. Outside, they had a truck waiting; Rusty and Corey’s two henchmen were busy loading it with ammunition from the cellar.

Schulberg motioned him into the cab of the truck, and the other two climbed into the closed rear section. “All right,” Gordon said, “what goes on?”

The other began explaining as he picked a way through the ruin and rubble. Murdoch had done better than Gordon had suspected; he’d laid out a program for a citizens’ vigilante committee, and had drilled enough in the ruthless use of the club to keep the gangs down. Once the police were all busy inside the dome with their private war, the committee had been the only means of keeping order in the whole territory beyond. It was now extended to cover about half the area, as a voluntary police organization.

He pointed outside. It was changed; there were fewer people outside. Gordon had never seen group starvation before...

They passed a crowd around a crude gallows, and Schulberg stopped. A man was already dead and dangling. “Should turn ‘em over to us cops,” Schulberg said. “What’s he hanged for?”

“Hoarding,” a voice answered, and others supplied the few details. The dead man had been caught with a half bag of flour and part of a case of beans. Schulberg found a scrap of something and penciled the crime on it, together with a circle signature, and pinned it to the body.

“All food should be turned in,” he explained to Gordon as they climbed back into the truck. “We figure community kitchens can stretch things a bit more. And we give a half extra ration to the guys who can find anything useful to do. We got enough so most people won’t starve to death for another week, I guess. But you’d better get Praeger to send something, Gordon. Here, here’s the scratch we scraped up.”

He passed over a bag filled with a collection of small bills and coins. “We can trust you, I guess,” he said dully. “Remember you with Murdoch, anyhow. And you can tell Praeger we got plenty of men looking for work, in case he can use ‘em.”

He pulled up to shout a report through the big Marspeaker as they passed the old building Murdoch had used as a precinct house. It now had a crude sign proclaiming it voluntary police HQ and outland government center. Then he went on until they came to a spur of the little electric monorail system, with three abandoned service engines parked at the end.

“Extra air inside, and the best we could do for food. Was gonna try myself, but I don’t know Praeger,” Schulberg said. He handed over a key, and nodded toward the first service engine. “Good luck, Gordon--and damn it, we’re--we gotta eat, don’t we? You tell him that! It ain’t much--but get what you can!”

He swung the truck, and was gone. Gordon climbed into the enclosed cab and pulled back questioningly on the only lever he could see. The engine backed briefly; he reversed the control. Then it moved forward, picking up speed. Apparently there was still power flowing in from the automatic atomic generators.

He got off to puzzle out a switch, using Mother Corey’s scrawled instructions.

He had vaguely expected to see more of Mars, but for eight hours there was only the bare flatness and dunes of unending sandy surface and scraggly, useless native plants, opened out to the sun. Marsport had been located where the only vein of uranium had been found on Mars, and the growing section was closer to the equator.

Then he came to villages. Again there was the sight of children running around without helmets. He stopped once for directions, and a man stared at him suspiciously and finally threw a switch reluctantly.

He was finally forced to stop again, sure that he was near, now. This time, it was in what seemed to be a major shipping center in the heart of the lines that ran helter-skelter from village to village. Another suspicious-eyed man studied him. “You won’t find Praeger on his farm--couldn’t reach it in that, anyhow,” he said finally. Then he turned up his Marspeaker. “Ed! Hey, Ed!”

Down the street, the seal of a building opened, and the big, bluff figure of Praeger came out. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Gordon; then he grinned and waved his visitor forward.

Inside, there was evidence of food, and a rather pretty girl brought out another platter and set it before Gordon. He ate while they exchanged uncertain, rambling information; finally, he got down to his errand.

Praeger seemed to read his mind. “I can get the stuff sent, Gordon. I’m head of the shipping committee for this quadrant. But why in hell should I? The last time, every car was looted in Outer Marsport. If they won’t let us get the oil and chemicals we need, why should we feed them?”

“Ever see starvation?” Gordon asked, wishing again someone else who’d felt it could carry the message. He told about a man who’d committed suicide for his kids, not stopping as Praeger’s face sickened slowly. “Hell, who wouldn’t loot your trains if that’s going on?”

“All right, if Mother Corey’ll back up this volunteer police group. I’ve got kids of my own ... Look, you want food, we want to ship. Get your cops to give us an escort for every shipment through to the dome, and we’ll drop off one car out of four for the outlands.”

Gordon sat back weakly. “Done!” he said. “Provided the first shipment carries the most we can get for the credits I brought.”

“It will--we’ve got some stuff that’s about to spoil, and we can let you have a whole train of it.” He took the sack of credits and tossed it toward a drawer, uncounted. “A damned good thing Security’s sending a ship. Credits won’t be worth much until they get this mess straightened out.”

Gordon felt the hair at the base of his neck tingle. “What makes you think Security can do anything? They haven’t shown a hand yet.”