Chapter 8: Vote Early and Often

Izzy was up first the next morning, urging them to hurry before things began to hum. From somewhere, he dug up a suit of clothes that Murdoch could wear. He found the gun that Gordon had confiscated from O’Neill and filled it from a box of ammunition he’d apparently purchased.

“I picked up some special permits,” he said. “I knew you had this cannon, gov’nor, and I figured it’d come in handy. Wouldn’t be caught dead with one myself. Knives, that’s my specialty. Come on, Cap’n, we gotta get out the vote.”

Murdoch shook his head. “In the first place, I’m not registered.”

Izzy grinned. “Every cop’s registered in his own precinct; Wayne got the honor system fixed for us. Show your papers and go into any booth in your territory. That’s all. And you’d better be seen voting often, too, Cap’n. What’s your precinct?”

“Eleventh, but I’m not voting. I’d like to come along with you to observe, but I wouldn’t make any choice between Wayne and Nolan.”

Downstairs, the rear room was locked, with one of Mother Corey’s guards at the door. From inside came the rare sound of water splashing, mixed with a wheezing, off-key caterwauling. Mother Corey was apparently making good on his promise to take a bath. As they reached the hall, one of Trench’s lieutenants came through the entrance, waving his badge at the protesting man outside.

He spotted the three, and jerked his thumb. “Come on, you. We’re late. And I ain’t staying on the streets when it gets going.”

A small police car was waiting outside, and they headed for it. Bruce Gordon looked at the debacle left behind the drunken, looting mob. Most of the barricades were down. Here and there, a few citizens were rushing about trying to restore them, keeping wary eyes on the mobsters who had passed out on the streets.

Suddenly a siren blasted out in sharp bursts, and the lieutenant jumped. “Come on, you gees. I gotta be back in half an hour.”

They piled inside, and the little electric car took off at its top speed. But now the quietness had been broken. There were trucks coming out of the plastics plant, and mobsters were gathering up their drunks, and chasing the citizens back into their houses. Some of them were wearing the forbidden guns, but it wouldn’t matter on a day when no police were on duty.

In the Ninth Precinct, the Planters were the biggest gang, and all the others were temporarily enrolled under them. Here, there were less signs of trouble. The joints had been better barricaded, and the looting had been kept to a minimum.

The three got off. A scooter pulled up alongside them almost at once, with a gun-carrying mobster riding it. “You mugs get the hell out of--Oh, cops! Okay, better pin these on.”

He handed out gaudy arm bands, and the three fastened them in place. Nearly everyone else already had them showing. The Planters were moving efficiently. They were grouped around the booths, and they had begun to line up their men, putting them in position to begin voting at once.

Then the siren hooted again, a long, steady blast. The bunting in front of the booths was pulled off, and the lines began to move. Izzy led the way to the one at the rich end of their beat, and moved toward the head of the line. “Cops,” he said to the six mobsters who surrounded the booth. “We got territory to cover.”

A thumb indicated that they could go in. Murdoch remained outside, and one of the thugs reached for him. Izzy cut him off. “Just a friend on the way to his own route. Eleventh Precinct.”

There were scowls, but they let it go. Then Gordon was in the little booth. It seemed to be in order. There were the books of registration, with a checker for Wayne, one for Nolan, and a third, supposedly neutral, behind the plank that served as a desk. The Nolan man was protesting.

“He’s been dead for ten years. I know him. He’s my uncle.”

“There’s a Mike Thaler registered, and this guy says he’s Thaler,” the Wayne man said decisively. “He votes.”

One of the Planters passed his gun to the inspector for the Wayne side. The Nolan man gulped, and nodded. “Heh-heh, yes, just a mix-up. He’s registered, so he votes.”

The next man Gordon recognized as being from one of the small shops on his beat. The fellow’s eyes were desperate, but he was forcing himself to go through with it. “Murtagh,” he said, and his voice broke on the second syllable. “Owen Murtagh.”

“Murtang ... No registration!” The Wayne checker shrugged. “Next!”

“It’s Murtagh. M-U-R-T-A-G-H. Owen Murtagh, of 738 Morrisy--”

“Protest!” The Wayne man cut off the frantic wriggling of the Nolan checker’s finger toward the line in the book. “When a man can’t get the name straight the first time, it’s suspicious.”

The supposedly neutral checker nodded. “Better check the name off, unless the real Murtagh shows up. Any objections, Yeoman?”

The Nolan man had no objections--outwardly. He was sweating, and the surprise in his eyes indicated that this was all new to him.

Bruce Gordon came next, showing his badge. He was passed with a nod, and headed for the little closed-off polling place. But the Wayne man touched his arm and indicated a ballot. There were two piles, and this pile was already filled out for Wayne. “Saves trouble, unless you want to do it yourself,” he suggested.

Gordon shrugged, and shoved it into the slot. He went outside and waited for Izzy to follow. It was raw beyond anything he’d expected--but at least it saved any doubt about the votes.

The procedure was the same at the next booth, though they had more trouble. The Nolan man there was a fool--neither green nor agreeable. He protested vigorously, in spite of a suspicious bruise along his temple, and finally made some of the protests stick.

Gordon began to wonder how it could be anything but a clear unanimous vote, at that rate. Izzy shook his head. “Wayne’ll win, but not that easy. The sticks don’t have strong mobs, and they’ll pile up a heavy Nolan vote. And you’ll see things hum soon!”

Gordon had voted three times under the “honor system,” before he saw. They were just nearing a polling place when a heavy truck came careening around a corner. Men began piling out of the back before it stopped--men armed with clubs and stones. They were in the middle of the Planters at once, striking without science, but with ferocity. The line waiting to vote broke up, but the citizens had apparently organized with care. A good number of the men in the line were with the attackers.

There was the sound of a shot, and a horrified cry. For a second, the citizens broke; then a wave of fury seemed to wash over them at the needless risk to the safety of all. The horror of rupturing the dome was strongly ingrained in every citizen of Marsport. They drew back, then made a concerted rush. There was a trample of bodies, but no more shots.

In a minute, the citizens’ group was inside, ripping the fixed ballots to shreds, filling out and dropping their own. They ignored the registration clerks.

A whistle had been shrilling for minutes. Now another group came onto the scene, and the Planters’ men began getting out rapidly. Some of the citizens looked up and yelled, but it was too late. From the approaching cars, pipes projected forward. Streams of liquid jetted out, and their agonized cries followed.

Even where he stood, Gordon could smell the fumes of ammonia. Izzy’s face tensed, and he swore. “Inside the dome! They’re poisoning the air.”

But the trick worked. In no time, men in crude masks were clearing out the booth, driving the last struggling citizens away, and getting ready for business as usual.

Murdoch turned on his heel. “I’ve had enough. I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “The cable offices must be open for the doctored reports on the election to Earth. Where’s the nearest?”

Izzy frowned, but supplied the information. Bruce Gordon pulled Murdoch aside. “Come off the head-cop role; it won’t work. They must have had reports on elections before this.”

“Damn the trouble. It’s never been this raw before. Look at Izzy’s face, Gordon. Even he’s shocked. Something has to be done about this, before worse happens. I’ve still got connections back there--”

“Okay,” Gordon said bitterly. He’d liked Asa Murdoch, had begun to respect him. It hurt to see that what he’d considered hardheadedness was just another case of a fool fighting dragons with a paper sword.

“Okay, it’s your death certificate,” he said, and turned back toward Izzy. “Go send your sob stories, Murdoch.”

They taught a bunch of pretty maxims in school--even slum kids learned that honesty was the best policy, while their honest parents rotted in unheated holes, and the racketeers rode around in fancy cars. It had got him once. He’d refused to take a dive as a boxer; he’d tried to play honest cards; he’d tried honesty on his beat back on Earth. He’d tried to help the suckers in his column, and here he was.

And Gordon had been proud to serve under Murdoch.

“Come on, Izzy,” he said. “Let’s vote!”

Izzy shook his head. “It ain’t right, gov’nor.”

“Let him do what he damn pleases,” Gordon told him.

Izzy’s small face puckered up in lines of worry. “No, I don’t mean him. I mean this business of using ammonia. I know some of the gees trying to vote. They been paying me off--and that’s a retainer, you might say. Now this gang tries to poison them. I’m still running an honest beat, and I bloody well can’t vote for that! Uniform or no uniform, I’m walking beat today. And the first gee that gives trouble to the men who pay me gets a knife where he eats. When I get paid for a job, I do the job.”

Gordon watched him head down the block, and started after the little man. Then he grimaced. Rule books! Even Izzy had one.

He went down the row, voting regularly. The Planters had things in order. The mess had already been cleaned up when he arrived at the cheaper end of the beat. It was the last place where he’d be expected to do his duty by Wayne’s administration; he waited in line.

Then a voice hit at his ears, and he looked up to see Sheila Corey only two places in front of him. “Mrs. Mary Edelstein,” she was saying. The Wayne man nodded, and there was no protest. She picked up a Wayne ballot, and dropped it in the box.

Then her eyes fell on Gordon. She hesitated for a second, bit her lips, and finally moved out into the crowd.

He could see no sign of her as he stepped out a minute later, but the back of his neck prickled.

He started out of the crowd, trying to act normal, but glancing down to make sure the gun was in its proper position. Satisfied, he wheeled suddenly and spotted her behind him, before she could slip out of sight.

Then a shout went up, yanking his eyes around with the rest of those standing near. The eyes had centered on the alleys along the street, and men were beginning to run wildly, while others were jerking out their weapons. He saw a big gray car coming up the street; on its side was painted the colors of the Planters. Now it swerved, hitting a siren button.

But it was too late. Trucks shot out of the little alleys, jamming forward through the people; there must have been fifty of them. One hit the big gray car, tossing it aside. It was Trench himself who leaped out, together with the driver. The trucks paid no attention, but bore down on the crowd. From one of them, a machine gun opened fire.

Gordon dropped and began crawling in the only direction that was open, straight toward the alleys from which the trucks had come. A few others had tried that, but most were darting back as they saw the colors of Nolan’s Star Point gang on the trucks.

Other guns began firing; men were leaping from the trucks and pouring into the mob of Planters, forcing their way toward the booth in the center of the mess.