Chapter 9: Contraband

Elections were over, but the few dim lights along the street showed only boarded-up and darkened buildings. There were sounds of stirring, but no one was trusting that the election-day brawls were completely ended yet.

Gordon hesitated, then swung glumly toward a corner where he could find a police call box. He heard a tiny patrol car turn the corner and ducked back into another alley to wait for it to go by. But they weren’t looking for him. Their spotlight caught a running boy, clutching a few thin copies of the Crusader under a scrawny arm.

After the cops had dumped the unconscious kid into the back of the small squad car, and gone looking for more game, Gordon went over to look at the tattered scraps left of the opposition paper.

Randolph wasn’t preaching this time, but was content to report the facts he’d seen. There had been at least ninety known killings; mobs had fought citizens outside the main market for three hours.

Yet in spite of all the ballot-stuffing and intimidations, Wayne had barely squeaked through, by a four per cent majority. It was obvious that the current administration could never win another election.

Bruce Gordon lifted the cradled phone from the box. “Gordon reporting,” he announced.

A startled grunt came from the instrument, followed by the clicks of hasty switching. In less than fifteen seconds, Trench’s voice barked out of the phone. “Gordon? Where the hell you been?”

“Up an alley between McCutcheon and Miles,” Gordon told him. “With a corpse. Murdoch’s corpse. Better send out the wagon.”

Trench hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Okay, I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

Gordon clumped back to the alley and bent for a final inspection of Murdoch’s body, to make sure nothing would prove the flaws in his weakly built story.

Isaiah Trench was better than his word. He swung his gray car up to the alley in seven minutes.

The door slammed behind him, a beam snapped out from his flashlight into the alley, and then he was beside Murdoch’s body. He threw the light to Gordon and stooped to run expert hands over the corpse and through the pockets.

Finally, he stood up, frowning. “He’s dead, all right. I don’t get it. If you hadn’t reported in ... Gordon, did he try to make you think he was--”

“Security?” Gordon filled in. “Yeah. Claimed he was head of it here, and wanted me to send a message to Earth for him.”

Trench nodded, a touch of relief on his face. “Crazy!”

Gordon grimaced faintly.

“Crazy,” Trench repeated. “He must have been to spin that story ... By the way, thanks for killing that sniper. You’re a good shot. I’d be dead if you weren’t, I guess.”

Gordon made no comment, and Trench said, “I could start a nasty investigation, I guess. But I heard him raving, too. Give me a hand, and I’ll take care of all this ... Want me to drop you off?”

They wangled the body into the trunk of the car. Then it was good to relax while Trench drove along the rubble-piled and nearly deserted streets. Gordon heard a sigh from beside him; Trench must have been under tension, too.

They didn’t speak until Trench stopped in front of Mother Corey’s place. Then the captain turned and stuck out his hand. “Congratulations, by the way. I forgot to tell you, but you won the lottery. You’re a sergeant from now on.”

Inside, a thick effluvium hit his nose, and Gordon turned to see Mother Corey’s huge bulk waddling down the hall. The old man nodded. “We thought you’d gone on the lam, cobber. But I guess, since Trench brought you back, you’ve cooled. Good, good. As a respectable man now, I couldn’t have stashed you from the cops--though I might have been tempted--mighty tempted.” His face was melancholy. “Tell me, lad, did they get Murdoch?”

Bruce Gordon nodded, and the old man sighed. Something suspiciously like a tear glistened in his eyes.

“I thought you were taking a bath,” Gordon commented.

The old man chuckled. “Fate’s against me, cobber. With all the shooting, some punk put a bullet clean through the wall and the plastic of the tub. Fifty gallons of water, all wasted!”

He turned back toward the end of the hall, sighing again. Gordon went up the stairs, noticing that Izzy’s door was open. The little man was stretched out on the bunk in his clothes, filthy; one side of his face swollen.

“Hi, gov’nor,” he called out, his voice still cheerful. “I had odds you’d beat the ticket, though the Mother and me were worried there for a while. How’d you grease the fix?”

Gordon sketched it in, without mentioning Security. “What happened to you, Izzy?”

“Price of being honest. But the gees who paid me protection didn’t get hurt, gov’nor.” He winced, then grinned. “So they pay double tomorrow. Honesty pays, gov’nor, if you squeeze it once in a while ... Funny, you making sergeant; I thought two other gees won the lottery.”

So the promotion had come from Trench! It bothered him. When a turkey sees corn on the menu, it’s time to wonder about Thanksgiving.

Collections were good all week--probably as a result of Izzy’s actions. Even after he arranged to pay his income tax, and turned over his “donation” to the fund, Gordon was well ahead for the first time since he’d landed here.

He had become almost superstitious about the way he was always left with no more than a hundred credits in his pockets. This time, he stripped himself to that sum at once, depositing the rest in the First Marsport Bank. Maybe it would break the jinx.

They were one of the few teams in the Seventh Precinct to make full quota. Trench was lavish in his praise. He was playing more than fair with Bruce Gordon now, but there was a basic suspicion in his eyes.

The next day, he drafted Izzy and Gordon for a trip outside the dome. “It’s easy enough, and you’ll get plenty of credit in the fund for it. I need two men who can keep their mouths shut.”

They idled around the station through the morning. In the late afternoon, they left in a big truck capable of hauling what would have been fifty tons on Earth. Trench drove. Outside the dome, the electric motor carried them along at a steady twenty miles an hour, almost silently.

It was Gordon’s first look at the real Mars. He saw small villages where crop prospectors and hydroponic farmers lived, with a few small industrial sections scattered over the desert. As they moved out, he saw the slow change from the beaten appearance of Marsport to something that seemed no worse than would be found among the share-croppers back on Earth. It was obvious that Marsport was the poison center here.