BEQUEST OF THE ANGEL

  They called him the Angel, this lonely outlaw of the

  planets. and, like a real angel, he left a gift when he departed

  By JAMES BLISH

  From: Super Science Stories May 194o edition

  CHAPTER ONE

  Enter Khovansky

  Khovansky’s in town,” Major Allison said, his thin fingers fumbling with an intricate little Venerian puzzle.

  Owen sighed; he wished to high heaven the major would either toss the puzzle out of the eightieth-story window or slump into gibbering idiocy. Allison impressed him as an ineffectual, doddering old gaffer whose only function in life was digging up trouble for other and more competent men, of whom Owen considered himself one.

  “So Khovansky’s in town,” he said. “Any law against it?”

  Allison regarded him rather sadly. He looked irritatingly like somebody’s stray lamb when he did that. When he spoke, it was with restraint.

  “No. There is no law against it. Nor, you marble-brained idiot, is there any law prohibiting me from committing swift and sudden mayhem upon your loutish person. But I restrain myself. And I don’t like Khovansky. He’s tied up with Sanderson, and I don’t like that either.”

  He fished a pair of cigarettes from a box of Cerean jade before him and tossed one to Owen, who caught it expertly. “You know, Johnny,” he continued in that exasperating roundabout manner he favored so much, “you rather resemble Sanderson. You are going to look into this thing for me.”

  Owen snorted a stream of bluish smoke from his nostrils.

  “Yeah. Sure. I get the whole damned set-up. I’m going to take this mug Sanderson’s place. And what happens when we both show up in the same place at the same time? Hell, even Sanderson knows he’s not twins I”

  The major smiled beatifically. “I’ve taken care of that Oh, yes, I’ve taken care of that, ever so nicely … Sanderson was picked ~ up two days ago, on Mars. He was snooping around in the Military Building in Osteo. Y-Ray mirror and everything. Something’s afoot, Johnny, something big that will make the last Martian Outlands revolt look like Mrs. McGillicuddy’s garden party. Hot-shot as Sanderson is, he’s just an unimportant cog—comparatively speaking—in this mess. Not simple planetary revolt, John—System-wide!”

  “Nice job you got for me!’’ Owens tone was one of hurt indignation.

  Allison’s smile grew even more bland. “I was against the idea of assigning you to this job, but everyone else is busy on something important. We give all our minor details to Slap-happy stumblebums like you. Now listen, you lug, get serious for a moment, will you ? Here’s the dope … as much as we know, that is.

  “The Martian Nationalist Party is behind all this. There’s a warrant out for Khovansky, their leader, but I’ve succeeded in getting that squashed. I prefer to let him run around as much as he likes. Leads me to all his associates, if he only knew it. The number of people sneaking around in back alley and insulated rooms, though, has tripled lately. We’ve gotten hints of a vast machine, the product of long and careful planning, grinding into action. The Patrol is tearing its hair out by the roots over the sudden withdrawal of the various pirate groups. The Outposts, of course, like it, but it’s not normal, Johnny. Even the Angel has turned himself out like a light! It’s the first time in forty years that the space ways have been clear—and I’m not happy about it! It scares me, Johnny… .

  “Now, look—Sanderson is supposed to report to Khovansky, here in New York, in three weeks, when the Engels docks from Mars. Here’s the address: Number Five, Water Street. That’s in Manhattan, down by the river; you can find it easily enough. Khovansky and your pal, Sanderson, have never before met, which makes everything ducky for you. We’ll give you a lot of dope to feed to Khovansky; enough of it will be true to make good reading for the Nationalists, so you’ll get by on that score. I’ll give you Sanderson’s dossier before you leave here; it contains photos of Sandy, what few of his acquaintances we know of, and a fairly complete list of his habits, past life, and a few other odds and ends that will come in handy. Stop off and see Doc Stem, too, Johnny. He’ll fix up the little bit of difference between yourself and Sanderson, and I’ll send down a passport for you. You can’t tell, they might check up on that too. That’s about all I can think of right now, kid. Better snoop around Water Street a bit, get accustomed to the neighborhood. Now scat— and take care of yourself, Johnny.”

  Owen’s reply was one which should never be used to an Intelligent Major (Owen’s own phrase, although he maintained that that was a debatable point), even though that officer accidentally happens to be one’s cousin.

  Owen squinted through a cloud of cigarette smoke with watering eyes, ineffectively laboring to adjust an already faultlessly fitted cummerbund from Montbecque, in French South Venus, when he heard a couple of tentative raps on the door of his cabin. He yelled an answer in his customary careless fashion.

  “Good evening, sir.,, It was a steward. “You and Mr. Koehler won the ship’s pool last night, sir. Here’s your slip/’ He shoved a folded bit of paper into Owen’s hand.

  “Uh,” Owen said reflectively. “—er— thanks.” He tossed the steward a pour-boire, and only after the flunkey had gone did he open the chit, glancing momentarily at his unusually heavy strap-watch. The numerals, sliding past an opening in the otherwise blank face, were glowing with their accustomed faint luminescence … okay, no spy-rays on him.

  The note was brief enough: five twenty-four; 11:30 … five twenty-four —that would be Koehler’s cabin, of course. It was only ten after eleven now; he’d still be with his orchestra, on B-deck. Owen sighed unhappily. He had his choice of fluttering around in his room for the intervening twenty minutes, or going down to the ballroom. And he hated Koehler’s music … This was a hell of a job; he’d resign and raise peanuts or something when his present assignment was done.

  He sighed again, and decided to go down and have a drink.

  A blast of sound, like a tangible something, struck him as he elbowed his way into the crowded ballroom, obliterating all other sensations for a moment. He pushed across the room with some little difficulty, sidestepping a hunchbacked drunk in maudlin search of somebody’s karra-beer to cry into, and leaned thankfully against the long bar.

  There was nobody on the floor. At least, nobody was dancing. Jon Koehler’s music was an anachronism in this age of minor strains and chords, but when his boys had been sounding off this long, dancing was forgotten. Instead, the mob was jam-packed around the bandstand, swaying in unified, moth-like hypnosis, and as usual, was keeping discreetly to the side where Koehler was not. Owen looked at him in cynical amusement.

  He was a peculiar sort to be the leader of a jive-bunch. Not particularly bad-looking ; tall, broad-shouldered, and of indefinite age, but his high forehead and intent stare made him seem, at that distance, as though he were sporting a death’s-head on his muscular neck. He ruled that orchestra with unrelenting discipline, perpetually glaring unblinkingly at them and muttering under his breath, threatening, swearing, and all the time hammering a terrific piano.

  He looked every bit the confirmed killer and spy that he was, Owen thought, rather than a society darling of some two month’s standing; that same combination of allurement and revulsion was evident in the one-sided distribution of his audience.

  A blotter-skinned, iridescent Martian with tattered ears was screaming his liver out through a trumpet, lashless eyes closed in frenetic ecstasy. Koehler hissed ophidianly. It was not apparent to Owen’s untutored ear what the man had done—doubtlessly merely closed a phrase with a somewhat commonplace riff—but the man flinched a trifle, and seated himself abruptly. Owen chuckled and turned to his by-now-arrived and long-awaited highball. It seemed absurd, this hard-faced pianist running his band as though it were the crew of a long-arc Patrol ship …

  Owen set his glass down finally, and glanced at his watch. Not so good; only ten minutes gone, so far. He looked around for amusement, for there was really no need to keep an eye on Koehler —yet. His roving glance fell on an auburn-haired girl and stayed there, focussed on her waist-line, where her dress suddenly began. She was, unhappily enough, though, standing with her white back to him, cuddling up a gin fizz.

  He called the bartender over. “Ask the lady—the lovely red-headed lady—if shell have a drink with me”

  There was, he reflected, no great amount of danger in a pick-up. And anyway, any girl with a dress and a back that rightfully belonged to an angel was well worth knowing, if only for ten minutes. She finished her drink and raised green eyes to the spy.

  “Thanks,” she said readily. “I was hoping you’d do that. I saw you looking at me; I could tell that you were on the make.”

  “Hell,” Owen said in mock .dejection; he really didn’t give a damn. “And I thought all the time it was my personality that attracted you.”

  She laughed. A nice laugh, Owen thought, appraising her. The rest of her wasn’t bad either. He was sorry he didn’t have the time to give her the attention she merited.

  “No,” she was saying. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  She paused to watch the hunchbacked souse, who, only fifteen years out of date, was happily doing the Lunar Leap all by himself.

  Stay away from John Koehler, Mr. Sanderson,” she said.

  Owen choked and spluttered furiously on his third Scotch and soda. He regarded her ungently with streaming eyes.

  “Would I be rude,” he almost yelped, “If I asked how you kn
ew me?”

  “Not at all. Your little collodion scar is peeling, for one thing.”

  She reached to his forehead; for a fleeting moment he felt her fingers, cool and firm, against his hot brow as she jerked away the fragment of neo-skin.

  “That’s better. As for Koehler—we’ve decided to leave him out of this. It’s not safe. If he knows that you’re one of us, as he will tonight, he may sell us down the river. I’ve got Khovansky’s plans anyhow; I can tell you all about them myself.”

  “Then you’re a Nationalist?”

  “Of course. No one else knows you were in New York. And I have the plans packed away in here.” She held up a small metal-weave purse.

  What happened after that was breathtaking. The purse seemed to vanish from her hand, and the hunchback—miraculously sober—was loping along an outside corridor. In an instant Owen was after the man—he looked, from the glimpse Owen snatched, like one of Allison’s operatives—but someone spun a bar stool between his legs, slowing him.

  The corridor was dark as the coal scuttle of Hell, and Owen paused a mo-• ment in indecision. There—what was that? A movement, the faintest flicker of motion, in the gloom ahead. Owen ran on. The fool couldn’t get away; not this way… .

  Then he snapped out an oath of comprehension. The fugitive was heading for the loading well, the hundred-and-fifty foot shaft that ran the diameter of the spacesphere. But… And the fleeing man jumped!

  But he wasn’t falling—he was floating downward slowly, oh, ever so slowly. His coat had been discarded, and Owen saw what had happened; he was wearing a grav’-belt. That, then, was his hump.

  He was a perfect target against the lights of the well, and he had over one hundred feet to fail. Cursing at the criminal stupidity of him, Owen dragged out his pistol and filled the air with zipping little darts of heat, shooting around him as carefully as possible. What was the matter with the idiot?—if he had any God-damned sense at all, he’d cut his power and fall free until he presented a more difficult target to other and hostile marksmen.

  Then someone else was beside the raging Owen, a deliberate hand aimed a heavy deranger and fired one shot. Below, the purse-snatcher seemed to hesitate in mid-air for one endless second … then a bloom of flame flowered from the grav’-belt on his back, and he fell like a stone, turning over and over till he plopped on the floor of the well.

  Feeling a trifle sick, Owen straightned (he was absurdly conscious of his aching back) and stared through the darkness at the marksman.

  “For a gun-man of your reputation, Gene, you’re a hell of a lousy shot.”

  Owen fought down a powerful urge to heave Khovansky over the railing after his victim and turned away. The girl ran up.

  “Did you get him, Gene?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No,” he said stiffly. “Igor did.”

  The girl looked at the Nationalist with little interest.

  “Oh, hello, Khovansky,” she said. “Do you suppose we can get back without going through all that uproar back there ?”

  “Probably,” Khovansky returned cooly. “You belong in Koehler’s room right now, Sanderson—not drinking bottoms up with our little playmate here,” he finished, his tone scornful.

  “But I thought . . Owen caught a glance from the girl, an unspoken plea. “I thought it was too early.”

  “Uni,” grunted Khovansky. “Your watch is slow, then. Also, it indicates the presence of a Y-ray. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Angel

  The door of 524 opened for them as they approached, and Koehler’s skulllike countenance greeted them.

  “Apologies accepted in advance,” he intoned. His voice was just as Owen had expected; precise and monotoned, more like a vodeur than fleshly sounds. “I was watching you, Sanderson. You’re a poor marksman.” He slipped a Y-ray mirror into his pocket.

  Owen accepted the rebuke in indifferent silence, as would Sanderson have done, but he wished he could have made mention of the three trophies he held for pistol work.

  The gentleman in uniform sitting over by the desk of Martian teel was an officer of the Patrol, Roger Wilson, and Third Mate of the Engels. Owen wondered if he’d be recognized by the Patrolman.

  Sure enough—“This isn’t Gene Sanderson,” Wilson yelped. “He’s a snotty, I tell you! If he’s Sanderson, where’s his scar?”

  Owen relaxed, and laughed mirthlessly. “If that’s what’s bothering you, you miserable little toenail, Toots here peeled it off. You must be one of the hot-shots, to be so afraid of the snotties.”

  “Take it easy, Wilson,” Khovansky chimed in. “Gene’s been wearing a false scar for a long time, now; I’m satisfied that he’s genuine.”

  “That’s enough!” Koehler, snapped. “Quit bickering, you two! Hell, you’re acting like a couple of infants!.. . I don’t want to waste any more time than I have to. The sooner I get back to the Halo, the happier I’ll be.”

  “What did you come in for, in the first place ?” the girl asked harshly. Owen turned away to hide the expressions he knew must be chasing themselves across his face, and pretended interest in a little bit of statuary on the desk. The Halo was the pirate sphere operated by the Angel! How did he tie into this affair?

  Koehler’s lips were twisted wryly. “Anything for entertainment,” he stated bleakly. “It doesn’t particularly matter what I do, in the long run … ‘Tontor-row— Why, tomorrow I may be myself with Yesterday’s Seven thousand Years’ “ he quoted. The strange little lines around those hard, distant eyes of his deepened.

  Owen stirred impatiently. “Skip that, Koehler. What gives now? Or can’t you say ?”

  Khovansky answered. “It’s all right, Gene; we’re insulated here. As for our line of action, according to the arrangement worked out by John and myself, the Halo will intersect our trajectory ten minutes after we enter F-Sector, and take us off. Then we really go to town. All we’ve done up to now has been simple phutzing-around.

  “First, using the information that you got for us, we’ve got to eliminate the Patrol. A mass attack on the Outposts seems the best way. The Angel has organized the pirates into a loose union—they’re just waiting for the word to cut loose and smash hell out of the Outpost colonies. Next, we’ve got to find out how the government messengers manage to cross between Earth and Mars in five minutes, and set up our own equipment to duplicate it. Third, we’ve got to get hold of the battle plans of the Fleet.”

  “We’ve been all through this a dozen times,” Koehler objected. “How are you going to do all of it ?”

  “I’m not going to do all of it,” Khovansky retorted imperturbably.

  “The first point, the elimination of the Patrol, is up to you, John. I’m leaving the battle plans to Sanderson. You’ve been to Mars Centre before, haven’t you, Gene?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen it, but it’s a heck of a tough job to peek around there. The joint is lousy with those damned little relay detectors that shoot a jolt along a Y-ray beam strong enough to fry you for dinner. You would pick the tightest crib in the System …”

  Khovansky scowled. “That’s your worry. Wilson: you know what to do when the Halo contacts your mirrors?”

  Wilson waved one hand in an airy, confident gesture. “Sure, sure. Don’t worry about a thing. Look, I’ve got to go up on deck now. Keep in touch with me, will you?”

  “We will not!” Koehler—or the Angel —snapped. “The next time you’ll see us will be in F-Sector. You’ll get your pay when—and if—the coup goes through.”

  Khovansky frowned at a discolored spot on the door after Wilson had gone. “I don’t quite trust that officer-laddie. Did you know he was a Patrolman, Gene? Oh, he’s all right; he’s done several jobs for me before, but I’m getting tired of him. Don’t like the way he throws his weight around. Before we transfer to the Halo, I want you to take care of him. And do a better job of it than you did on that spy…

  Wilson hurried into the Angel’s cabin. Once more the little group of spies and counter-spy was fully assembled, as they had been three nights ago. Owen was absently squeezing an old, almost-forgotten Terrestrial tune from a little pocket-sized concertina, and watching the slim girl as she moved about the room. Khovansky was lounging easily against a wall, hands in pockets and his usual saturnine expression shadowing his dark face.