Colonization_ Aftershocks Part 9

"That's right," Penny agreed. A lot of places, they could have made things go smoothly by greasing the functionary's palm. There were parts of the USA where that would have worked like a charm. Eyeing this customs man, Auerbach thought a bribe would only get him in deeper. He kept his hand away from his billfold.

"I think we had better have a look at your baggage," the Canadian official said. "A good, thorough look."

He and his pals spent the next hour examining the baggage not only by eye but with a fluoroscope. A customs man patted Rance down. A police matron took Penny off into another room. When she came back, steam was coming out of her ears. But the matron shrugged to the customs men, so Penny had pa.s.sed the test.

"You see?" Rance said. "We're clean." He was awfully glad neither he nor Penny had tried to sneak a gun through the Dominion. Canadians didn't like that sort of thing at all.

The lead customs agent glared at him. "You have close to fifty pounds of ginger in your suitcases," he pointed out.

"It's not illegal." Rance and Penny spoke together.

"That's so." The customs man didn't sound happy about it, but couldn't deny it. "Still, I strongly suggest you would be very wise to keep your noses clean while you are in Edmonton. Give me those preposterous papers." With quite unnecessary force, he applied the stamps that cleared them for entry.

Because Auerbach wasn't up to carrying much, they rented a little cart to get all the luggage to the cab rank. Fortunately, the first waiting cabby drove an enormous Oldsmobile whose equally enormous trunk devoured all the suitcases with the greatest of ease.

"Four Seasons Hotel," Penny told him as he held the door open for her and Rance.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "Best hotel in town." His accent wasn't that far removed from her Midwestern tones. Next best thing to being back in the States, Next best thing to being back in the States, Auerbach thought. Auerbach thought.

He hadn't known what to expect from the hotel; choosing one from thousands of miles away couldn't be anything but a gamble. But this gamble paid off. "Not bad," Penny said as bellmen all but fought over their suitcases.

"How long do you expect to be staying, sir?" the desk clerk asked Rance.

"Only a few days," Rance answered. With luck, they'd sell their ginger here and then head on to France with a nice stash. Without luck, they'd have to try to smuggle the ginger past the noses of the Race's French chums, and probably past the Lizards' own snouts, too. Rance didn't like thinking about all the things that could happen without luck.

"Phew!" Penny said when they finally made it to their room.

"Yeah." Rance hobbled over to the bed, let his stick fall to the thickly carpeted floor, and stretched out at full length on the mattress. His back made little crackling noises. "Jesus, that feels good!" he said. "I feel like I was stuffed into a sardine can for the last month."

"I know what you mean." Penny lay down beside him. "The j.a.ps make seats and s.p.a.ces between seats that suit them, but they're too d.a.m.n cramped for Americans. I'm not a great big gal, but I'm not teeny-tiny like that, either."

He reached out and let his hand rest, almost as if by accident, on her leg. One thing led to another, and then to another after that: both of them, worn out by long travel and other, happier exertions, fell asleep on that big, comfortable bed. When Rance woke up, he heard the shower going. It stopped a couple of minutes later. Penny came out, wrapped in a white hotel towel. "Oh, good," she said when she saw his eyes were open. "Now I don't have to shake you."

"You'd better not." Sitting up made Rance's ruined shoulder yelp, but he did it anyhow. "What time is it?" Asking her was easier than looking at the clock on the nightstand.

"Half past six," she answered. "Why don't you spruce up, too? Then we can go downstairs and get ourselves some supper." As if to spur him out of bed, she let the towel drop.

"Okay," he said, groping for his stick when he would sooner have been groping her. But soap and hot water were good in their own way. After endless hours in that airplane, he felt filmed with grime. Sc.r.a.ping sandy, gray-streaked stubble off his chin and cheeks made him look less like a stumbleb.u.m and more like an up-and-coming ginger dealer.

Everybody in the Vintage Room, the Four Seasons' restaurant, looked like somebody, whether he was or not. Whiskies arrived with commendable speed. The steaks Rance and Penny ordered took a lot longer, though. The service was courteous and attentive, but it was slow. After j.a.panese food on the airliner, Auerbach's stomach seemed empty as outer s.p.a.ce. He finally lost patience. When his waiter walked by, he growled, "What are you doing, waiting for the calf to grow up so you can butcher it?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The waiter didn't sound more than professionally sorry. "I'm sure your supper will be ready before too very long." Off he went. The restaurant wasn't crowded, but things didn't move very fast even so.

A couple of tables over, a fellow with a splendid graying handlebar mustache waved for his own waiter. "I say," he boomed in tones unmistakably upper-crust British, "has everyone in your kitchen died of old age?"

"Oh, good," Penny said with a laugh. "We're not the only ones who can't get fed."

"Not the only ones starving to death, you mean," Rance grumbled. He studied the Englishman. After a moment, he grunted softly. "G.o.d d.a.m.n me to h.e.l.l and throw me in a frying pan if that's not Basil Roundbush. I haven't seen him in years, but that's got to be him. Couldn't be anybody else, by Jesus."

"That ginger smuggler you have connections with?" Penny asked.

"The very same," Auerbach said. "Now what the devil is he doing here? I hadn't heard that he'd given up on England." He paused. "For that matter, with the n.a.z.is down for the count, there's no point in giving up on England, you know?" His eyes narrowed. "Maybe he's here on business."

"Yeah." Penny's eyes lit up. "Maybe we could do some business if he is. Finding somebody like that-we wouldn't need to chase around after locals with connections. It could save us a lot of time."

"You're right. Money, too." Rance grabbed his stick and used it to get to his feet. He limped over to the table where Basil Roundbush was sitting and sketched a salute. "Long as you're not getting fed, either, want to not get fed along with my lady friend and me?"

Roundbush's gaze swung toward him. The Englishman was so handsome, Rance wondered if he ought to let him anywhere near Penny. But it was done now. And, no slower than if he'd seen Rance day before yesterday, Roundbush said, "Auerbach, as I live and breathe." He sprang to his feet and shook Rance's hand. "What are you doing in this benighted Land Without Supper?"

"This and that. We can talk about it, if you want to," Auerbach said. "And I might ask you the same question. I will ask you the same question, when you get over there."

"I hope my waiter eventually realizes where I've gone-or even that I've gone." But Roundbush grabbed his own drink and followed Rance back to his table. He bowed over Penny's hand and kissed it. She did everything but giggle like a schoolgirl. Auerbach had known she would. Sourly, he waved to his waiter for another drink. Roundbush's waiter came by the empty table and stared in blank dismay. More handwaving got that straightened out. The dinners did eventually arrive.

Over what even a Texan had to admit was pretty good beef, Rance asked, "And what are are you doing in Canada?" you doing in Canada?"

"Taking care of a nasty little spot of business," Basil Roundbush answered. "Chap named David Goldfarb-fellow wouldn't do what he was supposed to. Can't have that go on: bad for business, don't you know?"

"Goldfarb?" Rance's ears p.r.i.c.ked up. "Not the fellow you sent down to Ma.r.s.eille?"

"Why, yes. How the devil could you know that?" Before Auerbach spoke, Roundbush answered his own question: "Don't tell me you were the people the Lizards had involved in that fiasco. Small world, isn't it?"

"Too d.a.m.n small, sometimes," Rance said.

"It could be, it could be." Basil Roundbush waved airily. "In any case, the bloke's not wanted anything to do with us since. He knows rather more than he should, and so..." He shrugged. "Unfortunate, but that's how life is sometimes."

"You ask me, you ought to leave him alone," Rance said. "You asked for trouble, sending a Jew down into the Reich. Reich. I'd give you what-for, too, you tried that on me." I'd give you what-for, too, you tried that on me."

Penny kicked him under the table. He wondered why, till he remembered they might be able to sell Roundbush their ginger. Well, that was water over the dam now. The Englishman gave him a frosty stare. "I'm afraid your opinion doesn't much concern me, old man. I intend doing what suits me, not what suits you."

Rance's temper kindled. He didn't care who the limey was, or how big a wheel. n.o.body brushed him off like that. n.o.body. "You can G.o.dd.a.m.n well leave him alone, mister, or you'll answer to me."

Penny kicked him again, harder. He ignored that, too. He'd thought she would make trouble here, and now he was doing it. Roundbush didn't laugh in his face, but he came close. He said, "If you think your foolish words will do the slightest thing toward changing my mind, old man, I must tell you you're mistaken."

"If you think I'm just talking, old man, old man, you're full of s.h.i.+t," Rance replied. Penny did her best to take his leg off at the ankle. The Lizards had done their best to take it off at the thigh. He wasn't afraid of anything, not any more, not even-maybe especially not-of dying. It gave him an odd sort of freedom. He intended to make the most of it. you're full of s.h.i.+t," Rance replied. Penny did her best to take his leg off at the ankle. The Lizards had done their best to take it off at the thigh. He wasn't afraid of anything, not any more, not even-maybe especially not-of dying. It gave him an odd sort of freedom. He intended to make the most of it.

Whenever the telephone rang these days, whether at home or at the Saskatchewan River Widget Works, David Goldfarb answered it with a certain amount of apprehension. He also answered it with pencil and paper handy, to record the phone numbers of callers. That wouldn't do him any good with Basil Roundbush, of course, but it might help with local hired muscle, if the Englishman chose to use any. Goldfarb had no way of guessing how many scrambler sets Roundbush had brought along.

"Saskatchewan River Widgets," he said now, pencil poised. "David Goldfarb speaking."

"h.e.l.lo, Goldfarb. We met once upon a time, a long ways away from here. Do you remember?" It wasn't Roundbush's voice. It wasn't a British voice at all. That accent was American, with an odd tw.a.n.g. The fellow on the other end of the line also spoke in a harsh rasp, as if he hadn't had a cigarette out of his mouth for five minutes since the day he was born.

More than anything else, that rasp reminded David Goldfarb of who the caller had to be. "Ma.r.s.eille," he blurted, and then, "You're one of the Yanks the Lizards used to try to nab Pierre Dutourd."

"That's right," the American said. "Name's Rance Auerbach, in case you don't recollect. You ought to be interested in hearing I had supper with that fellow called Roundbush last night."

Goldfarb already had his number written down. He could pa.s.s it on to the police with no trouble at all. Voice tight, he said, "And I suppose you're going to tell me you're the one who plans on finis.h.i.+ng me off." Anything more he could pa.s.s on to the police would be welcome, too.

But this Auerbach said, "Christ, no, you d.a.m.n fool. I just wanted to make sure you knew old Basil was gunning for you. I told him to leave you the h.e.l.l alone, and he told me to p.i.s.s up a rope. So I'm on your side, son."

n.o.body'd been on Goldfarb's side for a long time. Actually, that wasn't quite true. Without Jerome Jones' help, he never would have been able to emigrate from Britain at all, and without George Bagnall, he might still be languis.h.i.+ng in bureaucratic limbo in Ottawa. But Roundbush and his chums seemed much more determined to do him harm than anybody was to do him good. He said, "I know dear Basil is in Edmonton, thanks."

"That's nice," Auerbach said. "Do you know he intends to do you in, too?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," David answered. Talking about it felt surprisingly good. "I'm taking what precautions I can." Those were pitifully few. And he could do even less for Naomi and the children than he could for himself.

"I told the son of a b.i.t.c.h he'd answer to me if he tried any nasty business on you," Rance Auerbach said. "He didn't cotton to hearing that, but I told him anyhow. After he sent you to France, he can d.a.m.n well leave you alone now."

"Did you?" Goldfarb was frankly amazed, and no doubt showed it. In an absent way, he wondered what sort of name Rance was; the Yanks could come up with some strange ones. But that didn't matter. He went on, "And what did he say to that? Nothing too kind, is my guess." you?" Goldfarb was frankly amazed, and no doubt showed it. In an absent way, he wondered what sort of name Rance was; the Yanks could come up with some strange ones. But that didn't matter. He went on, "And what did he say to that? Nothing too kind, is my guess."

"Right the first time." Auerbach coughed, then muttered, "d.a.m.n!" He drew in a breath whose wheezing Goldfarb could hear over the telephone before continuing, "No, he wasn't too happy. But then, he doesn't think I can do much."

Remembering how physically damaged the American was, Goldfarb feared his former RAF superior was right. He didn't want to say that. What he did say was, "What can you do?"

"Less than I'd like, dammit, on account of I'm not gonna be here real long. But I've already talked to some of the cops here," Auerbach answered. "For some reason or other, Canadians take things like death threats a lot more seriously than we do down in the States."

Was that supposed to be funny? Goldfarb couldn't tell. He said, "You're supposed supposed to take things like that seriously, aren't you?" to take things like that seriously, aren't you?"

Auerbach laughed. Then he coughed again. Then he cursed again. He said, "Only goes to show you've never lived in Texas." After another round of coughs and another round of soft curses, he went on, "Listen, you know where you can get your hands on a pistol without filling out forms from here to next week?"

"No," Goldfarb answered. He'd been advised-h.e.l.l, he'd been told-to leave his service weapon behind when he came to Canada. He'd done it, too, and spent the time since Basil Roundbush first called wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't.

"Too bad," the American said. "The trouble with guys like good old Basil and his pals is, they don't play by the rules. If you do, you're liable to end up a dead duck."

"I know," David said unhappily. "But what can you do about all this? What can I do about it, for that matter?"

"Well, making sure you don't get killed would be a good start," Auerbach answered.

"I quite agree," David Goldfarb said. "I've been trying to do that myself for quite some time now. What can you do about it?"

"I don't right know. I wish I were gonna be here longer," the American said. "I've got a marker or two I may be able to call in, but G.o.d only knows if they're still worth anything. Finding out will take a little bit of doing: I haven't tried to get ahold of these people in a long time. And I won't be able to tell them everything about this business even if they aren't pus.h.i.+ng up lilies somewhere."

David pondered that. It could add up to any number of different things, but he saw one that looked more likely than any of the others. "You know Germans?" he asked, and wondered if he really wanted to find out the answer.

For close to half a minute, he didn't. At last, Auerbach said, "Well, you're n.o.body's fool, are you?"

"I like to think not, anyhow," Goldfarb said. "Of course, people like to think all sorts of things that others might find unlikely."

"And isn't that the sad and sorry truth?" Rance Auerbach said. "Okay, hang in there, Goldfarb. I'll see what I can do." He hung up.

From the next desk over, Hal Walsh said, "I hope that wasn't trouble, David," as Goldfarb set his own phone back in its cradle.

"I don't...think so," David told his boss. Walsh nodded, not entirely convinced. Since Goldfarb wasn't entirely convinced, either, he just shrugged and went back to work. He had to look down at the drawings in front of him for a while before he could remember what the h.e.l.l he'd been trying to do.

He spent the rest of the day at half speed. He couldn't keep his mind fully on the latest project Hal Walsh had set him. His eyes kept drifting toward the telephone. When it rang half an hour later, he jumped. But it was only Naomi, asking him to stop at the grocery for a few things on the way home from work.

"I can do that," he said.

"I should hope so," his wife answered. "It's not that hard, especially now when you have sensible money to deal with." Though she'd lived in Britain for the larger part of her life, she'd never quite come to terms with pence and s.h.i.+llings and pounds. Canadian dollars and cents made her much happier than the traditional currency ever had.

Goldfarb left the office about half an hour later than he might have otherwise; he was doing his best to make up for being distracted. As usual when the weather was even close to decent, he walked home: his flat was less than a mile from the Widget Works. That kept the beginnings of a middle-aged potbelly from becoming too much more than a beginning.

With a choice of several grocer's shops on the way, he intended to stop at the one closest to his block of flats. Walking was all very well, but walking with a paper sack was something else again.

He was halfway across the street on whose far side stood the grocer's when he heard the roar of a racing automobile engine and a couple of shouts of, "Look out!" His head whipped around. A big Chevy-an enormous auto, for one used to British motorcars-was bearing down on him, and the driver plainly had not the slightest intention of stopping.

Had he panicked, he would have died right there. He waited as long as he thought he possibly could-perhaps a whole second-then dashed forward. The Chevy's driver couldn't react quite fast enough. The edge of his mudguard (no, they called them fenders on this side of the Atlantic) touched Goldfarb's jacket, but then he was past.

And then that driver had to slam on the brakes to keep from smas.h.i.+ng into the cars stopped at the light at the next corner. He couldn't do that quite fast enough, either, not at the speed he was going. It had been a while since David heard the crash of crumpling metal and shattering gla.s.s, but the sound was unmistakable.

Goldfarb sprinted toward the Chevy that had come to grief. He hoped the driver had gone straight through the windscreen-it never for a moment occurred to him to doubt that the fellow had tried to run him down on purpose. And if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d hadn't got himself a face full of plate gla.s.s, Goldfarb wanted answers from him. Maybe the local constabulary could get them. Or maybe he'd start bouncing the b.u.g.g.e.r's head off the pavement till he sang.

But the driver hadn't gone through the windscreen (no, winds.h.i.+eld here). He managed to get his door open and started to run. "Stop him!" Goldfarb shouted. "Stop that man!"

In Britain, a crowd would have taken off after the man. He didn't know what would happen in Canada. He found out: a crowd took off after the fellow, a crowd led by the man with whose car the driver had just collided. A younger fellow brought the fleeing driver down with a tackle that would have earned him pats on the back in a rugby scrum.

"He almost killed you, buddy," somebody said to Goldfarb. "It was like he didn't see you at all."

"Oh, he saw me, all right," David said grimly. "He's just sorry he missed." The other man stared at him and tried to laugh, thinking he'd made a joke. When he didn't laugh back, the other fellow went off shaking his head.

Goldfarb didn't care, because a police car screeched around the corner and stopped. The men who piled out were dressed more like American cops than British bobbies, but that didn't matter much. They took efficient charge of the miscreant. "He tried to kill me," Goldfarb told one of them. "Before he smashed into that other motorcar, he almost ran me down while I was crossing the street."

"Probably drunk," the policeman said.

"No, I mean it literally," David insisted. "He did try to kill me. He swerved towards me, but I managed to dodge."

Both policemen looked at him. One of them said, "Maybe you'd better come to the station, then, sir, and give a statement."

"I'd be glad to, if you'll let me ring my wife when we get there, so she knows I'm all right and I'll be late," Goldfarb answered. The policemen nodded. He rode to the station in the front seat, the man who'd tried to run him down in the back. They didn't say a word to each other all the way there.

Sweating in his coveralls, Johannes Drucker waited for a Lizard to open the door to his cubicle aboard the stars.h.i.+p he'd tried to destroy. At precisely the appointed moment, the door slid open. The male-Drucker presumed it was a male-who stood in the doorway said, "Come with me."

"It shall be done, superior sir," Drucker answered.

The Lizard's mouth fell open: the gesture the Race used for laughter. "I am a female," she said. "My name is Nesseref. Now come. My shuttlecraft is waiting at the rotation hub of this s.h.i.+p."

"It shall be done, superior female," female," Drucker said, both stressing the word and adding an emphatic cough. That made Nesseref laugh again. Drucker said, both stressing the word and adding an emphatic cough. That made Nesseref laugh again.

When Drucker strode out into the corridor, he found two armed Lizards waiting to make sure he didn't go anywhere he wasn't supposed to. Now that they were finally releasing him, the German s.p.a.ceman had no intention of doing that, but he would have mistrusted one of them were their roles reversed. He wished those roles had been reversed.

He followed Nesseref toward the hub of the stars.h.i.+p. The guards followed him. With every deck they went inward, they got lighter. By the time they reached the rotation hub, they weighed nothing at all.