The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK®. Robert SilverbergЧитать онлайн книгу.
Harry Morgan kept his affability. “That’s none of your business, Mr. Tarnhorst.”
Tarnhorst’s face didn’t change. “Perhaps your superiors haven’t told you, but—and I can only disclose this on a sealed circuit—I am in sympathy with the Belt Cities. I have been out there twice and have learned to appreciate the vigor and worth of the Belt people. I am on your side, commodore, in so far as it does not compromise my position. My record shows that I have fought for the rights of the Belt Cities on the floor of the Supreme Congress. Have you been informed of that fact?”
“I have,” said Harry Morgan. “And that is precisely why it is none of your business. The less you know, Mr. Tarnhorst, the safer you will be. I am not here as a representative of any of the City governments. I am not here as a representative of any of the Belt Corporations. I am completely on my own, without official backing. You have shown yourself to be sympathetic towards us in the past. We have no desire to hurt you. Therefore I advise that you either keep your nose out of my business or actively work against me. You cannot protect yourself otherwise.”
Edward Tarnhorst was an Earthman, but he was not stupid. He had managed to put himself in a position of power in the Welfare World, and he knew how to handle that power. It took him exactly two seconds to make his decision.
“You misunderstand me, commodore,” he said coldly. “I asked what I asked because I desire information. The People’s Government is trying to solve the murder of Commodore Jack Latrobe. Assuming, of course, that it was murder—which is open to doubt. His body was found three days ago in Fort Tryon Park, up on the north end of Manhattan Island. He had apparently jumped off one of the old stone bridges up there and fell ninety feet to his death. On the other hand, it is possible that, not being used to the effects of a field of point nine eight Standard gees, he did not realize that the fall would be deadly, and accidentally killed himself. He was alone in the park at night, as far as we can tell. It has been ascertained definitely that no representative of the People’s Manufacturing Corporation Number 873 was with him at the time. Nor, so far as we can discover, was anyone else. I asked you to call because I wanted to know if you had any information for us. There was no other reason.”
“I haven’t seen Jack since he left Juno,” Morgan said evenly. “I don’t know why he came to Earth, and I know nothing else.”
“Then I see no further need for conversation,” Tarnhorst said. “Thank you for your assistance, Commodore Morgan. If Earth’s Government needs you again, you will be notified if you gain any further information, you may call this number. Thank you again. Good-by.”
The screen went blank.
* * * *
How much of this is a trap? Morgan thought.
There was no way of knowing at this point. Morgan knew that Jack Latrobe had neither committed suicide nor died accidentally, and Tarnhorst had told him as much. Tarnhorst was still friendly, but he had taken the hint and got himself out of danger. There had been one very important piece of information. The denial that any representative of PMC 873 had been involved. PMC 873 was a manufacturer of biological products—one of the several corporations that Latrobe had been empowered to discuss business with when he had been sent to Earth by the Belt Corporations Council. Tarnhorst would not have mentioned them negatively unless he intended to imply a positive hint. Obviously. Almost too obviously.
Well?
Harry Morgan punched for Information, got it, got a number, and punched that.
“People’s Manufacturing Corporation Ey-yut Seven Tha-ree,” said a recorded voice. “Your desire, pu-leeze?”
“This is Commodore Jack Latrobe,” Morgan said gently. “I’m getting tired of this place, and if you don’t let me out I will blow the whole place to Kingdom Come. Good bye-eye-eye.”
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
Then he looked around the hotel suite he had rented. It was an expensive one—very expensive. It consisted of an outer room—a “sitting room” as it might have been called two centuries before—and a bedroom. Plus a bathroom.
Harry Morgan, a piratical smile on his face, opened the bathroom door and left it that way. Then he went into the bedroom. His luggage had already been delivered by the lift tube, and was sitting on the floor. He put both suitcases on the bed, where they would be in plain sight from the sitting room. Then he made certain preparations for invaders.
He left the door between the sitting room and the bedroom open and left the suite.
Fifteen minutes later, he was walking down 42nd Street toward Sixth Avenue. On his left was the ancient Public Library Building. In the middle of the block, somebody shoved something hard into his left kidney and said. “Keep walking, commodore. But do what you’re told.”
Harry Morgan obeyed, with an utterly happy smile on his lips.
CHAPTER IV
In the Grand Central Hotel, a man moved down the hallway toward Suite 7426. He stopped at the door and inserted the key he held in his hand, twisting it as it entered the keyhole. The electronic locks chuckled, and the door swung open.
The man closed it behind him.
He was not a big man, but neither was he undersized. He was five-ten and weighed perhaps a hundred and sixty-five pounds. His face was dark of skin and had a hard, determined expression on it. He looked as though he had spent the last thirty of his thirty-five years of life stealing from his family and cheating his friends.
He looked around the sitting room. Nothing. He tossed the key in his hand and then shoved it into his pocket. He walked over to the nearest couch and prodded at it. He took an instrument out of his inside jacket pocket and looked at it.
“Nothin’,” he said to himself. “Nothin’.” His detector showed that there were no electronic devices hidden in the room—at least, none that he did not already know about.
He prowled around the sitting room for several minutes, looking at everything—chairs, desk, windows, floor—everything. He found nothing. He had not expected to, since the occupant, a Belt man named Harry Morgan, had only been in the suite a few minutes.
Then he walked over to the door that separated the sitting room from the bedroom. Through it, he could see the suitcases sitting temptingly on the bed.
Again he took his detector out of his pocket. After a full minute, he was satisfied that there was no sign of any complex gadgetry that could warn the occupant that anyone had entered the room. Certainly there was nothing deadly around.
Then a half-grin came over the man’s cunning face. There was always the chance that the occupant of the suite had rigged up a really old-fashioned trap.
He looked carefully at the hinges of the door. Nothing. There were no tiny bits of paper that would fall if he pushed the door open any further, no little threads that would be broken.
It hadn’t really seemed likely, after all. The door was open wide enough for a man to walk through without moving it.
Still grinning, the man reached out toward the door.
He was quite astonished when his hand didn’t reach the door itself.
There was a sharp feeling of pain when his hand fell to the floor, severed at the wrist.
The man stared at his twitching hand on the floor. He blinked stupidly while his wrist gushed blood. Then, almost automatically, he stepped forward to pick up his hand.
As he shuffled forward, he felt a snick! snick! of pain in his ankles while all sensation from his feet went dead.
It was not until he began toppling forward that he realized that his feet were still sitting calmly on the floor in their shoes and that he was no longer connected to them.
It was too late. He was already falling.
He felt a stinging sensation in his throat and then nothing more as the drop