Mission: Earth "Villainy Victorious" (18 page)

There were several bars as big as a tavern, chairs and tables and decor approximating styles of different planets.

There were kitchens that were complex mazes of electronic cooking gear which sent viands upwards which would then appear magically on tables in dining salons without having seemed to travel.

There were rooms which contained such a multitude of screens that one got the impression he could look at any band or transmission on any planet anywhere.

They came to an auditorium that would seat at least two hundred people and whose stage revolved or simply flapped back when another decorated stage rose.

Madison got the distinct impression they were not seeing everything there was to see in these rooms. Something odd about it all, something strange. Spooky. Part of it was that there seemed to be windows but they were all black.

The old watchman didn't seem to be much interested. Flick ran along and the watchman would hit buttons in his box and the doors of rooms would open. Flick would look in, see paintings and hangings of great value and rush on.

"You realize," the watchman said at last, "that if I was not working this box right, we not only could not pass down these halls, for I've opened all the invisible barriers, but traps would open in the floor as well. There's this box for watchmen and such but some of the master suites can't be opened at all until they're voice-tuned to the new owner."

Flick whispered to Madison excitedly. "There's a half a million credits in loot in this place. It would be the haul of the century." Then he went racing on to glance into more rooms.

"Of course," the gray-haired banker told Madison, "the apartment has regular street entrances and elevators: several of them in fact. But you can only come up to the first floor of these five. The upper ones require special entrance. General Loop was pretty security conscious, I'm afraid."

Finally the three bankers and the bored watchman were so worn out with walking that they simply stopped. "Do you mind," said the gray-haired man, "if we go back to the hangar salon? If you're still interested..."

"Oh, we're interested!" said Flick with a wink at Madison. And he followed them back to where the airbus was.

Flick, arriving there, reached out his hand to the watchman. "Could I see that box?"

The watchman shook his head.

The three bankers sank wearily into chairs, quite worn out from almost two hours of unaccustomed walking. Madison himself felt fagged.

"If you're willing to talk price," said the gray-haired man, "we are open to some serious offers. We know that the place is large, too large. And it could never obtain a hotel license. The entire remainder of the building, all seventy-five lower floors, are separately owned by residential families such as club officials and so on, and they are much smaller. This so-called townhouse is all under one deed that can't be broken down into subdeeds and so it can't be separately rented out or sold in pieces. Now, I am being very frank. The general's heirs want to get rid of it. It would not be honest of us not to tell you. So what do you offer?" Madison was sure Flick would find some excuse. Madison's main problem was how he was going to discourage Flick from a break-in and robbery.

Flick was looking at the box in the watchman's hands. It was obvious the watchman was not going to give it up. Flick sighed deeply. Madison had visions of being part of a break-in that would bring immediate arrest. There was only one way to handle this. As a PR man he knew how to wheel and deal. He would offer a price too low. They would leave and then he would use his authority to argue some sense into Flick. Maybe bribe him.

"Well," said Madison to the gray-haired man, "I'm afraid we can't go higher than twenty thousand credits."

"Sold," said the gray-haired man without even looking at the other two. "The heirs will be very pleased. The papers are already here. I will fill in the amount and you can stamp them."

Madison blinked. Then he suddenly realized the offer was about four hundred thousand dollars!

HE HAD BOUGHT A HAUNTED TOWN-HOUSE!

"Jumping comets, are you smart!" crooned Flick as they rose up through the roof and flew away. "Now we can rob the place without any watchman even sticking their noses in."

"Flick," said Madison, "we OWN the place."

"Makes no difference," said Flick. "My dream is going to come true! Look, I got the box and a four-foot stack of directions in the bargain. Wow, what an easy break-in this will be! Oh, man, are
all
my dreams coming true!"

"Flick– – "

"Oh, leave this up to me. You're smart. I got to admit that now. I was wrong: a murderer can have brains for something else besides nightmares. Wow, what a master stroke! Boy, and I puzzled and puzzled over that for months and months!"

"Flick, it's sunset and I think we ought to call it a day. I got to get up early in the morning and get on my job!"

"Hey, that shows you why you should leave all this up to me. Crime works best by night and you ought to know that."

They had leaped up into the sky and the traffic lanes, strung out like fireflies in the dusk, were falling behind them.

"Flick, we seem to be leaving the towns. Where are you going?"

"Now, don't bother your head. Just because you got one bright idea doesn't prove you know enough to handle everything in sight. Just relax back there."

"Flick, I think..."

"Hand me a sweetbun, would you? They're in that side locker. Have some yourself?'

A vast sea was on their left and they were speeding along the coast, a greenish surf drawing ribbons of foam upon the sand in the dimming light. Great scarlet clouds, far to the west, were catching the afterglow of the sun.

Presently, in the fading twilight, the beaches gave way to cliffs and black mountains began to silhouette against the stars. Suddenly Flick pulled his throttle back and pointed.

A huge ebony bulk lay just ahead, sprawling along the top of cliffs that fell a quarter of a mile, sheer, to the sea. Battlements that covered acres were blacker against an ink-dark sky.

"That's the Domestic Confederacy Prison," said Flick. "Two hundred miles from Government City and two miles past Hell Nine. My brother did twenty years here and he told me all about it. It used to be an Army fort that held a million men: huge underground bunkers. But part of it was destroyed by an earthquake that took some of the cliff away so they gave it to the 'bluebottles.' They use it for those sentenced to twenty years or more: place is escape-proof, so they ship in their worst ones from all over the Confederacy. There's about two hundred thousand prisoners there and they never see the light." He slid Madison's identoplate into a slot in the dash.

"You mean we're going in amongst murderers?" said Madison.

"Oh, you kill me, Chief, you really do. Always gagging around. You don't have to pretend with me. I'm your driver, remember?" Flick snickered. "An officer of the Apparatus squealing like a little girl about associating with criminals! And a murderer at that." He thought it was very funny. Then he sobered. "There's their call-in light. Now, you let me do the talking, you hear?"

A glaring light hit them from a battlement and then went off. Four bright blue lights sprang up, bathing a courtyard in an eerie glow.

Flick landed and they got out. Two "bluebottles" approached and the snout of a gun covered them from a high turret. Flick showed them Madison's identoplate and a torch glared in Madison's face as they compared the picture. Surf sounded with a distant boom and the wind moaned.

"Take us to the warder," said Flick.

They walked across the gritty courtyard, through a rusty door, and shortly were ushered into a stone-walled room where a very old and tough-faced man was just getting his jacket on. "And what's so urgent that you come here at night?" said the warder, scowling.

Flick held up Madison's identoplate.

"PR man?"
said the warder. "What's that?"

"Parole officer," said Flick. "Apparatus parole officer." And he made a little gesture toward the two "bluebottles" that had followed them in. The warder signalled with his hand that the escort could withdraw.

Flick reached into Madison's coat and drew out two one-thousand-credit notes and slid them into the warder's palm. It was a year's pay.

"Ah, yes," said the warder. "A parole officer. Anybody special?"

"Lead us to your computer consoles," said Flick.

The warder took them down a stone passageway, ushered them into a room where several consoles sat, deserted at night. He waved his hand in invitation and left, shutting the door.

Flick took off his mustard-colored tunic, rolled up his sleeves and sat down before a keyboard and screen.

Madison said, "Flick, you've GOT to tell me what you are up to NOW!"

"Well," said Flick, with a glance to make sure the door was shut, "if you plan a robbery you've got to have a gang."

"You don't need a gang, Flick."

"Now listen," said Flick, "I've dreamed and dreamed of having my own gang. I never had the means to break one out. Now, you're not going to spoil it. You got to be more careful of dreams: they're fragile." He turned to a pad on the desk, a big smile beginning to split the horizontal oval of his face. "Oh, man! Am I ever going to have a great gang. Now I'm going to make a list of absolute essentials, so don't you interrupt."

He began to write and Madison, looking over his shoulder, read:

5
More drivers for getaway and loot coaches and in case I get tired driving.

He chewed the end of the pen for a bit, then he said, "Nope, that's it. That's just about right. A gang right out of my dreams for sure. Now I'm going to computer out ten candidates for each of these jobs, then I'll get the warder to dig the applicants out of the old bunkers and parade them and I can select the absolute top-best criminals. Perfection!"

He turned to the console and shortly the screen began to show a racing blur of numbers, names, faces and records. Flick was preselecting categories and then entering them by number in on a side, portable computer board. Thousands of names and faces were pouring through.

Madison watched dully, wondering how he was going to stop this.

No master at operating one of these, Flick occasionally hit a wrong key. This got him in a tangle and wrong categories flashed up while he tried to get back.

"Wait!" said Madison, suddenly jarred out of his preoccupation. "What on
Earth
is that category you just passed? Go back to it."

Flick did. "Circus girls? What would anybody want with circus girls? All they ever do is stand around and show off costumes. And there, look at the crimes: life for rolling drunks. That type of criminality is NOT dignified. We're not rolling drunks: we're in the house-robbing business."

"Wait, don't shift categories yet. Some of those carry the educated symbol. Does it say any of them were ever models?"

"What's a 'model'?"

"Pull the printout on those and get them paraded along with the rest."

Flick muttered. He hit another wrong key.

"Hey!" said Madison. "There's an ex-Homeview cameraman doing life for equipment theft!"

Flick was disgusted. "Look, if you're going to put together
another gang,
go over to another console: you're getting in my way."

Madison approached another console and figured out how to operate it. He got to work.

Madison, two hours later, was feeling more than slightly ill. He was standing in the ghastly blue light of the prison courtyard, one hand on the airbus, trying not to vomit. Naturally fastidious, he feared he'd be smelling that smell for weeks.

The warder, good as his word, had paraded ten candidates at a time in a noisome assembly bunker and Flick and Madison had had the job of interviewing each. Between them, they had examined 480 prisoners. They had selected 48. They had been cursed luridly at the last by the 432 luckless ones who had NOT been chosen.

And here came the fruits of their interviews after being handled on the prison rolls. The small mob was being prodded forward by stingers in the hands of guards. Additional "bluebottles," alert with guns, walked behind.

The night was dark and the courtyard cold with wind in off the sea. The prisoners' rags were blown like tattered banners about their filthy limbs. They stank; their hair was matted; they were thin. The fourteen women and thirty-four men should have been cowed, but they were not.

They came to a stop in the sudden glare of a spotlight on the wall. They had not been outside, some of them, for years. They looked around brazenly. A couple of them barked laughs at the guards, jeering laughs. Flick and Madison had not chosen convicts who looked cowed.

The warder, walking over the black pavement to Madison, heard the laughs and turned around and glared at the group. Then he turned back to Madison and pushed papers at him on a board so they could be stamped.