Four-Day Planet - H. Beam Piper (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📗

Steve Ravick has a racket. The only thing you can do with this organization is smash it, and then rebuild it with Ravick and his gang left out.”

Joe puzzled over that silently. He’d been thinking that it was the same Cooperative his father and Simon MacGregor and the other old hunters had organized, and that getting rid of Ravick was simply a matter of voting him out. He was beginning to see, now, that parliamentary procedure wasn’t any weapon against Ravick’s force and fraud and intimidation.

“I think Walt has something,” Oscar Fujisawa said. “As long as Murell’s in the hospital at the spaceport, he’s safe, but as soon as he gets out of Odin Dock & Shipyard territory, he’s going to be a clay pigeon.”

Tom hadn’t been saying anything. Now he cleared his throat.

“On the Peenemünde, I was talking about taking Mr. Murell for a trip in the Javelin,” he said. “That was while we were still pretending he’d come here to write a book. Maybe that would be a good idea, anyhow.”

“It’s a cinch we can’t let him get killed on us,” his father said. “I doubt if Exotic Organics would send anybody else out, if he was.”

“Here,” Dad said. “We’ll run the story we have on him in the morning edition, and then correct it and apologize to the public for misleading them and explain in the evening edition. And before he goes, we can have him make an audiovisual for the ’cast, telling everybody who he is and announcing the price he’s offering. We’ll put that on the air. Get enough publicity, and Steve Ravick won’t dare do anything to him.”

Publicity, I thought, is the only weapon Dad knows how to use. He thinks it’s invincible. Me, I wouldn’t bet on what Steve Ravick wouldn’t dare do if you gave me a hundred to one. Ravick had been in power too long, and he was drunker on it than Bish Ware ever got on Baldur honey-rum. As an intoxicant, rum is practically a soft drink beside power.

“Well, do you think Ravick’s gotten onto Murell yet?” Oscar said. “We kept that a pretty close secret. Joe and I knew about him, and so did the Mahatma and Nip Spazoni and Corkscrew Finnegan, and that was all.”

“I didn’t even tell Tom, here, till the Peenemünde got into radio range,” Joe Kivelson said. “Then I only told him and Ramón and Abdullah and Abe and Hans Cronje.”

“And Al Devis,” Tom added. “He came into the conning tower while you were telling the rest of us.”

The communication screen began buzzing, and I went and put it on. It was Bish Ware, calling from a pay booth somewhere.

“I have some early returns,” he said. “The cops cleared everybody out of Hunters’ Hall except the Ravick gang. Then Ravick reconvened the meeting, with nobody but his gang. They were very careful to make sure they had enough for a legal quorum under the bylaws, and then they voted to accept the new price of thirty-five centisols a pound.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Joe Kivelson said. “Did they arrest any of my crew?”

“Not that I know of,” Bish said. “They made a few arrests, but turned everybody loose later. They’re still looking for you and your son. As far as I know, they aren’t interested in anybody else.” He glanced hastily over his shoulder, as though to make sure the door of the booth was secure. “I’m with some people, now. I’ll call you back later.”

“Well, that’s that, Joe,” Oscar said, after Bish blanked the screen. “The Ravick Coop’s stuck with the price cut. The only thing left to do is get everybody out of it we can, and organize a new one.”

“I guess that’s so,” Joe agreed. “I wonder, though if Ravick has really got wise to Murell.”

“Walt figured it out since the ship got in,” Oscar said. “Belsher’s been on the ship with Murell for six months. Well, call it three; everything speeds up about double in hyperspace. But in three months he ought to see as much as Walt saw in a couple of hours.”

“Well, maybe Belsher doesn’t know what’s suspicious, the way Walt does,” Tom said.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I said. “But he and Murell are both in the wax business. I’ll bet he noticed dozens of things I never even saw.”

“Then we’d better take awfully good care of Mr. Murell,” Tom said. “Get him aboard as fast as we can, and get out of here with him. Walt, you’re coming along, aren’t you?”

That was what we’d agreed, while Glenn Murell was still the famous travel-book author. I wanted to get out of it, now. There wouldn’t be anything happening aboard the Javelin, and a lot happening here in Port Sandor. Dad had the same idea, only he was one hundred percent for my going with Murell. I think he wanted me out of Port Sandor, where I wouldn’t get in the way of any small high-velocity particles of lead that might be whizzing around.

Aboard the Javelin

We heard nothing more from Bish Ware that evening. Joe and Tom Kivelson and Oscar Fujisawa slept at the Times Building, and after breakfast Dad called the spaceport hospital about Murell. He had passed a good night and seemed to have thrown off all the poison he had absorbed through his skin. Dad talked to him, and advised him not to leave until somebody came for him. Tom and I took a car⁠—and a pistol apiece and a submachine gun⁠—and went to get him. Remembering, at the last moment, what I had done to his trousers, I unpacked his luggage and got another suit for him.

He was grateful for that, and he didn’t lift an eyebrow when he saw the artillery we had with us. He knew, already, what the score was, and the rules, or absence thereof, of the game, and accepted us as members of his team. We dropped to the Bottom Level