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was enough food, preserves and delicacies to keep him in luxury even if he exceeded his natural life
expectation by twenty years.
He grinned inwardly. The Organization would froth at the mouth they had paid for it all. Their work
robots would bore into the solid rock, carving comfortable, safe, light and, in due course, air-conditioned
rooms. They would suck chemicals from the soil from which they would weave carpets and tapestries.
He was going to live like a king. Oh yes, it would be lonely, but this was not something he wanted to
share and alone he was safe. There would be no one here to guard against, argue with or to threaten
exposure.
 Everything unloaded, boss."
 Good, good here. He pressed a wad of notes into the man's hand.  A bonus for you, ten thousand,
help you to forget even better, eh?"
 Why thanks, Mr. Brinker, thanks good luck, sir."
Seconds later the door slid shut and the repeller plates began to hum softly. A cushion of repellent energy
began to build up between the ground and the vessel, forcing them apart. The reaction tubes took over
and the vessel began to lift swiftly.
Brinker sat down on a crate and watched it go up, dwindling in size as it went. He was smiling, a bland,
all-knowing, self-satisfied smile. Inwardly he was mimicking the man's last words,  Why thanks, Mr.
Brinker, thanks'. The creep, the unctuous ingratiating creep, lucky he knew men and trusted no one, very
lucky. The fool had taken him for two million and accepted another ten thousand as if it were a minor tip.
No doubt, now he was preparing a story, a story convincing enough to fool the Organization. He and his
crew had been forced to do the job at gunpoint. The crew would back him, their necks were in danger,
too, and besides they would get a share of the immense bribe. Further, they had his destination, and his
exact landing point, enough to add conviction to the story.
Still smiling, Brinker watched the vessel shrink to the size of a human hand, then a finger and finally a
minute black speck.
It was then that Brinker pressed a small device in his pocket.
The black speck ceased to be a speck. It became a red spark which suddenly billowed outwards in
crimson and left wisps of dark cloud in the high green sky.
In Security Building Sandling was suffering from what he himself termed an Irish aberration. He was
worried because he was not worried. In the midst of the most disturbing and conflicting news in centuries,
he was serenely calm.
He should have been worrying about Maynard and Reed but he wasn't and he knew he should be.
He should have been triumphant about the Enemy's overwhelming route in Granton but his best response
was mild satisfaction. The ebb and flow of conflict was now incidental, there were far more important
things to consider trouble was he couldn't think what they were. It was as if he were waiting for the
important things to consider and that made no sense at all.
He had the uneasy feeling that the world was changing, that he, himself, was changing but he was unable
to see where.
Oddly, in many ways, the Enemy could have told him or, at least, if not the causes, the effects. It could
have been summed up in one word: Revolt.
It was not a mass uprising, it was not a mob surging through the streets intent on destruction. This was the
revolt of individuals against exploitation and the terrifying aspect was that it was succeeding.
People who had paid meekly for years became suddenly aggressive and refused to contribute more.
When strong-arms were sent to deal with them, they ran into unexpected opposition. Either arms were
produced or the rebels had formed resistance cells with their immediate neighbours and the punitives
found themselves outnumbered. A large number were roughly handled and suffered varying degrees of
injury.
Within one week, collections dropped by eighteen per cent and area bosses sat up in alarm.
 Gotta teach them a lesson they won't forget."
The lesson resulted in three mutilations and a particularly brutal murder. The executioners lost seven times
that number, people seemed to know when they were coming or recognized them before they entered.
Worse, the rebels seemed singularly well informed.
 That goes for you two rats and the crooked cop who keeps watch for you."
Scrawled notices began to appear on public buildings
THE MAYOR IS A CROOK
THE CHIEF OF POLICE ACCEPTS BRIBES
were among the most common.
Slowly it was becoming apparent that a large section of the neutrals had at last become aware of the true
situation.
It was at this period that organized crime ran into the first of what it code-named guardedly as an
 inexplicable'.
Lombard was a quiet man of forty who ran a small and exclusive dining-room which specialized in
exquisite cuisine. Patrons paid high prices for Lombard's gastronomical wizardry but considered it well
worth it and came again.
For years the Organization had taken their cut of seventy per cent of the profits. For years Lombard had
paid up with weary resignation, his face growing more lined with every passing year.
One day, however, in common with many more, he revolted.
 Get out and stay out."
He got the routine work-over. Fights occurred on the premises, there were two small fires, a stink bomb
and something was tossed into the kitchen, contaminating the food.
Lombard dug his heels in and still refused to pay. Unfortunately he had no dependents on whom to bring
pressure so he had to be intimidated personally.
In view of the many insurrections, the area boss sent three unpleasant men subsequently deleted to
persuade him.
In the event of failure, he was to be rubbed out and his mutilated body made evident to the public as a
warning to the rest.
As they entered Lombard looked up, his face calm and composed.
Jerome, the leader, was struck by this. He was used to dawning apprehension, the darting looks for a
way of escape and, finally, the agonized despair.
Lombard just looked without anger or fear, just looked. If there was anything in his eyes, it was distaste [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]