The Universe — or Nothing by Meyer Moldeven (summer reads .txt) 📖

>"Hey, everybody, quiet." Scarf's spit-and-phlegm bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.

Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall table, Scarf smirked and barked, "Give us the magic words, Drummer."

The crowd's eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and back. No one spoke.

"Drummer knows," Scarf added sarcasm to his tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. "The future is open to him."

Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap his knee.

"C'mon, Drummer," Scarf went on, derisively, "tell us what you're going to do to make things right for all of us, and how we'll all be prosperous after Slingshot cuts away."

His voice became harsher, gibing.

"You've been sittin' on that Plutonian Council for years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen up controls here and give more civil liberties there. You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. To me, you're a revolutionist, undermining Narval's government, and trying to cram your politics down our throats."

Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand.
Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on
Drummer from above the rim.

Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.

"Being on the Council saves your neck for now, Drummer," he said with venom. "Soon as Narval gets wise to you, and kicks your tail off, I'll be coming after you."

He reached Drummer's table.

"On second thought, why wait that long," his voice changed to a snarl. "Now's as good a time as any."

He grasped the front of Drummer's cloak and jerked him to his feet.

"Tell me, old man, what can you do that Narval can't?"

The onlookers' silence hung heavily. The stale incense rose in eddies and diffused the shadows cast by the glowing wall sconces.

"Show's over, Scarf," said Drummer in a low voice, trying to twist away. "I've got to be on my way."

He placed his hand over Scarf's huge paw to loosen its grip.

They were of equal height, but Scarf, more than twice Drummer's mass and build, would have none of it.

"The hell you do," he growled, tightening his hold.

Scarf began to shake Drummer, at first slowly, then with growing violence. Drummer, unable to maintain balance, slipped to his knees. Scarf jerked upward, raising Drummer on unsteady feet. Ramming his face close, he cursed in a loud, coarse monotone, swinging Drummer in one direction, then another. Unable to disengage, Drummer was confused. His cloak tore, his hair fluttered about his face, and specks of spittle flew from his lips.

Brad and Hodak watched the action from where they sat. Scarf's sudden outburst was of more than passing interest. He had called his victim "Drummer," a name familiar to Brad through the many intelligence briefings he had been given during indoctrination; also, "Scarf" was a name used in the immigration clerk's call from the landing site.

Other than military, who and what was Scarf, and why was he tormenting Drummer? More important, could this bar-room brawl be exploited to the Sentinels' advantage? They desperately needed contacts within Narval's regime. Their mission did not allow the luxury of time. An opportunity had just fallen into his lap. Brad leaned toward Hodak.

"The bruiser," he said. "Take him down, but easy."

Hodak shot a quick glance at Brad, rose and shambled between the tables until he was behind the sledgehammer.

Tapping Scarf on the shoulder, he said quietly, "Hey, c'mon, let the old geezer alone. He was just minding his…"

Scarf reacted with incredible speed for his size.
Shoving Drummer away, he whirled, arm extended.
Powered by the force of his pivot, the edge of his
rigid hand aimed directly at Hodak's throat.

Hodak stepped back and to the side, gripped Scarf's thick wrist in his muscle-corded hands. Using his attacker's momentum, Hodak twisted and bent. The Major's huge body catapulted through the air and crashed on to a table and its several chairs, sending the occupants spinning.

A hand appeared from nowhere and pulled Scarf's pistol from its holster. In seconds, Brad was back at his table. The bar-room went deathly silent.

Scarf bounded up, spitting saliva, floor dust and curses. He reached for his weapon and gaped when he felt emptiness.

Recovering, hunched forward, he charged Hodak, murder in his eyes.

Freed, Drummer stepped back to the wall, shaken, not understanding what was happening. He searched for a safe place.

Focusing on the struggle he recognized Hodak as one of the escaped prisoners he had been speculating about. Taking a chance, he moved toward the table from where Brad watched the action and the crowd.

Hodak, waiting for Scarf's charge, stood balanced until the last fraction of a second, then stepped aside. Scarf passed like a juggernaut and smashed into the bar.

Leaning heavily over the bar, breathing in convulsive gasps, Scarf turned his head to glare at Hodak. Running his hand down his thigh he felt again for his weapon. Eyes narrowed to slits, he searched along the filth-strewn floor. Scanning, his eyes passed the table where Brad sat, stopped, and snapped back.

The weapon, distinctive by its red and black grip, lay there. He saw Brad watching, and Drummer nearby, back to the wall.

Scarf lunged at Hodak, arms grappling. Hodak danced back and away. As Scarf passed, Hodak grasped his wrist and elbow, twisted, and curved Scarf's arm back and up between his shoulder blades.

Hodak was gentle. With his free hand he probed and manipulated nerve centers in Scarf's neck and shoulders. Scarf dropped to his knees, then slipped back on to his rump, legs spread, arms slack, face perplexed. It was enough.

He sat there, shaking his head to clear it. Looking up, he saw Hodak standing a short distance away, and beyond, a ring of faces, several grinning, others frightened and wary. Shifting his eyes to where his weapon lay, Scarf glared at Brad and Drummer.

The silence was broken by the shuffle of Scarf groping upright, using a nearby table for support. He lurched to the bar and leaned over it for several seconds. Straightening, he grasped his helmet with one hand, wrapped the other around the flagon of Firehouse Red, and stalked out of the Charnel Pit.

Chapter ELEVEN

The bar-room's heavy vapors seemed to cease their dreary ballet. An uneasy cackle, strident and jarring, erupted from a corner, accompanied by the flat slap of a hard hand against the bar's rough counter. The tension dissolved into a ripple of raucous laughter. The hubbub resumed, and quickly returned to its former level.

Myra, followed by Zolan, Adari and Kumiko, entered the bar-room, spotted Brad and Hodak, and moved toward them, snatching empty stools along the way. Placing the stools, they encircled the table.

Their eyes took in Scarf's heavy-duty red-black weapon, and then Brad and Hodak, elbows on table, scanning the crowd. They saw Drummer nearby and noted his disheveled appearance.

They rose silently, rearranged their seats, and sat again, backs against the wall. Kumiko fixed her eyes on the entryway; Adari scanned in the opposite direction, taking in the bar. Zolan and Myra joined Brad and Hodak to observe the roisterers resume their bar-room habits.

Drummer still showed his embarrassment, apprehension and rage. His eyes darted from the doorway to Hodak to Brad. Brad turned his head slightly to take him in, then pointed to an overturned stool nearby.

"Pull up and sit a while."

"You in charge?" Drummer asked.

"No," Brad said, "we're each on our own. Just socializing."

He motioned at the stool again.

"C'mon, join us."

Drummer looked closely at Brad, then at the others who ignored him. Brad's expression was bland, neutral.

Drummer felt certain that Scarf would return soon with reinforcements. He had to get out, fast, and he needed an escort to safety. Beyond that, he wanted to know why the squat powerhouse, now sitting calmly at the table, had intervened. He must have realized that his interference had been made at great personal risk.

Drummer righted the stool and stared intently at Hodak as he sat. Hodak, sensing Drummer's scrutiny, glanced sideways at him, winked straight-faced, and returned to observe the crowd.

Drummer finally turned to Brad, convinced he was the leader of this pack.

"We'd better get out of here, now," he said, his tone urgent. "Scarf'll be back as soon as he collects a few of his goons."

"What was it about?" Brad asked.

"No time for talk," Drummer replied, gesturing his impatience. "We've got to get away from here, and I mean right now."

"Sure, but who is that guy?"

"Major Scarf, Chief of Internal Security for President Narval. He has his own troops, and I don't doubt that he's lining them up right now." Drummer's fingertips tapped the table in nervous staccato. "Let's get out of here. Now."

Brad stood, and the others rose with him. "Lead the way," he motioned Drummer toward the doorway. "We're not familiar with the territory."

"Leave that to me," said Drummer.

Brad hefted Scarf's weapon, slipped it into 'safe' and, passing the bar, handed it to the bartender with a nod that was returned with a respectful wave.

Chapter TWELVE

Mixing with the street people, Drummer in sight up ahead, they moved swiftly. Adari trailed Drummer; Brad next followed by Myra and Kumiko. Zolan and Hodak brought up the rear. Drummer successfully resisted the temptation to look back.

Zolan tensed, activating the mind-mike in his armpit. Brad acknowledged by stepping up his pace. He passed Adari and drew alongside Drummer.

"Your buddy, Scarf, must have had a friend in the bar," he said. "We're being tailed."

"Another hundred meters. Cut into the alley on the left."

Drummer responded. "It'll take us through a maze that still confounds the street people. We'll have a better chance in there to lose whoever is following."

A corner loomed. They squeezed into a narrow, rubble-strewn passageway between high, rough walls. Stumbling along the barely lighted shaft they entered an alley, equally shabby, crowded with street people, refuse, and abandoned machinery.

They sped along the alley, noting its darkened, fuser-formed doorways, some empty, others clogged with trash. Inside, they saw the shadowy outlines of men, huddled women and children.

Drummer twisted from one alley into the next, and then another.

He ducked through a gap in one wall, squeezed along a narrow hallway and exited into an open space. They packed up close, running and stumbling.

Drummer slowed next to a wall of composite blocks. Several were missing, leaving a space through which they squirmed. It was tighter than they had experienced. In near darkness, they had reached a dead end.

Ahead was loose rubble forming a heap about two meters high. Drummer clawed his way around the side. He motioned the others forward and slipped out of sight.

Following one behind the other, they saw an opening in the surface. Responding to Drummer's beckoning, they dropped into its darkness. The fall was less than a couple of meters. A light glowed from a wall to just enough to illuminate Drummer.

They were in a small, roughly rounded chamber.
The walls were fused rubble, irregular and jagged.
The floor was a mixture of Plutonian detritus.

Drummer knelt beside a rock that protruded from the wall. He twisted the rock, pulled, and pushed it sideways. Reaching into the vacated space, he placed his palm on a flat, smooth disk.

A low hum from the wall. A fissure formed where the wall met the trash-laden floor. The breach lengthened and curved, its ends meeting the wall. The section dropped away into darkness.

"Move, move," Drummer snarled his impatience. "Scarf has this entire sector blocked out by now. He'll throw his gangs into the alleys and cover every square meter. These subsurface crawl spaces and links are our only way. Feel for the ladder."

He lowered himself through the opening and vanished.

Brad was committed. His glance ordered the others to follow Drummer. Hodak passed his light to Brad and dropped through first, then Zolan followed Myra, Adari and Kumiko. Brad dropped through and pushed the cover up until it snapped. Closed. He felt vibrations above him, then, after several seconds, silence.

"Must be spreading the dust of our tracks and the outline of the cover," Zolan murmured, looking up from immediately below.

The ladder was rickety, and the shaft narrow and long. When Brad reached bottom, he was in a low gallery, about two meters square, hacked out of the rock. They were in the hub of a dozen passageways that led off in as many directions from low entries.

Drummer bent and disappeared through one of the entries. One after the other, they followed.

The entry led into a utility service tunnel, the walls lined with scores of braided cables and banks of wall switches and junctions. Neutro-lighted sconces glowed at intervals, providing dim direction to their flight.

Scuttling in single file and dodging cables slung between supporting columns, they covered distance swiftly. Brad