Sixth Column (14 page)

should be in coin."

"I can use bullion," Thomas insisted. "All I have to do is to take it to the

Imperial bank. Panning gold is encouraged; our gracious masters charge one

hell of a stiff seigniorage."

Ardmore shook his head. "You're missing the propaganda aspect. A

priest in long robes and a flowing beard doesn't whip out a check book and a

fountain pen; it's out of character. I don't want you to have a bank account

anyhow; it will give the enemy detailed records of just what you are doing. I

want you to pay for things with beautiful, shiny golden coins, stacks of them.

It will make a tremendous impression. Scheer, are you any good at

counterfeiting?"

"I've never tried it, sir."

"No time like the present. Every man needs an alternative profession.

Jeff, you didn't have any chance to pick up an Imperial gold coin, did you?

We need a model."

"No, I didn't. But I suppose I could get one, if I sent word out among the

Us that I needed one."

"I hate to wait. But you've got to have money to tackle Denver."

"Does it have to be Imperial money?" asked Doctor Brooks.

"Eh?"

The biologist hauled a five dollar gold piece from his pocket. "Here's a

lucky piece I've carried since I was a kid. I guess this is a lucky time to let it

go."

"Hmm . . . How about it, Jeff? Can you pass American money?"

"Well, American paper money is no good, but gold coin-My guess is that

those leeches probably won't object, so long as it's gold-at the bullion price,

at least. I'm sure that Americans will take it."

"We don't care how much they discount it." Ardmore took the coin and

chucked it to Scheer. "How long will it take you to make forty or fifty pounds

of those?"

The master sergeant studied it. "Not long if I pour them rather than

stamp them. You want them all just alike, sir?"

"Why not?"

"Well, sir, there's the matter of the date."

"Oh! I get you. Well, that's the only pattern we have; I guess we'll just

have to hope that they either won't notice or won't care."

"If you can allow me just a little more time I think I could fix it, sir. I make

about twenty or so with this as a pattern, then I'll do a little hand work and put

a different date on each one. That will give me twenty different patterns

instead of one."

"Scheer, you have the soul of an artist. Do it that way. While you are

about it, you had better vary the scratches and wear marks on each."

"I had thought of that, sir."

Ardmore grinned. "This team is going to be a headache to His Imperial

Nastiness yet. Well, how about it, Jeff? Any more points to settle before we

adjourn the meeting?"

"Just one, boss. How do I get to Denver? .Or how do we get there,

assuming that Howe comes along?"

"I thought you would bring that up. It's a sticky question; we can't expect

the Hand to provide you with a helicopter. How are your feet? Any broken

arches? Corns and bunions?"

"I'll be switched if I want to walk. It's a long way. "

"Don't blame you. And the devil of it is that it's a problem we're going to

have with us from now on, if we are going to organize all over the country."

"I don't understand the difficulty," put in Brooks. "I thought citizens were

still allowed to ride anything but aircraft?"

"Sure-with travel permits and endless red tape. Never mind," Ardmore

continued, "the day will come when the costume of a priest of Mota will be all

the travel permit we'll need. If we work this right, we'll be teacher's pet with all

sorts of special privileges. In the meantime the trick is to get Jeff into Denver

without attracting undue attention and without wearing out his feet. Say, Jeff,

you never did tell me how you traveled. Somehow we missed that."

"I hitch-hiked. Quite a chore, too. Most of the truckers are too scared of

the security police to risk it."

"You did? You shouldn't have, Jeff: The priests of Mota do not hitch-hike.

It doesn't fit in with miracle working."

"Well, what do they do? Dawggone it, Major, if I had walked I would still

be on the way-or more likely arrested by some flunky who hadn't gotten the

news yet." Thomas' face showed irritation most unusual in him.

"Sorry. I shouldn't second-guess you. But we will have to figure out a

better way."

"Why don't I just run him down in one of the scout cars?" asked Wilkie.

"At night, of course."

"Night doesn't mean anything to radar, Bob. They would shoot you out of

the sky."

"I don't think so. We have an almost unlimited amount of power at our

disposal-sometimes it scares me when I try to think how much. I believe I can

rig a radar beacon effect that will burn out any radar set that is turned on us."

"Giving notice to the enemy that there is still someone around capable of

hanky-panky with electronics? We mustn't tip our hand so soon, Bob."

Wilkie shut up, crestfallen. Ardmore thought it over. "And yet we've got to

take chances. You rig your rig, Bob-then plan on hedgehopping all the way.

We'll do it about three or four o'clock in the morning and there's a chance that

you won't be noticed at all. Use your rig if you have to but if you do then

everyone is to return to base. The incident must not be connected with the

priests of Mota, even in the matter of timing. The same applies after Wilkie

sets you down, Jeff. If by any chance you are surprised, use the Ledbetter

effect to kill off all the enemy anywhere close to you-then go underground.

Jungle up. Under no circumstances is any PanAsian to be permitted to

suspect that the priests of Mota are anything but what they seem. Kill off your

witnesses and escape."

"Right, boss."

The little scout car hovered over Lookout Mountain a few feet away from

Buffalo Bill's grave. The door opened and a robed priest dropped to the

ground, stumbling because of the heavy money belt slung from his shoulders

and waist. A similar figure followed him and landed a bit more surefootedly.

"You all right, Jeff"

"Sure."

Wilkie left the car on automatic long enough to lean out and say, "Good

luck!"

"Thanks. But shut up and get going."

"Okay." The door closed and the car disappeared into the night.

It was growing light by the time Thomas and Howe reached the foot of

the mountain and started into Denver. So far as they knew they had not been

detected although once they had crouched in bushes for several minutes,

afraid to breathe, while a patrol passed. Jeff had kept his staff ready, a thumb

resting lightly on a golden leaf in the decorations below the cube of Mota. But

the patrol passed on, unaware of the curbed lightnings trained on them.

Once in the city and in daylight they made no further attempt to avoid

attention. Few PanAsians were about so early; members of the slave race

scurried along the streets, on their way to their labors, but the master race

still slept. The Americans who saw them stared briefly but did not stop them

nor speak to them; native Americans had already learned the first law of

police states: mind your own business; don't be nosy!

Jeff deliberately sought out an encounter with a PanAsian policeman. He

and Alec stepped down from the curb, switched on their shields and waited.

No Americans were nearby; the presence of occupation police caused them

to melt into walls. Jeff wet his lips and said "I'll do the talking, Alec. "

"Suits me."

"Here he comes. Oh, my god, Alec, switch on your halo!"

"Huh?" Howe reached a finger up under his turban behind his right ear;

the halo, shimmering iridescent light, sprang into being over his head. It was

a mere ionization effect, a parlor trick of the additional spectra, less

mysterious than natural aurora, but it looked good.

"That's better," Jeff acknowledged, from the side of his mouth. "What's

the matter with your beard?"

"It keeps coming unstuck. I sweat."

"Don't let it come unstuck now! Here he comes-" Thomas struck the

benediction pose; Howe followed suit. Jeff intoned, "Peace be unto you,

Master!"

The Asiatic cop stopped. His knowledge of English was limited to halt,

come along, and show your card; he depended on his club to keep the dogs

in line. On the other hand he recognized the get up; it matched a picture on a

notice newly posted in the barracks, this was one of the many silly things the

slaves were allowed to do.

Still, a slave was a slave and must be kept in line. All slaves must bow;

these slaves were not bowing. He cracked his club at the midriff of the nearer

slave.

The nightstick bounced off before it reached the robed figure; the cop's

fingers tingled as if he swung on something quite hard. "Peace be unto you!"

Jeff rumbled again and watched him narrowly. The fellow was armed with a

vortex pistol; Jeff was not afraid of it but it was no part of his plan to let the

creature discover that he was immune to the Emperor's weapons. He was

sorry that he had to use the shield against a blow from a stick and hoped that

the PanAsian would not be able to believe the evidence of his own senses.

Certainly the man was startled. He looked at his stick, started to draw it

back as if to swing again, then appeared to change his mind. He resorted to

his meager supply of English. "Come along!"

Jeff raised his hand again. "Peace be unto you! It is not meet that the

farjon should ripsnipe the cuskapads in the sight of the great lord Mota!

Franchope!" He pointed to Howe.

The cop looked doubtful, then moved a few feet away to the street

corner, glanced up and down and blew his whistle. Alec whispered, "What did

you point to me for?"

"I don't know. It seemed like a good idea. Watch it!"

Another cop came trotting up; the pair approached Howe and Thomas.

The new one seemed to be in authority over the first; they held a short

discussion in meaningless singsong, then the later arrival came close,

drawing his pistol as he did so. "You fellow boys, come along now quick!"

"Come, Alec." Thomas fell in with the policemen, switching off his shield

as he did so. He hoped that Alec would notice that he had done so and

conformed, it seemed a good notion not to advertise the existence of the

shields-not yet, at least.

The PanAsian conducted them to the nearest police station. Jeff walked

briskly along, giving unctuous blessings to one and all. As they neared the

station the senior cop sent the other trotting on ahead. When the party

arrived they found the officer in charge waiting in the doorway, apparently

curious to see these queer fish his men had hooked.

He was both curious and very much on his toes; the officer knew the

circumstances under which the unfortunate lieutenant who had first turned up

these strange holy men had gone to his ancestors. He was determined not to

make a mistake which would cause him to lose face.

Jeff marched up to him, struck his pose and said, "Peace be unto you!

Master, I have a complaint to make about your servants. They have stopped

us from carrying out our holy work, work which is blessed by His Serene

Highness himself, the Imperial Hand!"

The officer fingered his swagger stick, then spoke in his own language to

his subordinates. He turned back to Jeff. "Who are you?"

"A priest of the great god Mota. "

The PanAsian asked the same question of Alec; Jeff interceded.

"Master," he said hastily, "he is a most holy man who has taken a vow of

silence. If you force him to break it the sin will be on your head."

The officer hesitated. The bulletin concerning these crazy savages had

been most pointed, but it had given no clear precedents for dealing with

them. He hated to establish precedents; those who did so were sometimes

promoted, more frequently they joined their ancestors. "He need not break

his holy vow. But show me your cards, both of you."

Jeff looked amazed. "We are humble, nameless holy men, serving the

great god Mota. What have we to do with such?"

"Hurry up!"

Jeff tried to look sad rather than nervous. He had rehearsed this speech

in his mind; much depended on it getting across. "I am sorry for you, young

Master. I will pray to Mota on your behalf. But now I must insist that you take

me before the Hand of the Emperor-at once!"

"That's impossible."

"His Highness has seen me before; he will see me again. The Hand of

the Emperor is always ready to see the servers of the great god Mota."

The officer looked at him, turned and went back into the station house.

They waited.

"Do you suppose he'll actually have us taken before the prince?" Howe

whispered.

"I hope not. I don't think so."

"Well, what will you do if he does?"

"Whatever I have to. Shut up-you're supposed to be under a vow of

silence."

The officer came back after several minutes and said curtly, "You are

free to go."

"To the Imperial Hand?" Jeff inquired maliciously.

"No, no! Just go. Get out of my district.,"

Jeff stepped back one pace and delivered a last benediction. The two

"priests" turned away. From the corner of his eye Jeff saw the officer lift his