Part 5 (1/2)

”Most likely his chick, Donna,” Fred said.

”Well, 'most likely.' You're supposed to know.”

”It's Donna. He's over there banging her night and day.” He felt acutely uncomfortable. ”But I'll check into it and let you know. Who's this informant? Might be a burn toward Arctor.”

”h.e.l.l, we don't know. On the phone. No print-he used some sort of rinky-d.i.n.k electronic grid.” Hank chuckled; it sounded odd, coming out metallically as it did. ”But it worked. Enough.”

”Christ,” Fred protested, ”it's that burned-out acid head Jim Barris doing a schizy grudge number on Arctor's head! Barris took endless electronic-repair courses in the Service, plus heavy-machinery maintenance. I wouldn't give him the time of day as an informant.”

Hank said, ”We don't know it's Barris, and anyhow there may be more to Barris than 'burned-out acid head.' We've got several people looking into it. Nothing I feel would be of use to you, at least so far.”

”Anyhow, it's one of Arctor's friends,” Fred said.

”Yes, it's undoubtedly a vengeance burn trip. These dopers-phoning in on each other every time they get sore. As a matter of fact, he did seem to know Arctor from a close standpoint.”

”Nice guy,” Fred said bitterly.

”Well, that's how we find out,” Hank said. ”What's the difference between that and what you're doing?”

”I'm not doing it for a grudge,” Fred said.

”Why are you doing it, actually?”

Fred, after an interval said, ”d.a.m.ned if I know.”

”You're off Weeks. I think for the time being I'll a.s.sign you primarily to observe Bob Arctor. Does he have a middle name? He uses the initial-”

Fred made a strangled, robotlike noise. ”Why Arctor?”

”Covertly funded, covertly engaged, making enemies by his activities. What's Arctor's middle name?” Hank's pen poised patiently. He waited to hear.

”Postlethwaite.”

”How do you spell that?”

”I don't know, I don't f.u.c.king know,” Fred said.

”Postlethwaite,” Hank said, writing a few letters. ”What nationality is that?”

”Welsh,” Fred said curtly. He could barely hear; his ears had blurred out, and one by one his other senses as well.

”Are those the people who sing about the men of Harlech? What is 'Harlech'? A town somewhere?”

”Harlech is where the heroic defense against the Yorkists in 1468-” Fred broke off. s.h.i.+t, he thought. This is terrible.

”Wait, I want to get this down,” Hank was saying, writing away with his pen.

Fred said, ”Does this mean you'll be bugging Arctor's house and car?”

”Yes, with the new holographic system; it's better, and we currently have a number of them unrequisitioned. You'll want storage and printout on everything, I would a.s.sume.” Hank noted that too.

”I'll take what I can get,” Fred said. He felt totally s.p.a.ced from all this; he wished the debriefing session would end and he thought: If only I could drop a couple tabs- Across from him the other formless blur wrote and wrote, filling in all the inventory ident numbers for all the technological gadgetry that would, if approval came through, soon be available to him, by which to set up a constant monitoring system of the latest design, on his own house, on himself.

For over an hour Barris had been attempting to perfect a silencer made from ordinary household materials costing no more than eleven cents. He had almost done so, with aluminum foil and a piece of foam rubber.

In the night darkness of Bob Arctor's back yard, among the heaps of weeds and rubbish, he was preparing to fire his pistol with the homemade silencer on it.

”The neighbors will hear,” Charles Freck said uneasily. He could see lit windows all over, many people probably watching TV or rolling joints.

Luckman, lounging out of sight but able to watch, said, ”They only call in murders in this neighborhood.”

”Why do you need a silencer?” Charles Freck asked Barris. ”I mean, they're illegal.”

Barris said moodily, ”In this day and age, with the kind of degenerate society we live in and the depravity of the individual, every person of worth needs a gun at all times. To protect himself.” He half shut his eyes, and fired his pistol with its homemade silencer. An enormous report sounded, temporarily deafening the three of them. Dogs in far-off yards barked.

Smiling, Barris began unwrapping the aluminum foil from the foam rubber. He appeared to be amused.

”That's sure some silencer,” Charles Freck said, wondering when the police would appear. A whole bunch of cars.

”What it did,” Barris explained, showing him and Luck-man black-seared pa.s.sages burned through the foam rubber, ”is augment the sound rather than dampen it. But I almost have it right. I have it in principle, anyhow.”

”How much is that gun worth?” Charles Freck asked. He had never owned a gun. Several times he had owned a knife, but somebody always stole it from him. One time a chick had done that, while he was in the bathroom.

”Not much,” Barris said. ”About thirty dollars used, which this is.” He held it out to Freck, who backed away apprehensively. ”I'll sell it to you,” Barris said. ”You really ought to have one, to guard yourself against those who would harm you.”

”There's a lot of those,” Luckman said in his ironic way, with a grin. ”I saw in the L.A. Times Times the other day, they're giving away a free transistor radio to those who would harm Freck most successfully.” the other day, they're giving away a free transistor radio to those who would harm Freck most successfully.”

”I'll trade you a Borg-Warner tach for it,” Freck said.

”That you stole from the guy's garage across the street,” Luckman said.

”Well, probably the gun's stolen, too,” Charles Freck said. Most everything that was worth something was originally ripped off anyhow; it indicated the piece had value. ”As a matter of fact,” he said, ”the guy across the street ripped the tach off in the first place. It's probably changed hands like fifteen times. I mean, it's a really cool tach.”

”How do you know he ripped it off?” Luckman asked him.

”h.e.l.l, man he's got eight tachs there in his garage, all dangling cut wires. What else would he be doing with them, that many, I mean? Who goes out and buys eight tachs?”

To Barris, Luckman said, ”I thought you were busy working on the cephscope. You finished already?”

”I cannot continually work on that night and day, because it is so extensive,” Barris said. ”I've got to knock off.” He cut, with a complicated pocketknife, another section of foam rubber. ”This one will be totally soundless.”

”Bob thinks you're at work on the cephscope,” Luckman said. ”He's lying there in his bed in his room imagining that, while you're out here firing off your pistol. Didn't you agree with Bob that the back rent you owe would be compensated by your-”

”Like good beer,” Barris said, ”an intricate, painstaking reconstruction of a damaged electronic a.s.sembly-”

”Just fire off the great eleven-cent silencer of our times,” Luckman said, and belched.

I've had it, Robert Arctor thought.

He lay alone in the dim light of his bedroom, on his back, staring grimly at nothing. Under his pillow he had his .32 police-special revolver; at the sound of Barris's .22 being fired in the back yard he had reflexively gotten his own gun from beneath the bed and placed it within easier reach. A safety move, against any and all danger; he hadn't even thought it out consciously.