Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell Read Online Free PDF Page A

were unkempt, their clothes baggy and soiled.
    “I am of the government,” informed Mowry, giving the statement the right degree of importance. “I wish a ride into town.”
    The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver and made room. Mowry climbed up, squeezed into the benchseat which was a close fit for three. He held his case on his knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.
    “You are a Mashamban, I think,” ventured the driver, conversationally.
    “Correct. Seems we can’t open our mouths without betraying the fact.”
    “I have never been to Masham,” continued the driver using the singsong accents peculiar to Jaimec. “I would like to go there someday. It is a great place.” He switched to his fellow Sirian. “Isn’t it, Snat?”
    “Yar,” said Snat, still mooning at the case.
    “Besides, Masham or anywhere on Diracta should be a lot safer than here. And perhaps I’d have better luck there. It has been a bad day. It has been a stinking bad day. Hasn’t it, Snat?”
    “Yar,” said Snat.
    “Why?” asked Mowry.
    “This soko of a truck has broken down three times since dawn. And it has stuck in the bog twice. The last time we had to empty it to get it out, and then refill it. With the load we’ve got that is work. Hard work.” He spat out the window. “Wasn’t it, Snat?”
    “Yar,” said Snat, still half-dead from the effort.
    “Too bad,” Mowry sympathized.
    “As for the rest, you know of it,” said the driver, irefully. “It has been a bad day.”
    “I know of what?” Mowry prompted.
    The news.
    “I have been in the woods since sunup. One does not hear news in the woods.”
    “The ten-time radio announced an increase in the war-tax. As if we aren’t paying enough. Then the twelve-time radio said a Spakum ship had been zooming around. They had to admit it because the ship was fired upon from a number of places. We are not deaf when guns fire, nor blind when the target is visible.” He nudged his fellow. “Are we, Snat?”
    “Nar,” confirmed Snat.
    “Just imagine that—a lousy Spakum ship sneaking around over our very rooftops. You know what that means: they are seeking targets for bombing. Well, I hope none of them get through. I hope every Spakum that heads this way runs straight into a break-up barrage.”
    “So do I,” said Mowry, squirting pseudo-patriotism out of his ears. He gave his neighbor a dig in the ribs. “Don’t you?”
    “Yar,” said Snat.
    For the rest of the journey the driver maintained his paean of anguish about the general lousiness of the day, the iniquity of truck-builders, the menace and expense of war and the blatant impudence of an enemy ship that had surveyed Jaimec in broad daylight. All the time Snat lolled in the middle of the cab, gaped glassy-eyed at Mowry’s leather case and responded in monosyllables only when metaphorically beaten over the head.
    “This will do,” announced Mowry as they trundled through city suburbs and reached a wide crossroad. The truck stopped, he got down. “Live long!”
    “Live long!” responded the driver and tooled away.
    He stood on the sidewalk and thoughtfully watched the truck until it passed from sight. Well, he’d put himself to the first minor test and got by without suspicion. Neither the driver nor Snat had nursed the vaguest idea that he was what they called a Spakum—literally a bed bug—an abusive term for Terrans to which he’d listened with no resentment whatsoever. Nor should he resent it: until further notice he was Shir Agavan, a Sirian born and bred.
    Holding tight to his case, he entered the city.
    This was Pertane, capital of Jaimec, population a little more than two million. No other place on the planet approached it in size. It was the center of Jaimecan civil and military administration, the very heart of the foe’s planetary stronghold. By the same token it was potentially the most dangerous