Insidekick
By J. F. BONE
Illustrated by WOOD
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science FictionFebruary 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Shifaz glanced furtively around the room. Satisfied that it was emptyexcept for Fred Kemmer and himself, he sidled up to the Earthman's deskand hissed conspiratorially in his ear, "Sir, this Johnson is a spy! Isit permitted to slay him?"
"It is permitted," Kemmer said in a tone suitable to the gravity of theoccasion.
He watched humorlessly as the Antarian slithered out of the office witha flutter of colorful ceremonial robes. Both Kemmer and Shifaz had knownfor weeks that Johnson was a spy, but the native had to go through thisinsane rigmarole before the rules on Antar would allow him to act. Atany rate, the formalities were over at last and the affair should besatisfactorily ended before nightfall. Natives moved quickly enough,once the preliminaries were concluded.
Kemmer leaned back in his chair and sighed. Being the InterworldCorporation's local manager had more compensations than headaches,despite the rigid ritualism of native society. Since most of the localpopulation was under his thumb, counter-espionage was miraculouslyeffective. This fellow Johnson, for instance, had been in Vaornia lessthan three weeks, and despite the fact that he was an efficient andeffective snoop, he had been fingered less than forty-eight hours afterhis arrival in the city.
Kemmer closed his eyes and let a smile cross his keen features. Underhis administration, there would be a sharp rise in the mortality curvefor spies detected in the Vaornia-Lagash-Timargh triangle. With thenative judiciary firmly under IC control, the Corporation literally hada free hand, providing it kept its nose superficially clean. And as forspies, they knew the chances they took and what the penalty could be forinterfering with the normal operations of corporate business.
Kemmer yawned, stretched, turned his attention to more importantmatters.
Albert Johnson fumbled hopefully in the empty food container beforetossing it aside. A plump, prosaic man of middle height, with a roundingenuous face, Albert was as undistinguished as his name, a fact thatmade him an excellent investigator. But he was neither undistinguishednor unnoticed in his present position, although he had tried to carry itoff by photographing the actions of the local Sanitary Processional likeany tourist.
He had been waiting near the Vaornia Arm on the road that led to Lagashsince early afternoon, and now it was nearly evening. He cursed mildlyat the fact that the natives had no conception of time, a trait notexclusively Antarian, but one which was developed to a high degree onthis benighted planet. And the fact that he was hungry didn't add to hisgood temper. Natives might be able to fast for a week without illeffects, but his chunky body demanded quantities of nourishment atregular intervals, and his stomach was protesting audibly at beingempty.
He looked around him, at the rutted road, and at the darkening VaorniaArm of the Devan Forest that bordered the roadway. The SanitaryProcessional had completed the daily ritual of waste disposal and thecart drivers and censer bearers were goading their patient daks into afaster gait. It wasn't healthy to be too near the forest after