Part 2

"We'll watch him! You'd better hurry!"

He headed for the administration building at a lumbering trot.

We waved wildly to Freddie. He pounced, with uncontrollable joy, on the door release. Celia plunged into the car, and then I. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the policeman had stopped. He was viewing us with uncertainty. Then he yelled and started to run toward us, unlimbering his gun from its holster.

[illus]

My trembling fingers fitted the key into the ignition. I heard a shot and a thudding sound. Then another, and a hole appeared in my side and front windows. I gunned our car like fury and we rocketed into the air so fast that Celia, holding Freddie tightly in her arms, moaned at the terrible acceleration.

We were far above Chicago's islands. Nothing, not even a police car, could catch our Cad Super.

I turned to my son. "You're a bright boy, Freddie. I'm proud of you." A real competitor at heart.

Then my eye caught the great municipal sign, with its motto I WILL COMPETE. And I realized for the first time the seriousness of what we had done.

* * * * *

"The alarm will be out any minute," I told Celia. "I must land."

I nosed our ship down to the lowest air line, merging with slow local traffic above the city. For once I was not pleased to be driving such a conspicuous car. Where to land? Certainly not my usual parking lot. They'd check there as a matter of routine.

Celia read my thoughts. "Where would they least expect us?"

"Navy Pier traffic fines bureau!" I exclaimed. "They have a free parking lot there."

"That's good, for the car," said Celia, "but risky for us." She thought. "The Art Institute. They have a private lot and we're members."

"Ridiculous!" I started to say, then checked myself. "That's good. That's cultural. The cops would never think we'd go looking at pictures."

There would be people there, a crowd in which we could lose ourselves. A big building where we could remain all day, if necessary, without attracting suspicion. A place where I could think. I desperately needed to think.

"I don't want to go to the Art Institute," Freddie whined. "I want to go home."

Celia tried to comfort him. "Mother wants to go home too, dear one, but we can't go home just now."

We sure can't, I thought grimly. I maneuvered past the petal-shaped peak of Tribune Tower with its banner--100% COMPETITION MEANS 100% AMERICAN, past the upper stories of the Prudential Building ("WE'RE COMPETING--ARE YOU?"), past the squat old Bible Federation building (COMPETER, REMEMBER ST. PETER!), and at last settled with a sigh behind the museum.

"I want to go home," Freddie whimpered, his eyes starting to tear again. He was a thin, rather bony little boy, with light brownish eyes like Celia's, and a forceful jaw that was quivering now at the point of a sob.

Celia caressed his curly brown hair. "We're going to spend the entire day together, darling. We're going to look at some wonderful pictures."

I was irritated, but I guess you can't expect too much understanding of a kid.

We entered the building from the rear, parking lot entrance. The Art Institute was one of those wild, non-geometric creations of the Twenty-first century reconstruction period. It was a flat, one-storied building. The outside was partially circular, with a pearly transparent roof. Inside it formed a spiral, with galleries partitioned off like the chambers of nautilus shell. At the eye of the spiral stood a small sunken garden and tea room.

I looked at my watch. Ten-fifteen. "We can stay here until five, if need be," I told Celia. "Don't leave the building until I return."

"Where are you going?" Celia was calm outwardly. Only her eyes registered alarm.

"To see my lawyer. Then to the office. Then to the bank. I have a hunch that ten thousand won't be enough for our present needs."

"Bart, I--"

"Let's not discuss it now. First I want to find out how we stand legally."

I patted Freddie's cheek. "Bye, son. I'll try to get back in time for lunch with you and mother."

I strode off, pausing at the main entrance to call the law offices of Devron, Beach and Feldman. Beach was my man and he was in. I hailed a coptercab and we lumbered over to the gold-black, ellipsoid Richmond Building opposite City Hall.

Beach was a Top Competitor, a slim, trim, fit, fighting individual with graying black hair, and a smiling suntanned face underscored by hard lines of determination. He was humorless, busy and abrupt in all his dealings, but he'd never yet lost a case for me.

"I have to be in court in ten minutes, Bart. Can you give it to me briefly?"

"I don't know if I can. There are so many aspects. To begin with, I assaulted a man. Knocked him unconscious."

"Government official? Top Competitor?"

"No, just a private school principal."

"Injure him badly?"

"I don't know. He was still out when I left."

Beach's eyes flickered with surprise.

"You're not a violent type. He must have provoked you?"

"Called my son non-competitive."

Beach dismissed the matter with a gesture. "You've nothing to worry about." He paused, his shrewd eyes surveying. "Is that all?"

"Unfortunately not." I was ashamed to tell the whole story, and I've told Beach some pretty raw ones in the past without flinching. "In effect, I've defied a court order concerning my son. Obstructed justice, you might say."

"Leave the legal definitions to me," said Beach tersely. "Tell me what you did."

"Well, the principal was turning my son Freddie over to some guy from the Special Training and Re-Education School. Without any advance notice. Just bang! Like that. Called Celia and me in this morning to tell us. As though it were already an accomplished fact. Well, I knew it was illegal on his part. Imagine that! Taking a kid away from his parents for five years! So I snatched up Freddie and left him with Celia in a safe place and came directly to you. Beach, I want to fight this. I want you to take a law book and beat the city's brains in!"

Beach stood up. He would not look me in the eye, but the hard lines on his face showed up like steel cables.

"I won't touch the case. You'll have to find someone else."

A wave of shock and fear surged through my veins. "Beach, you're the best man in the city! You've got to take it!"

"I couldn't win. No one could. You're in trouble, Bart. You'd better hand over your son to the school." He was thinking out loud. "Plead emotional upset on your part. It's a terrible thing for a father, a Top Competitor, to be told he has a non-competitive son. You momentarily lost control of yourself. Bring him to the school voluntarily. Say you thrashed him within an inch of his life. Say you've been too busy competing to pay much attention to your son's upbringing. But now you're turning him over to the school, and you want them to indoctrinate him thoroughly in the principles of democracy.

"You'd have a scandal, of course, but people would sympathize with you. Applaud your resoluteness.

"Yes, you would get off that way. I still couldn't handle the case, naturally, but I can recommend someone."

"Beach," I said firmly, "I won't give the boy up."

He was silent for a moment. "Then you're ruined. You're a fugitive from justice. Your only hope is in Australia."

That was a slap in the face. "Australia!" I shouted. "That crummy socialist state? That shlub society? No sir, I'm staying right here, in the free competitive world!"

Beach looked ostentatiously at his watch. "You'll have to excuse me. I have a case in court. A murder case, where I can do my client some good."

He picked up his briefcase and went to the door, and stood there courteously showing me out. "I don't imagine I'll be seeing you again, Bart. Take a lawyer's parting advice. Don't go home. Don't go to your office. Put your family on the next ship for Australia." He put his hand on my shoulder, adding, not unkindly, "I also advise you to leave this building quickly. You realize that I must report you to the police."

* * * * *

I free-fell down the elevator shaft, stopping at the mezzanine rather than the ground floor. There was a balcony and staircase overlooking the main entrance. I could see a policeman loitering at the doorway. I had no reason to believe Beach had immediately made his report. Even if he had, was it likely the police could reach the scene sooner than it took me to drop thirty-eight stories? Nevertheless, there the cop was.

I went back to the elevator, rode the updraft to the roof landing. A police ship was idling over the Richmond Building. Coincidence. I saw a taxi drop his fare only twenty feet away, and I wanted desperately to hail the cab, but I couldn't take the chance. I remained for a minute by the doorway. The police ship also lingered.

I asked a building employe where the freight elevator was. He pointed the direction, and I stripped off my suit jacket and folded it around my waist beneath my shirt. Then I rolled up my shirt sleeves and stepped into the down-shaft. I hit bottom two floors below street-level. There was a clerk in a receiving room.

"Has some office furniture come in for 1108?" I asked in a shlub accent.

"Nothin' yet," said the clerk.

I thumbed at the doorway. "That the freight tube?"

"Yup."

"Maybe they're waiting for me outside?"

It was a silly thing to say but it gave me the excuse of looking. I ducked my head out and saw that the dock was empty. There was a rush of sewer-tainted air, and the hum of the city's subterranean conveyer belt.

"The idiots!" I exclaimed for the clerk's benefit. "There they are at the next building."

I slammed the door and hopped onto the belt which was moving at about five miles an hour. I jumped off at the next dock we came to, rode the freight shaft up, then got off at the sixth floor.

Quickly I rolled down my sleeves, whipped out the jacket from under my shirt, smoothed down my hair and was presentable again. I walked around until I found the passenger shaft and descended to the ground level.

I was more angry than frightened. I a fugitive! A Top Competitor forced to flee through the city sewers! What a rotten, unjust turn of events.

What next? I was outside now, on the pedestrian belt moving eastward toward the lake. Obviously, whatever we did, wherever we went, money would be necessary. The bank, then. I would draw out my entire account. A second thought. No, not the entire amount; that might excite suspicion, cause a spot check with the police. Half would be better--a hundred and twenty-five thousand.

I entered the 1st National and went to a counter to write out a check. A cautioning light suddenly flared in my brain. What if the authorities had called the bank--frozen my assets?

There's only one safe way to find out, I thought. I wrote out a small check to cash--fifty credits. Went to one of the many tellers, handed it through the cage. I knew, of course, that my picture was automatically taken as I did so.

The teller glanced curiously at the check, stamped it, and without hesitation handed me a fifty credit note.

I was elated. The bank had not yet been notified. I returned to the counter and wrote out a check in my own name to one hundred twenty-five thousand credits.

I presented it to another teller.

"Your identification, please?"

I flashed my wrist band.

The teller studied the check minutely. "This is a considerable sum. More than I have at my window. Could you wait for just a moment?" He picked up his phone.

A bank guard tapped me on the shoulder.

"Could you come with me, please."

My impulse was to run. A paralyzer pistol was sheathed in his wrist holster. There was no use.

I followed him to the original teller's window.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the man, "but an estop has been put on this account. You will have to return the fifty credits."

"Certainly," I said, hastily whipping out the fifty. I wanted to dash for the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other teller hang up his phone and look about urgently. He had not yet seen me.

"Here is the invalidated check," said the teller. "I suggest you hold onto it."

"Thank you," I said, restraining my hand from grabbing. "Guard," I said, "there's a teller over there motioning for you." I pointed in the opposite direction from the second teller. "I think it's number 16 there."

He went his way. I went my way, as fast as one can in a bank building without starting a chase. I hurried through the doors, waving frantically for a coptercab. One descended.

"Where to?"

Good question. "Fly me over the islands. I have to kill some time."

* * * * *

We ascended. I could just about read the cabbie's mind. "These damn Competitors! So busy and so loaded they have to spend money to kill time." We wafted towards the lakefront. My own thoughts were swirling chaotically. I felt as though someone had turned off the degravity device just as I was stepping into the elevator shaft. The rug--no, the entire floor itself--had been yanked out from under me. I knew now that I was being pursued systematically. It was not yet noon, not yet two hours since the event. Already the subtle, confident, overpowering resources of the state had been brought to bear, narrowing the avenues of escape, cutting off the criminal's life-line. Yet what had made me an outlaw? Love of offspring?

"Do you want me to just keep circling?" said the cabbie.

I made a quick decision. "Board of Trade Building. I'll show you which entrance when we get there."

My office was located there. Undoubtedly it would be under close watch. Probably Charlie Spacker's was also. But I had to communicate with Charlie. Had to get some money. Had to arrange to get out of the country.

In my mind's eye I could visualize two plainclothesmen seated in the anteroom of the firm of Sponsor & Spacker, trying to appear like clients. I could see another detective or two, armed with photograph and paralyzer, keeping vigilance on the roof landing. A few more watching the ground level entrance.

It was hard for me to believe I was that important to the state, worth a platoon of human blood-hounds. And yet, if the state was doing a thorough job at all, one had to assume they were there, and at our home in Mason City, Iowa, and at my club, and at all the space and air terminals as well. But it did not seem likely to me that a detective would actually be sitting in my private office, at my desk, waiting for me to come in through the window. That was the chance I'd have to take.

We approached the massive Board of Trade Building, which resembled the glued-together pipes of an antique pipe-organ, and I pointed and said to the cabbie,

"See that balcony. Let me off there."

The driver stared back at me, wide-eyed. "We aren't allowed to do that, mister."

"I realize that," I said, handing him a twenty credit note. "But I want to play a joke on a friend."

"All right, buddy," he said, maneuvering his copter closer to the building. "Remember, if you land on the pavement below, I don't offer any guarantees."

He hovered stationary beside my balcony and I leaped across the air space of two or three feet and slipped and clung, and finally scrambled to safety.

I could see into my darkened office. It didn't look as if anyone was there. Then a new problem presented itself. How to open the unbreakable strontium-alloy window? There was no way at all to do it from the outside.

Why hadn't I thought of that!

I looked down sixty-eight stories, and looked up forty-one stories, and realized I was trapped.

Unless I could reach the balcony outside Charlie's office. Oh my God, I thought--a human fly act! That was ten feet away, and I am six-foot-one tall. Moreover, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. And the face of the building was perfectly smooth. Not a thing to use as a hand-hold.

There was another possibility. I took off one of my shoes and hurled it at Charlie's window. It missed, but fortunately remained on the balcony. I took off the other one. It struck his window with a dull clonk.

If Charlie was out of his office--. Well, I couldn't be any more in a jam without shoes than with shoes.

A face appeared at the window. Our secretary Claire. She peered out for an instant, but the angle was too extreme for her to see me waving crazily. As she disappeared I let out an anguished shout. She reappeared, pressed the window lever, and stuck her head outside.

"Mr. Sponsor!" she said in amazement.

"Is Spacker there?" I had no time to dwell on the situation.

"No, Mr. Sponsor, he's still in the pit." A frown crossed her forehead. "But there are some gentlemen--waiting to see you."

"Yes, I know about them. Now, Claire. Come into my office through the adjoining door and open this window. And first please reach out and get my shoes."

She smiled, and I too had to see the humor.

Claire was a pretty-faced brunette with ultra-fair complexion and a tendency towards overweight which kept her eating prescriptions instead of meals. She couldn't compete with our robot steno, but customers like to deal with a human being. And she was loyal.

She let me in and handed me my shoes.

I sat down, put them on. "Those men outside are not to know I'm here." This was the real test of her loyalty.

Claire nodded tersely. She was not a dumb girl.

"I'm in serious trouble, Claire. The less you know about it the better, but it's all tied up with the crisis on Venus. Were you able to book passage for me?"

"Yes, you've a reservation on the midnight rocket."

"Good! When's your lunch hour?"

"I'm on it now, Mr. Sponsor."

"Will you do me a tremendous favor, Claire? I know it's an imposition, but it's quite urgent. Would you go down to the Venus Spaceship Line and pick up that ticket for me? And while you're at it, get two more tickets on the same ship, but separated from me. Do you understand? Have them bill us as usual."

"Under what name, Mr. Sponsor?" She was a canny girl.

"Leave all three open under our company name." This wasn't much better than 'Mr. & Mrs. Bart Sponsor & Son', but it left us some leeway to juggle identities. Perhaps trade tickets with three shlubs at the last minute. "I hope you don't mind this imposition." I added.

"I'll be very glad to do this for you, Mr. Sponsor." She hesitated. "Do you want me to bring the tickets back to the office? What should I do with them if you've left in the meantime?"

These were knowledgeable questions. How much did she already know? Was Claire really loyal, or was she planning already to tip off the police? Have them trail me, trap Celia and Freddie as well? That was one of those unavoidable risks.

"Mmm. Good question, Claire. Leave them in an envelope at the mail desk of the Conrad-Palmer Hotel ... under my name."

Hell, I thought. If she's going to betray me, the name won't make any difference. Otherwise, I'll need my own name for identification, in order to pick up the envelope.

* * * * *

They had not gotten around to examining my personal files. The drawers were still locked, and my slim, antique missile-gun was still filed under "W" (for weapon). I slipped it into my pocket and began rifling through my papers. I had never, to be truthful, expected to be in a situation as bad as this. But Top Competitors have to be prepared for some rough tactics.

Under "I" was a set of false identity papers. Under "S" was a sleep bomb--strenuously outlawed in private hands. Under "B" were various blackmail letters, including one I secretly held over Spacker. I looked hopefully under "M" for money, but there my foresight had failed me. It had never occurred to me that a man with a quarter of a million in the bank, and three times as much in securities, would some day need money.

I did find something under "M" that made me pause. Mendelsohn. It was a yellowed old folder, certainly the oldest in the entire file. My thoughts suddenly swirled back to college days. This was a project we had worked up together, when Solly was still hot on soil chemistry, and I hadn't settled on anything definite except somehow making a fortune. This was a technique for creating tillable topsoil out of solid rock in ten short years. About a million times faster than nature could do it, but who wanted to wait ten years?

Not I, at least. And when I, who was to do the selling, cooled off on the idea, Solly lost interest too.

Intriguing, though. Maybe Solly would like it back. Maybe the poor shlub could use it on Primus Gladus. I began stuffing things in my briefcase.

Charlie Spacker returned. I could hear him enter the adjoining office. I gave him time to settle down at his desk, then made my appearance.

"Bart!" He was genuinely startled. Charlie was a heavy-set, muscular man with deep resonant voice, short-cut wiry hair, and ruggedly sculptured Roman features. He was a good bargainer by instinct, a rough competitor within established ground rules, but weak on the frontiers, slow to assimilate new ideas, fearful of decisions.

"You've been a long time in returning, Charlie. I've waited here almost an hour. The gentlemen outside are growing impatient."

Charlie was confused. "They know you're here?"

"How do you think I got in? Through the window?"

"But I thought you were in serious trouble. Beach called and said--"

"I know all about that. Beach is behind the time, and he's not getting any more of our business, do you understand?" I had been speaking harshly. Now I fell into the familiar friendly vein. "Charlie, this is the situation. I came within an inch of getting my head chopped off. But I spoke to the Central Committeeman, and the matter's being straightened out."

I paced the office casually. "It's costing me money, of course. A cool half-million."

Charlie's eyes grew to the first magnitude. "Canopus! Have you got that much?"

"Not quite. Not in cash, anyway. There are some securities I can't put on the market right now. So I'm a hundred thousand short. Which isn't so much, actually."

I had to make this sound completely nonchalant. "I thought I'd borrow it from the business for thirty days. I assume that's all right with you?"

Spacker is no fool either. He hesitated. "Well sure, Bart, if we have it. But you know, with this Venus crisis we're running pretty close."

I exploded. "What do you mean, 'if we have it'! Our assets top thirty million."

"You weren't in the pit this morning, Bart. The way Venus commodities are going, we'll be damn lucky to cover our commitments."

"_That_ bad? Well, it's a good thing I'm leaving for Venus tonight." I paused. "All right, Charlie, then make me a personal loan."

"I'd be glad to, Bart. But ... considering the circumstances, how can I be sure you'll come back from Venus?" Spacker was shrewd.

"Don't be absurd, Charlie." I tried to make light of his bullseye. "If that bothers you, I'll give you two-for-one in government series R as collateral."

Spacker shook his head. "If something should go wrong with this deal you've made, then the government will be able to reclaim them as forfeit. And I'll be out a hundred thousand."

* * * * *

I was swallowing the humiliation, frustrated with a rage that I had to conceal. I was furious at his lack of trust, and chagrined that he was so well justified.

"All right, Charlie," I said cordially. "I'm a little hurt by your suspiciousness, but you have me at a disadvantage. I need the money. I suppose I could raise it some other way, but then that would delay my departure for Venus. And you know that our mutual welfare is tied up with the trip.

"If so many things worry you about this personal transaction, let me put your mind at ease. I'll sign over my equity in the business as security for the loan. Is that good enough?"