Chapter 8 
Chapter 8
BUT THEY ALMOST WEREN’T THERE.
There was a minor riot outside the Dominey Hall. Accounts as to its cause differed. One morning paper said that a crowd, singing, “We’ll roll the bastards under!” had charged a group of policemen. The other paper said that the police had charged a small group of people from the Roll-Around who were going their ways quite peacefully.
Actually it had been Grimes’ fault. Those noisy songs, with their primitive rhythm, had carried him back in time, to when he was a young and normally rowdy cadet in the Federation’s Survey Service. He had remembered something that he and his shipmates had been fond of singing whenever there was a minion of the law within earshot. He had insisted on teaching the words to Billinghurst—who was not amused—to Pahvani—who was—and to a half-dozen young men and girls who were going the same way as themselves.
“There’s a policeman on his beat,
“Over there, over there!
“There’s a policeman on his beat,
“Over there!
“There’s a policeman on his beat,
“I can smell his sweaty feet,
“There’s a policeman on his beat,
“Over there!”
During the third, noisy rendition of this ditty a dozen policemen tried to silence the songsters. Punches were thrown. Stunguns were used, set so as to inflict the maximum pain without causing unconsciousness. A large body of revelers rushed to the aid of Grimes and his companions. Police air cars clattered overhead, dropping arrest meshes, wire nets that ignored the specially treated police uniforms but that clung to everything else in a tight grip. The air cars ranged over the street like seine net fishermen over a school of fish. Their catch, dangling under the aircraft, was hauled ignominiously to the station house. Grimes, Billinghurst, and Pahvani would have spent the night in cells had not Pahvani, who had been acting as liaison officer between police and customs, been recognized by the lieutenant in charge. He had the three Lorners hustled away from the other prisoners, ostensibly for interrogation. Shouts of sympathy and encouragement followed them.
As soon as he could safely do so Billinghurst snarled, “You almost ruined everything, Commodore!”
“When among spheres—roll!” replied the unrepentant Grimes.
“You, Lieutenant Whatever-Your-Name-Is,” snapped Billinghurst to the police officer. “I am the chief collector of customs for Port Forlorn, in overall charge of this drug investigation. This is Commodore Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Navy, who’s working with me.” He glared at the commodore. “Or against me, to judge by tonight’s little effort. Sub-Inspector Pahvani you already know.”
“And what can I do for you, sir?”
“I want vehicles, and I want men. Armed men.”
“And a map,” contributed Grimes. “And all the geographical information you can give us.” He waited for Billinghurst to say something, then added, “It seems that there’s to be a drop at Fitzroy Crossing. At 0200 hours tomorrow.”
“There’s a wall map in the Captain’s office,” said the lieutenant. “Follow me, please.”
The map was a large-scale topographical one, covering Port Last and the surrounding countryside to a distance of fifty kilometres from the City Centre. “The Fitzroy Crossing is not far from here,” said the police officer, jabbing with his finger. “There’s a bridge, as you see, both road and monorail. On the north side of the bridge there’s Davidsham Village—with one senior constable who, by this time, will be tucked up warm and snug in his little bed.” He laughed. “I was stationed there myself before I was promoted to sergeant. Nothing ever happens in Davidsham. Even so, I should hardly think that the drop will be to the north of the Crossing.
“Now, on the south side we have the wheatfields. And,” his finger jabbed again, “here we have the racecourse. I hope you gentlemen can manage to be here for the Ultimo Cup Week—it’s really something.”
“Landing facilities?” asked Grimes, who was not at all interested in horses.
“You could set a cruiser down there, Commodore. And a couple of destroyers. No G.C.A. of course. Ha, ha.”
“There probably will be,” said Grimes. “A small beacon, mounted on a car. Mphm. Now, Mr. Billinghurst, if we go charging out there in police vehicles we’ll scare off the reception committee—and whoever’s making the delivery. I suggest that we land somewhere to the north of the racecourse, well away from the road, and make our way to the landing site on foot. We shall want a guide. Do any of your men know the district, Lieutenant?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. And have you any quiet cars? Inertial drive kicks up one helluva racket, especially on a still night like this.”
“We have the blimps, sir. They have been developed especially for police use on this planet.”
“They should do.” And, Grimes thought, Once again the airship comes back into service. He said, “But I thought you had no really serious crime on Ultimo.”
“There are gambling schools, sir, very often meeting out in the country. They play a game of chance, tossing two coins. When it comes to catching the gamblers red-handed we find the silent approach technique very useful. The blimps are propeller-driven, with almost noiseless electric motors.”
“Make it blimps, then.”
“Very good, sir. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll ring the precinct captain and start getting things organized.”
“Before you do, Lieutenant, is there a washroom handy? I’d like to get this artificial foliage off my face. I’d just hate to get it wound round a blimp’s propeller.”