Chapter II

The Duchess had been a woman of her word, Ostby reflected, as he leaned against the counter sipping his drink. Knowing full well who he was, she had allowed him to leave, making no demands of him, and inviting him back whenever he cared to come. She was quite a woman. Some day, if and when he was able to clear up this business, he would return.

Now the time had come for him to change tactics. He had been able to accomplish nothing by playing a lone hand. He needed help. When you opposed the police the best place to seek help--he had decided--was among others who broke the law. Thus he returned to the Flats, hangout of the underworld.

To make his contact with the underworld the first step should be some spectacular move that would focus their attention on him. "Fill it up," he said, sliding his glass along the bar. From his pocket he drew a thick roll of bills, a thickness caused by paper padding.

He paid for his drink and laid the roll carelessly at his elbow.

A minute went by and he felt someone slide in beside him. From the corner of his eye Ostby observed his companion. When he saw a hand close over the bills, he reached swiftly over and gripped the wrist of the hand that held the money. "Drop it," he said.

The thief's lips parted over stained teeth, but he said nothing. For a moment he stared back, viciously, then he shifted his body slightly and Ostby felt a knife point pierce the flesh of his right side and come to rest against his ribs. "Let go, bud." The thief spoke low without moving his lips.

Ostby hunched his shoulders and twisted his body around in a half circle. As the thug went off balance Ostby pulled forward, still gripping the wrist, and threw him over his shoulder. The thug struck the floor on the flat of his back, and the wind left his lungs. He lay for a moment, his body doubled up, and one leg kicking spasmodically, as he fought for breath. Ostby bent over, picked up his money, and leaned backward, with his elbows resting against the bar, and watched the struggling man.

All the fight had left the thief by the time he regained his breath. He cast one venomous look at Ostby as he climbed to his feet, and left the drinking place.

The preliminaries were over. Now to await the main action. It was not long in coming.

"That was pretty rough treatment," a coarse voice near Ostby said. He turned his head. The man had a day's growth of whiskers, and a long scar stretched his mouth into a permanent grin. Ostby shrugged noncommittally and turned back to his drink.

"You a stranger in town?" the man persisted.

Ostby nodded, as he frowned and brought his attention back to the harsh-voiced man.

"I'm not being nosey," the man said, "but you handle yourself like a lad who's been around. And you must be afraid of the law or you wouldn't be hanging out down here. Right?"

Ostby turned and faced the stranger squarely. "Is it any of your business?" he asked belligerently.

The man held up his hand. "Take it easy," he said. "I'm looking for a fellow like you. Do you have the guts to kill a man?"

* * * * *

Ostby found a cellar window unlocked. He crawled through and let his legs hang down. When they touched a floor he pulled himself completely in. He paused and let his eyes become adjusted to the semi-dark.

At the end of the cellar he could make out a short flight of stairs.

Ostby climbed the stairs and softly opened the door. Directly in front of him, but half way across the room, a fat man sat in an over-stuffed armchair. He sat so quietly that at first Ostby thought that he was dead.

Only when he reached the fat man's side did he see that the slate gray eyes of the man had been watching him since he entered.

"If you were able to get this far," the fat man said, still not moving a muscle, "my guards have been bought off."

"You're Siggen?" Ostby asked.

"Who else?" Siggen twisted his lips into an ironic smile and bowed his head. "I'm Siggen, head of the thieves of Yarr. And you're here to kill me. May I ask who sent you?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Many men would like to see me dead. Most of them are afraid to try it themselves. Just as the one who sent you is afraid. But don't bother telling me who did it. Roka has coveted my place for a long time."

Ostby said nothing.

"I trusted too much in my guards," Siggen said, more to himself than to Ostby. "My reputation must have sunk low if they allowed themselves to be bought." He sighed. "Perhaps it's no use trying to save this old hulk, but hope dies hard." For a moment his tired face showed stark and very naked in the light of the lamp. And somehow Ostby felt a bond of sympathy with the old man. "How much will you take to spare my life?"

"What will you pay?" Ostby asked.

"Roka probably paid you a thousand heds," Siggen answered. "I'll pay you ten thousand."

"A fair enough exchange," Ostby said. "Except that I don't want money."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want help--to enter the Stalls. And to get out again with my life."

"A simple order, for Siggen." The fat man had his vanity. "Give me a day to plan it. You have my word."

"Can I depend on it?"

"Men have said many things about Siggen, but never that his word was not good."

"Then it's settled," Ostby said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Just a minute before you go." The old man unclasped his puffy hands. "You are an unusual man and you intrigue me. Would you mind telling me your name?"

"Not at all. It's James Ostby."

"Ostby ... Ostby ..." the fat man pondered slowly. Then his head came up. "The Berserker!" he said. He whistled low, under his breath. "Tell me," he said, "why have we never met before. Or, if not, why are we meeting now?"

Ostby shrugged. "Perhaps because I have little confidence in others."

"You do have the reputation of being a lone wolf." Siggen remarked slowly. "After this business is over I'd be glad to consider consolidating our, ah, talents. We could go far together."

"You offer me this when you know me so little?"

"The best test of good relations between men is an instinctive liking," Siggen said. "I feel we have this, plus a common purpose."

"I'll think it over," Ostby replied. "In the meantime I'll expect results tomorrow."

Ostby lay flat on his stomach with his head facing the window in front of him. The window was set flush with the floor and he had a good view of the Stalls across the street.

The Stalls was a squat, three-story building, with a basement and a sub-basement. The upper three stories were occupied by government offices. The basement housed the heating equipment and was used as a storage space. But it was the sub-basement that gave the place its name. Here the slaves were kept until sold.

* * * * *

The deserted office room in which Ostby lay had been closed for many months, and it was hot inside, and close. The sun shining through the windows added to the heat, and the film of moisture that bathed his body had long since developed small rivulets that collected in sodden patches of his clothing.

"How much longer will it be, Groves?" Ostby asked.

"There's no way of knowing." The young man who sat with his back resting against the wall had wilted under the heat and crawled over out of the sunlight. "As soon as it's safe," he said. "Let me know if you see anyone coming out."

"I thought Siggen had fixed it so we could get in without any trouble?"

"He bribed the guards," Groves replied. "But you saw those two men go in. I recognized one of them as Boorrls of the secret police. They're liable to turn up any place, any time. We'd be sticking our necks out to go in while they're there."

For another ten minutes neither man said a word. A big drop of moisture collected on the cleft in the middle of Ostby's chin. He wished he were certain that he could trust Groves. Groves was an open-faced young man with candor in his blue eyes, and a ready smile that asked for confidence, but somewhere in the man's makeup was a black streak, Ostby reckoned.

All morning Ostby's infallible intuition had throbbed a slow pulse of warning. He knew better than to disregard that warning but when he turned to thieves for help he had no right to expect sterling characters for companions.

Siggen should have enough control over his men to make Groves afraid to double-cross him. And, strangely enough, Ostby trusted Siggen. His intuition told him that Siggen was a man true to his own principles, distorted though they might be.

Ostby had seen another facet of Siggen's character that morning. When he had returned to the house Siggen had introduced him to Groves, and the three of them had gone down into the fat man's basement.

"I want to show you a pretty sight," Siggen said.

Lying on the basement floor was the body of a man. A knife was buried in his throat. The dead mouth that smiled up at Ostby was widened by a long scar.

"What will we do when we get in the Stalls?" Groves interrupted Ostby's reflections.

Ostby did not answer, but turned his head to look at the young man, long and levelly.

"It's none of my business, of course," Groves added hurriedly, "but I won't be much help in case of trouble if I don't even know what you're trying to do."

"If trouble comes we just get out as fast as we can."

"You aren't going to try to get one of the slaves out, are you? You told Siggen that you only wanted to get in, and get out again."

"That's all I want."

"It you're trying to close the 'door,' what would you want in...." Abruptly Groves stopped talking. Ostby read the dismay in his voice as he realized that he had said too much.

Ostby rolled over on his side, bringing his gun up and firing in the same motion. Groves had his own gun drawn when the slug caught him in the forehead and slapped his head back as though riding the blow of a fist. Slowly he fell sideways along the wall.

Ostby was on his feet immediately. He'd have to move fast now, he knew. No one but the police, or someone high in the Imperator's confidence, would know that he was here to close the "door" between the worlds. Groves had made a bad slip.

In Groves' right rear pocket Ostby found a black billfold. Inside was a white card with the word, _Confidential_, written on it. He found nothing else of interest. But that was enough to wipe away Ostby's last doubt. Sweat broke out anew on his forehead as he realized how close the trap had come to closing around him. He might be too late already.

On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps this would be the moment when boldness would accomplish more than it ever could have in the past. He had been able to get nowhere in the past months with caution, and this time, being so close, he would not turn back.