Free Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell by Eric Frank Russell

could be solved by the easy expedient of taking a taxi—only to create another problem. Taxis have to be driven. Drivers have mouths and memories. The most taciturn of them could become positively gabby when questioned by the Kaitempi.
    “You take anyone off the 11:20 from Radine?”
    “Yar. Young fellow with a case.”
    “Notice anything suspicious about him? He act tough or behave warily, for instance?”
    “Not that I noticed. Seemed all right to me. Wasn’t a native Jaimecan though. Spoke with a real Mashambi growl.”
    “Remember where you took him, hi?”
    “Yar, I do. I can show you.”
    There was an escape from this predicament; he took it by dumping the case in a rented locker in the station and walking away free of the betraying burden. In theory the case should be safe enough for one full Jaimecan day. In ominous fact there was a slight chance of it being discovered and used as bait.
    On a world where nothing was sacrosanct from their prying fingers the Kaitempi had master-keys to everything. They weren’t above opening and searching every bank of lockers within a thousand miles of the scene of the crime if by any quirk of thought they took it into their heads that to do so would be a smart move. So when he returned in daytime to collect the case he’d have to approach the lockers with considerable caution, making sure that a watch was not being kept upon them by a ring of hard characters.
    Pacing rapidly home, he was within half a mile of his destination when two cops stepped from a dark doorway on the other side of the street.
    “Hey, you!”
    Mowry stopped. They came across, stared at him in grim silence. Then one made a gesture to indicate the high-shining stars, the deserted street.
    “Wandering around pretty late, aren’t you?”
    “Nothing wrong with that, is there?” he answered, making his tone slightly apologetic.
    “We are asking the questions,” retorted the cop. “Where’ve you been to this hour?”
    “On a train.”
    “From where?”
    “Khamasta.”
    “And where’re you going now?”
    “Home.”
    “You’d have made it quicker in a taxi, wouldn’t you?"
    “Sure would,” Mowry agreed. “Unfortunately I happened to be last out. Someone always has to be last out. By that time every taxi had been grabbed.”
    “Well, it’s a story.”
    At this point the other cop chipped in. He adopted technique Number Seven, namely, a narrowing of the eyes, an out-thrusting of the jaw and a harshening of the voice. Once in a while Number Seven would be rewarded with a guilty look or at least a hopelessly exaggerated expression of innocence. He was very good at it, having practiced it assiduously upon his wife and the bedroom mirror.
    “You wouldn’t perhaps have been nowhere near Khamasta, hi? You wouldn’t perhaps have been spending the night taking a nice, easy stroll around Pertane and sort of absentmindedly messing around with walls and windows, would you?”
    “No, I wouldn’t,’’ said Mowry. “For the reason that nobody would pay me a bad guilder for my trouble. Do I look crazy?”
    “Not enough to be noticed,” admitted the cop. “But somebody’s doing it, crazy or not.”
    “Well, I can’t blame you fellows for wanting to nab him. I don’t like loonies myself. They give me the creeps.” He made an impatient gesture. “If you’re going to search me how about getting the job done? I’ve had a long day, I’m dog-tired and I want to get home.”
    “I don’t think we’ll bother,” said the cop. “You show us your identity-card.”
    Mowry dug it out. The cop gave it no more than a perfunctory glance while his companion ignored it altogether.
    “All right, on your way. If you insist on walking the streets at this hour you must expect to be stopped and questioned. There’s a war on, see?”
    “Yes, officer,” said Mowry, meekly.
    He pushed off at his best pace, thanking heaven he had got rid of his luggage. If he’d been holding that case they’d have