Lone Star Planet
ranchers, Colonel Andrew Jackson Hickock."
Dumbarton Oaks had taught me how to maintain the proper diplomat's
unchanging expression; drinking superbourbon had been a post-graduate
course. I needed that training as I finally learned Gail's last name.
CHAPTER VI
It was early evening before we finally managed to get away from the
barbecue. Thrombley had called the Embassy and told them not to wait
dinner for us, so the staff had finished eating and were relaxing in the
patio when our car came in through the street gate. Stonehenge and
another man came over to meet us as we got out--a man I hadn't met
before.
He was a little fellow, half-Latin, half-Oriental; in New Texas costume
and wearing a pair of pistols like mine, in State Department Special
Services holsters. He didn't look like a Dumbarton Oaks product: I
thought he was more likely an alumnus of some private detective agency.
"Mr. Francisco Parros, our Intelligence man," Stonehenge introduced him.
"Sorry I wasn't here when you arrived, Mr. Silk," Parros said. "Out
checking on some things. But I saw that bit of shooting, on the telecast
screen in a bar over town. You know, there was a camera right over the
bandstand that caught the whole thing--you and Miss Hickock coming
toward the President and his party, Miss Hickock running forward to her
father, the waiter going up behind Hutchinson with the knife, and then
that beautiful draw and snap shot. They ran it again a couple of times
on the half-hourly newscast. Everybody in New Austin, maybe on New
Texas, is talking about it, now."
"Yes, indeed, sir," Gomez, the Embassy Secretary, said, joining us.
"You've made yourself more popular in the eight hours since you landed
than poor Mr. Cumshaw had been able to do in the ten years he spent
here. But, I'm afraid, sir, you've given me a good deal of work,
answering your fan-mail."
We went over and sat down at one of the big tables under the arches at
the side of the patio.
"Well, that's all to the good," I said. "I'm going to need a lot of
local good will, in the next few weeks. No thanks, Mr. Parros," I added,
as the Intelligence man picked up a bottle and made to pour for me.
"I've been practically swimming in superbourbon all afternoon. A little
black coffee, if you don't mind. And now, gentlemen, if you'll all be
seated, we'll see what has to be done."
"A council of war, in effect, Mr. Ambassador?" Stonehenge inquired.
"Let's call it a council to estimate the situation. But I'll have to
find out from you first exactly what the situation here is."
Thrombley stirred uneasily. "But sir, I confess that I don't understand.
Your briefing on Luna...."
"Was practically nonexistent. I had a total of six hours to get aboard
ship, from the moment I was notified that I had been appointed to this
Embassy."
"Incredible!" Thrombley murmured.
I wondered what he'd say if I told him that I thought it was
deliberate.
"Naturally, I spent some time on the ship reading up on this planet, but
I know practically nothing about what's been going on here in, say, the
last year. And all I know about the death of Mr. Cumshaw is that he is
said to have been killed by three brothers named Bonney."
"So you'll want just about everything, Mr. Silk," Thrombley said.
"Really, I don't know where to begin."
"Start with why and how Mr. Cumshaw was killed. The rest, I believe,
will key into that."
So they began; Thrombley, Stonehenge and Parros doing the talking. It
came to this:
Ever since we had first established an Embassy on New Texas, the goal of
our diplomacy on this planet had been to secure it into the Solar
League. And it was a goal which seemed very little closer to realization
now than it had been twenty-three years before.
"You must know, by now, what politics on this planet are like, Mr.
Silk," Thrombley said.
"I have an idea. One Ambassador gone native, another gone crazy, the
third killed himself, the fourth murdered."
"Yes, indeed. I've been here fifteen years, myself...."
"That's entirely too long for anybody to be stationed in this place," I
told him. "If I'm not murdered, myself, in the next couple of weeks, I'm
going to see that you and any other member of this staff who's been here
over ten years are rotated home for a tour of duty at Department
Headquarters."
"Oh, would you, Mr. Silk? I would be so happy...."
Thrombley wasn't much in the way of an ally, but at least he had a
sound, selfish motive for helping me stay alive. I assured him I would
get him sent back to Luna, and then went on with the discussion.
Up until six months ago, Silas Cumshaw had modeled himself after the
typical New Texas politician. He had always worn at least two faces, and
had always managed to place himself on every side of every issue at
once. Nothing he ever said could possibly be construed as controversial.
Naturally, the cause of New Texan annexation to the Solar League had
made no progress whatever.
Then, one evening, at a banquet, he had executed a complete 180-degree
turn, delivering a speech in which he proclaimed that union with the
Solar League was the only possible way in which New Texans could retain
even a vestige of local sovereignty. He had talked about an invasion as
though the enemy's ships were already coming out of hyperspace, and had
named the invader, calling the z'Srauff "our common enemy." The z'Srauff
Ambassador, also present, had immediately gotten up and stalked out,
amid a derisive chorus of barking and baying from the New Texans. The
New Texans were first shocked and then wildly delighted; they had been
so used to hearing nothing but inanities and high-order abstractions
from their public figures that the Solar League Ambassador had become a
hero overnight.
"Sounds as though there is a really strong sentiment at what used to be
called the grass-roots level in favor of annexation," I commented.
"There is," Parros told me. "Of course, there is a very strong
isolationist, anti-annexation, sentiment, too. The sentiment in favor
of annexation is based on the point Mr. Cumshaw made--the danger of
conquest by the z'Srauff. Against that, of course, there is fear of
higher taxes, fear of loss of local sovereignty, fear of abrogation of
local customs and institutions, and chauvinistic pride."
"We can deal with some of that by furnishing guarantees of local
self-government; the emotional objections can be met by convincing them
that we need the great planet of New Texas to add glory and luster to
the Solar League," I said. "You think, then, that Mr. Cumshaw was
assassinated by opponents of annexation?"
"Of course, sir," Thrombley replied. "These Bonneys were only hirelings.
Here's what happened, on the day of the murder:
"It was the day after a holiday, a big one here on New Texas,
celebrating some military victory by the Texans on Terra, a battle
called San Jacinto. We didn't have any business to handle, because all
the local officials were home nursing hangovers, so when Colonel Hickock
called--"
"Who?" I asked sharply.
"Colonel Hickock. The father of the young lady you were so attentive to
at the barbecue. He and Mr. Cumshaw had become great friends, beginning
shortly before the speech the Ambassador made at that banquet. He called
about 0900, inviting Mr. Cumshaw out to his ranch for the day, and as
there was nothing in the way of official business, Mr. Cumshaw said he'd
be out by 1030.
"When he got there, there was an aircar circling about, near the
ranchhouse. As Mr. Cumshaw got out of his car and started up the front
steps, somebody in this car landed it on the driveway and began
shooting with a twenty-mm auto-rifle. Mr. Cumshaw was hit several times,
and killed instantly."
"The fellows who did the shooting were damned lucky," Stonehenge took
over. "Hickock's a big rancher. I don't know how much you know about
supercow-ranching, sir, but those things have to be herded with tanks
and light aircraft, so that every rancher has at his disposal a fairly
good small air-armor combat team. Naturally, all the big ranchers are
colonels in the Armed Reserve. Hickock has about fifteen fast fighters,
and thirty medium tanks armed with fifty-mm guns. He also has some
AA-guns around his ranch house--every once in a while, these ranchers
get to squabbling among themselves.
"Well, these three Bonney brothers were just turning away when a burst
from the ranch house caught their jet assembly, and they could only get
as far as Bonneyville, thirty miles away, before they had to land. They
landed right in front of the town jail.
"This Bonneyville's an awful shantytown; everybody in it is related to
everybody else. The mayor, for instance, Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney, is an
uncle of theirs.
"These three boys--Switchblade Joe Bonney, Jack-High Abe Bonney and
Turkey-Buzzard Tom Bonney--immediately claimed sanctuary in the jail, on
the grounds that they had been near to--get that; I think that indicates
the line they're going to take at the trial--_near_ to a political
assassination. They were immediately given the protection of the jail,
which is about the only well-constructed building in the place,
practically a fort."
"You think that was planned in advance?" I asked.
Parros nodded emphatically. "I do. There was a hell of a big gang of
these Bonneys at the jail, almost the entire able-bodied population of
the place. As soon as Switchblade and Jack-High and Turkey-Buzzard
landed, they were rushed inside and all the doors barred. About three
minutes later, the Hickock outfit started coming in, first aircraft and
then armor. They gave that town a regular Georgie Patton style
blitzing."
"Yes. I'm only sorry I wasn't there to see it," Stonehenge put in. "They
knocked down or burned most of the shanties, and then they went to work
on the jail. The aircraft began dumping these firebombs and stun-bombs
that they use to stop supercow stampedes, and the tank-guns began to
punch holes in the walls. As soon as Kettle-Belly saw what he had on his
hands, he radioed a call for Ranger protection. Our friend Captain
Nelson went out to see what the trouble was."
"Yes. I got the story of that from Nelson," Parros put in. "Much as he
hated to do it, he had to protect the Bonneys. And as soon as he'd taken
a hand, Hickock had to call off his gang. But he was smart. He grabbed
everything relating to the killing--the aircar and the twenty-mm
auto-rifle in particular--and he's keeping them under cover. Very few
people know about that, or about the fact that on physical evidence
alone, he has the killing pinned on the Bonneys so well that they'll
never get away with this story of being merely innocent witnesses."
"The rest, Mr. Silk, is up to us," Thrombley said. "I have Colonel
Hickock's assurance that he will give us every assistance, but we simply
must see to it that those creatures with the outlandish names are
convicted."
I didn't have a chance to say anything to that: at that moment, one of
the servants ushered Captain Nelson toward us.
"Good evening, Captain," I greeted the Ranger. "Join us, seeing that
you're on foreign soil and consequently not on duty."
He sat down with us and poured a drink.
"I thought you might be interested," he said. "We gave that waiter a
going-over. We wanted to know who put him up to it. He tried to sell us
the line that he was a New Texan patriot, trying to kill a tyrant, but
we finally got the truth out of him. He was paid a thousand pesos to do
the job, by a character they call Snake-Eyes Sam Bonney. A cousin of the
three who killed Mr. Cumshaw."
"Nephew of Kettle-Belly Sam," Parros interjected. "You pick him up?"
Nelson shook his head disgustedly. "He's out in the high grass
somewhere. We're still looking for him. Oh, yes, and I just heard that