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concentrated on inching forward. The noise was even worse down here than it
had been above; we didn't attempt to talk.
Finally, by impudence and plain foolhardiness, I got the jeep forward a few
hundred yards, and found myself looking down on a big derrick with a
fifty-foot steel boom tipped with a four-clawed grapple, shielded in front
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with sheet steel like a gun shield. It was painted with the emblem of the
Hunters' Co-operative, but the three men on it looked like shipyard workers. I
didn't get that, at all. The thing had been built to handle burning wax, and
was one of three kept on the Second Level Down under
Hunters' Hall. I wondered if Bish Ware had found a way for a gang to get in at
the bottom of Hunters' Hall. I simply couldn't see Steve Ravick releasing
equipment to fight the fire his goons had started for him in the first place.
I let down a few feet, gave a polite little scream with my siren, and then
yelled down
to the men on it:
"Where'd that thing come from?"
"Hunters' Hall; Steve Ravick sent it. The other two are up at the fire
already, and if this mess ahead doesn't get straightened out& " From there on,
his remarks were not suitable for publication in a family journal like the
Times.
I looked up ahead, rising to the ceiling again, and saw what was the matter.
It was one of the dredgers from the waterfront, really a submarine scoop
shovel, that they used to keep the pools and the inner channel from sanding
up. I wasn't surprised it was jammed; I couldn't see how they'd gotten this
far uptown with it. I got a few shots of that, and then unhooked the handphone
of my radio. Julio Kubanoff answered.
"You getting everything I'm sending in?" I
asked.
"Yes. What's that two-em-dashed thing up ahead, one of the harbor dredgers?"
"That's right. Hey, look at this, once." I
turned the audiovisual down on the claw derrick. "The men on it look like
Rodriguez
& Oughourlian's people, but they say Steve
Ravick sent it. What do you know about it?"
"Hey, Ralph! What's this Walt's picked up about Ravick sending equipment to
fight the fire?" he yelled.
Dad came over, and nodded. "It wasn't
Ravick, it was Mort Hallstock. He commandeered the Co-op equipment and sent it
up," he said. "He called me and wanted to know whom to send for it that
Ravick's gang wouldn't start shooting at right away. Casmir Oughourlian sent
some of his men."
Up front, something seemed to have given way. The dredger went lurching
forward, and everything moved off after it.
"I get it," I said. "Hallstock's getting ready to dump Ravick out the airlock.
He sees, now, that Ravick's a dead turkey; he doesn't want to go into the oven
along with him."
"Walt, can't you ever give anybody credit with trying to do something decent,
once in a while?" Dad asked.
"Sure I can. Decent people. There are a lot of them around, but Mort Hallstock
isn't one of them. There was an Old Terran politician named Al Smith, once. He
had a little saying
he used in that kind of case: 'Let's look at the record.' "
"Well, Mort's record isn't very impressive, I'll give you that," Dad admitted.
"I
understand Mort's up at the fire now. Don't spit in his eye if you run into
him."
"I won't," I promised. "I'm kind of particular where I spit."
Things must be looking pretty rough around Municipal Building, I thought.
Maybe Mort's afraid the people will start running Fenris again, after this. He
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might even be afraid there'd be an election.
By this time, I'd gotten the jeep around the dredger we'd come to the end of
the nuclear-power plant buildings and cut off into open country. That is to
say, nothing but pillar-buildings two hundred yards apart and piles of bagged
mineral nutrients for the hydroponic farms. We could see a blaze of electric
lights ahead where the fire must be, and after a while we began to run into
lorries and lifter-skids hauling ammunition away from the area. Then I
could see a big mushroom of greasy black smoke spreading out close to the
ceiling. The electric lights were brighter ahead, and there was a confused
roar of voices and
sirens and machines.
And there was a stink.
There are a lot of stinks around Port
Sandor, though the ventilation system carries most of them off before they can
spread out of their own areas. The plant that reprocesses sewage to get
organic nutrients for the hydroponic farms, and the plant that digests
hydroponic vegetation to make nutrients for the carniculture vats. The
carniculture vats themselves aren't any flower gardens. And the pulp plant
where our synthetic lumber is made. But the worst stink there is on Fenris is
a tallow-wax fire.
Fortunately, they don't happen often.
Chapter Seventeen
TALLOW-WAX FIRE
Now THAT WE were out of the traffic jam, I
could poke along and use the camera myself. The wax was stacked in piles
twenty feet high, which gave thirty feet of clear space above them, but the
section where they had been piled was badly cut up by walls and full of small
extra columns to support the weight of the pulp plant above and the caricature
vats on the level over that. However, the piles themselves weren't
separated by any walls, and the fire could spread to the whole stock of wax.
There were more men and vehicles on the job than room for them to work. I
passed over the heads of the crowd around the edges and got onto a
comparatively unobstructed side where I
could watch and get views of the fire fighters pulling down the big skins of
wax and loading them onto contragravity skids to be hauled away. It still
wasn't too hot to work unshielded, and they weren't anywhere near the burning
stacks, but the fire seemed to be spreading rapidly. The dredger and the three
shielded derricks hadn't gotten into action yet.
I circled around clockwise, dodging over, under and around the skids and
lorries hauling wax out of danger. They were taking them into the section
through which I
had brought the jeep a few minutes before, and just dumping them on top of the
piles of mineral nutrients.
The operation seemed to be directed from an improvised headquarters in the
area that had been cleared of ammunition. There were a couple of view screens
and a radio, operated by women. I saw one of the teachers I'd gone to school
to a few years ago, and Joe Kivelson's wife, and Oscar
Fujisawa's current girl friend, and Sigurd
Ngozori's secretary, and farther off there was an equally improvised
coffee-and-sandwich stand. I grounded the jeep, and Murell and I got out and
went over to the headquarters. Joe Kivelson seemed to be in charge.
I have, I believe, indicated here and there that Joe isn't one of our mightier
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