By Norman Spinrad
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Johnson smiled as he saw that the twelfth man was indeed Arkady Duntov, his right-hand man, the closest thing he had to a friend. A man so plain and ordinary that he was not even on the Hegemonic Enemy list—and yet a man who always seemed to come up with surprising information and plans, as if he had access to some hidden store of wisdom beyond his own seemingly modest mental resources. Johnson did not understand the blond, broad-faced Russian, but he valued him as one of the most useful agents the League had.
Johnson knew he had to get to Phobos or die, and to get to Phobos, he had to get past this Guard. Now! "There must be some connection . "Johnson muttered. " "I said there must be some connection," Johnson said. " grunted the Guard. "Well, since yon have your orders, I suppose I'll have to tell you," Johnson said grudgingly. "I'm with suit Maintenance. A couple days ago, we discovered three sabotaged spacesuits at airlock two. Neat job—just some tiny holes in 'em, not large enough to be noticed until you're too far from the dome to get back alive.
The subways were League territory. In fact, this underground city, and similar abandoned man-made grottos beneath Chicago and Bay City and Great London and Paris and Moscow and Leningrad and scores of other multi-leveled cities all over Earth, were all that stood between the Democratic League and extinction. Above was control, Guards, Beams and Eyes, paper checks. But a man could disappear into the underground ruins until the necessary papers were forged when things got too hot up above. Here arms could be cached, meetings held, papers forged, in security.