Wild Card: 6/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Mark pulled the car into a lot a short distance from the Lunar Hilton, set the parking brake and got out. Alan followed, and for the first time took the time to check his own clothing, vividly revealed in the floodlights illuminating the lot. "Oh, no!"
Linley came around the car. "Holy space! That guy bled all over you! Let's getcha up to the room."
"I can't walk into the lobby like this! They'll arrest me on the spot!"
Mark stripped off his smeared cape. "Here, put this around you. I washed off most of what was on your face while you were out. Nobody should notice."
"I feel awfully conspicuous." Alan wrapped the cape closely around himself and followed Mark from the parking lot, through the front entrance of the hotel and through the lobby. His neck prickled, but no one so much as glanced at him. The folks who worked here were probably accustomed to seeing strange-looking people arriving from the casinos from time to time, he surmised.
Linley unlocked the door to their room and pushed him through. "Here, siddown and let me have a look at that arm."
"It's not bad." Alan peeled off the cape and examined the singed cloth of his shirt. "The guy just creased me."
Linley helped him pull off the garment. "Yep, nice second degree burn. You got a few blisters but it ain't serious." He opened his Patrol bag and removed the first aid kit. "I got the burn salve here. That'll take the ouch out of it."
He proceeded to smear the blisters with the regenerative ointment and covered it with synthaskin. "That'll hold you. You better go wash off that goo."
Alan went into the bathroom. "What happened to the guard?"
"Huh?" Linley sounded blank.
"The owner of all this blood." He turned on the water, soaked a rag and began to wash the dried crustiness from his forehead. "Yuk! I'd better wash my hair, too."
"Oh. I stunned him. He smacked his face on the rocks."
"They're going to know I had an accomplice."
"Sure." Linley shrugged unconcernedly. "It don't matter; he didn't see me. I'm Strike Commander Russell, an' you're my sweet baby brother. They ain't gonna investigate us."
"I hope not." Alan vigorously toweled his hair dry. "How do I look?"
"Fine. Change your britches an' nobody'll know the difference."
"Right ..." Something was tugging at the edge of his consciousness, an odd sensation that they were neglecting something important. "Mark, check the videophone recorder."
"Huh?" Linley turned and went back into the other room. Alan followed him. "What the devil? Someone's left us a message. Play," he added.
The screen lit up immediately, revealing the face of a man in his early forties with dark eyes and black hair worn in a regulation Patrol cut.
"Hi there, Brad! Kermit Markham here. I'm vacationing in Luna City, and I hear you are, too. Maybe we can get together for dinner and do the clubs tonight or tomorrow. Let me know. I'm in Suite 701 at the Whispering Palms."
Linley scowled at the mechanism. "Damn!"
"Oh, darn!" Alan said. "All we needed is somebody who knows the real Strike Commander Russell!"
"Yeah. Blast it all! What am I gonna do now? He'll be suspicious if I turn him down, and even without the video he'll probably know it ain't Brad's voice."
"Do *you* know him, Mark?"
"Yeah, slightly. Kermit Markham's the Base Commander o' Drevelle. I've met him a couple o' times at social functions o' one sort or another. *Now* what do we do?"
"I'll fix it," Alan said, struck by sudden inspiration. He glanced at the videophone. "Whispering Palms."
There was a soft chiming sound and the screen lit up. The face of a pretty, young woman, her hair decked with what looked like miniature palm leaves, appeared on the screen. She smiled. "Whispering Palms Hotel. May I be of service?"
"Uh, yes." Alan returned the smile. "May I have room 701, please?"
"Certainly, sir." Another flashing smile. "One moment, please." A soft, buzzing sound and a seductive female voice spoke.
"I'm sorry. Base Commander Markham is out at the moment. If you wish to leave a message, please do so when you hear the tone. And remember, when you visit Luna City, always stay at the Whispering Palms Hotel, where your slightest whisper is our command ..."
Alan sighed.
The commercial concluded at last and there was a soft, musical chime. Alan took a deep breath. "Hello, sir, this is Alan Russell, Brad's brother. Brad is engaged for the evening, but I'm sure he'll be glad to have dinner with you sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Thank you for calling." He cut the connection. "That okay, Mark?"
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Man, you sure sound classy on the phone, li'l brother. Ol' Markham's gonna think Brad's got a rich brother. Blow the good Strike Commander's reputation all to hell."
"Especially," Alan said, "when he finds out later that Russell doesn't *have* a brother -- at least not that anybody knows about."
Linley snorted. "You're gettin' as cynical as I am. So, now that that's settled, let's get back to business. How'd you get in that mess back there?"
Alan rapidly explained the circumstances of his capture and subsequent escape. Linley listened in silence until he finished.
"Just like a Jil to worry about the good of his fellow critters," he commented. "Too bad we ain't got some way o lettin' the Luna City cops know what his Lordship is doin' at the Blue Owl." He shrugged. "Oh well, no use cryin' over spilt milk. Feel like headin' back to the park?"
Alan nodded. "We've got to find poor Woody."
Linley grinned unsympathetically. "Sounds t'me like the li'l twerp got himself into the fix, but you're right. If we don't find him, they will, an' what we need to know'll die with him." He rummaged in the closet and emerged with a fresh set of clothing and cape, edged with a light, gold fringe, for Alan. His partner surveyed the fashionable, light green garment without enthusiasm.
"Do I *have* to wear that?"
Linley shrugged. "At least we match."
Alan began to strip off his soiled, torn clothing, grimacing a little at the bloodstains. "What a mess! What'll we do with them?"
"Wash 'em." Linley shoved the bundle of clothing into the clothing processor next to the bathroom door and tossed his ketchup-stained cape after it. Alan began to pull on the fresh items, sealing the front of the jumpsuit completely. Mark came over and opened the seal to mid-chest.
"Don't be too modest. That'll attract attention, too. Blend with the crowd, pal. Here, put on this hat."
Alan eyed the head-covering with distaste. It was an elaborate thing, with a wide, imitation-straw brim and two crossed comets embroidered across the front. The words "Luna City" were interlaced between the comets in sparkling letters. "Blend? Did you say blend? Wearing *this* thing?"
"Sure. Lotsa people wear souvenir hats."
"I'll look like a yokel."
"Well," Mark pointed out reasonably, "we gotta go back to the park and there's bound to be guys there still looking for a little red-headed kid. Better to look ridiculous than get recognized."
Alan resigned himself, placing the hat on his red-tinted curls and securing the elastic band under his chin. He glanced into the mirror and shuddered. "I guess I'm ready."
"Stay close to me. I'll make a show if we get stopped by anybody. They won't even look at you."
Alan nodded, absently. He was doubtfully considering his ability to find the clerk again. Oh, well. At least he knew what the man's mind felt like now. Maybe that would help.
Mark almost seemed to be reading his mind. "Think you can find him again?"
"Maybe. I sure hope so. The poor guy's in awful trouble."
"Yeah," Linley said, with a notable lack of sympathy. "Okay, then, let's move."
The park was very quiet, now. Alan and Mark stepped softly along a deserted path toward the spot where Alan had last seen Woodrow Peeks. They paused beside a neatly-trimmed hedge, the evidence of Peeks' flight clearly marked by the ragged hole in its center. Mark glanced questioningly at Alan. "Well?"
Alan shook his head. "Nothing. Let's walk around a little. Maybe I'll pick him up."
"Okay." Linley offered his wrist and Alan grasped it, drawing power for his scans. He concentrated, reaching outward mentally in search of the clerk.
Nothing. They walked slowly down the path, barely noticing the direction.
Someone was ahead of them. The presence of a mind became gradually apparent, but it was not that of the clerk. Alan sensed its sudden awareness of them. There was no fear radiating from it, but a good deal of suspicion, mixed with wariness. A security guard.
"There's a guard ahead of us. He's seen us."
Linley didn't pause in his even, leisurely stride. "Take it easy. We got a right t'be here, remember."
"Sure." Alan's neck prickled as the presence drew nearer. It was definitely a guard, placed there by his boss in case the criminals returned to the scene. Alan swallowed, making his steps as even and leisurely as his partner's.
They had proceeded on a dozen meters when the man stepped from the bushes, his hand resting on the butt of his blaster. "Hold it!" he snapped.
They stopped. Linley pushed Alan back, partially shielding him with his own body. "What the devil do you want?" he demanded.
The guard took a step forward, looking them over. "Who are you? What's your business here?"
Linley favored the man with a frosty stare. "I'm Strike Commander Bradley Russell, you nitwit, an' this is my kid brother. Our business is a walk in the park. An' now, I want your name and badge number an' the name o' your immediate supervisor."
The man gulped. "I ... I must see your identification, sir. There's ... been an incident here tonight, and we're tightening the security."
Mark produced his forged identification, and the man examined it nervously. He removed his hand from the blaster and gulped again, handing the I.D. back. "I'm awfully sorry about this, sir."
Mark returned the card to his billfold, his gaze never wavering. No one knew better then he the actual power wielded by the high-ranking officers of the Viceregal Patrol. No one with any sense offended a Strike Commander unnecessarily. The guard took a nervous step back.
"I'm sorry, sir," he repeated.
Alan smiled to himself. As Mark had promised, the guard had barely glanced at him. Linley's expression never altered. He went past the man without a word, Alan hurrying along beside him. They reached a fork in the path and turned right, neither speaking until the hedge again concealed them from prying eyes.
"Well?" Mark breathed. "Pickin' up anythin', now?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't think he's anywhere around, Mark."
Linley cussed softly. "Any ideas where he *might* be?"
Alan thought it over. "They might catch him, you know. He doesn't really seem like the type who's cut out for intrigue."
Linley refrained from the obvious retort. "Could be. If they do, they're gonna take him straight to the Jil and see if they can find out who *you* were."
"Well, they *might* think I was just a hotel patron," Alan said, hopefully.
Mark lifted an eyebrow. "Sure, they will. You disabled four guards, freed their other prisoner an' got clean away from 'em -- not to mention the guy I stunned in the park. Things happened pretty fast. They might even think you did that too. If I was them, I'd be real interested in you."
"I suppose so." Alan felt a little silly.
"So," Mark said, "I guess we better head back for the Blue Owl. If they did catch him, they'll probably take him there -- if that's where ol' Linthvar's stayin', an' there's no reason to think he ain't."
"All right," Alan said, a little reluctantly. "You make a scene again, and I'll take another look upstairs."
"Okay, but for Pete's sake, be careful! They probably won't be expectin' you to come back, but if you run into any o' the guys that were there before, they'll recognize you. Keep your face down."
XI
The Blue Owl looked exactly as it had when Alan had left it an hour earlier. The jingle of slot machines greeted them as they entered and the glittering throng of people seemed undiminished. A scantily-clad female paused before them, holding a tray of drinks.
"Complementary drinks, gentlemen?"
Mark selected a tall, brimming glass of some light green liquid and Alan picked up a much smaller container holding what he hoped would prove a gentler beverage than the ones he had selected before. The woman smiled breathtakingly and moved gracefully away through the throng.
Mark strode boisterously toward the poker tables, weaving slightly, the sparkling drink held casually in one hand. A very pretty girl whose age was certainly no more than sixteen, collided with him and staggered, almost falling. Alan grabbed her and Mark reached out quickly, taking her arm. The girl glanced at Alan, then turned to Mark, smiling coquettishly. "Hi there, handsome!"
"Sorry, baby." Mark released her, allowing his fingers to linger on her bare shoulder a moment longer than necessary. "You okay?"
"Sure." She fluttered her eyelashes a little. "What's your hurry? Got a wife waiting for you somewhere?"
Linley grinned. His English, Alan noted, although halting and heavily accented, was good enough to get his meaning across. "Nope, but I *am* headin' for the Poker table. Wanna come along?"
"Okay." She slid her arm through his and accompanied him through the crowd, Alan in their wake. A change girl passed and Linley disengaged his arm from the teenager's, long enough to pinch one small, round buttock. The girl turned, looking annoyed.
"Watch it, buster!"
"I am." Mark winked broadly at her and continued on through the crowd. Eyes followed him, the appraising eyes of women and the envying ones of men. Alan allowed himself to fall behind.
He paused by a table, taking a careful sip from his glass. The stuff seemed to burst and evaporate in his mouth. Alan gasped slightly and set the container hurriedly on the table. Wow! That was as bad as the Wambari firewater! And it had looked so soft and pink in the delicate, little goblet ...
Mark had arrived at the poker table, somehow collecting two more women along the way. Credits flashed, and his partner's jovial laugh rang out. More eyes turned in his direction.
Well, nobody should notice him, now. Alan oozed through the crowd, wondering abstractedly what the credit branch handling their account was going to say about the incurred expenses. Oh well, time to worry about that, later ...
He reached the stairs unnoticed and went softly up the thickly carpeted steps. Shields up tight, he reached the landing. If the men had noted his telekinetic ability during the scuffle in the hallway, he knew the Jil would probably now be scanning for the presence of a Terran psychic in the vicinity of the Blue Owl Casino, and know that the Terran Underground was involved in the affair. Alan didn't intend to be detected.
He turned left, his heart racing at the memory of His Lordship. If the alien caught him and recognized him, Linthvar would certainly not wait for the execution chair on Corala ...
He reached the first branch in the corridor and came face to face with a security guard. With his shields up, he had not detected the man's approach and his heart lunged into his throat before he realized the man was a stranger.
The guard stepped courteously aside for him. "Can I help you, sir? You look lost."
"No, thanks." Alan took a deep breath. "I'm on my way up to my room."
The man nodded agreeably and went on by. Alan extended a light, cautious probe. The guard was bored, the short conversation already fading from his memory, along with the conviction that Alan might be one of his boss's special operatives. His face had seemed vaguely familiar. Oh well, at least it was time for his break. These damned, new shoes were killing him ...
Alan raised his shields again and strode briskly on, reaching the second branch a few moments later. There was the room where he had been confronted by the Jilectan. Darn it! He wished he could stop shaking! Mark would have been as cool as anything, of course ...
He strolled slowly toward the door, his nerve held carefully in both hands. As he approached, he let his shields relax a fraction, ever so cautiously.
The room was deserted. With a sense of vast relief, Alan lowered his shielding a little more, probing. No sign of the Jil -- or anyone else. He'd never have a better chance.
The door, of course, was locked, but that was easily remedied. A finger of energy reached out and touched the inner mechanism. The lock moved back with a tiny click and the door swished open.
As his psychic senses had already informed him, the room was empty. Alan went quietly in, sliding the panel closed behind him, and locked it once more.
Still, there were no Jils nearby. Alan turned his attention to the file cabinet across the room -- the obvious place to conceal information.
It failed to attract him. Instead, he found himself drawn to the mammoth painting that covered half the wall on his left. It was a wild scene of waves dashing on rocks, and seagulls blown by the wind -- Terran artistry, no doubt of that. And behind it ...
Alan closed his eyes, concentrating, then placed a hand on the ornate, gold frame, sliding his fingers along it. Almost at once, he located the control built into the frame. There was a faint purring sound. The painting slid smoothly aside, revealing a small, wall safe.
He stared at it a long moment, concentrating. Yes, there it was: an alarm rigged to the lock and set to trigger if anyone fooled with the combination. It could only be turned off from a remote source, too. Clever.
Alan closed his eyes again, carefully envisioning the device. There were wires under the surface of the wall -- three -- no, four -- leading from the alarm to the lock, all insulated in different colors, and not in standard Terran coding. Could they be disconnected by telekinesis without triggering the alarm? He thought so.
With infinite care, he extended a finger of energy toward the red wire, not even pausing to consider why that was the one he felt should be disconnected first. With the sensation of treading on cracked eggs, he tugged, gently.
The wire resisted his efforts. Slowly, he increased the pull, feeling sweat start out on his forehead. The wire came free with a snapping sensation and there was a faint whirring sound. Perspiration trickled down his neck.
Another wire -- the purple one was his second choice. Alan had done alarm neutralizations many times during training and his success rate was the best, barring none, on the Lavirra Base: close to ninety-seven percent. But never before had his life depended on the results. The second wire came free more easily than the first and again there was a whirring sound. Alan wiped his face on his sleeve and concentrated on the third wire -- the green one. It came loose easily and silently. Letting out his breath, Alan disconnected the final wire, a thin, black one.
That was it. The alarm no longer functioned. He wondered absently how much longer it would be before the Jilectans realized that they had better equip their locks and alarms against the psychics from the Terran Underground. According to Mark, they were only just beginning to regard the Underground as a distinct nuisance, and even he had not known how dangerous they actually were when he had been a Patrol Strike Commander. The honeymoon couldn't go on much longer, though. The Underground was going to have to start being more careful.
With more confidence now, Alan turned his attention to the locking mechanism. His hands touched the knobs and he felt the gentle movement of the tumblers deep within his mind. Without the threat of the alarm hanging over him, the task was easy and almost fun. His fingers moved skillfully, twirling the dials and sliding the tiny rods. In less than twenty seconds the safe, undoubtedly designed to thwart the most skilled of burglars, slid quietly open.
Alan leaned eagerly forward, examining the interior. There wasn't much -- only a small box made of some pale, grey metal, rather cheap in appearance and secured with an ordinary padlock. He drew the thing out, tucking it beneath his tunic. A sense of urgency was growing within him; the need to hurry. Rapidly, he closed and locked the safe again, the slid the framed picture into place once more.
In the corridor without, he now sensed the approach of a presence -- someone was coming, intending to enter the room. He glanced around, then ran across to an unobtrusive door in the rear wall of the office.
The approaching mind paused at the door and there was the sound of a key in the lock. Alan ducked through the rear door, closing it softly behind him.
He found himself in a plush bathroom, lavishly furnished and decorated with what looked like real gold. Footsteps entered the outer room and now Alan identified the mind as that of Wendlemere. Someone else was also approaching, and an instant later the door opened again.
"Oh, there you are, Panny!" It was Wendlemere's voice. "Did they get him?"
"Yessir. Picked him up at the port, tryin' t'get a ship offworld." The other voice was high and weedy, like that of an old man, but carrying the unmistakable accent of a Shallockian native.
"Is he on his way back?"
"Jeff's bringin' him in. They'll be arrivin' at the subsurface garage in about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Thought it'd be less conspicuous that way. Guy put up a helluva fight."
"Not surprising. I want him taken straight to His Lordship. I'm going to be glad to get this mess over with. Any word on the little red-headed kid?"
"No, sir. Peeks don't know nothin' about him -- or so he says. He's such a bleedin' coward, I think he'd tell anythin' if he thought it might save his skin."
Wendlemere cleared his throat. "That redheaded fellow worries me. I don't like the way he turned up so conveniently, like that."
Alan glanced frantically around. He must get out, somehow. There was a window on the wall above the toilet, framed tastefully with fine lace curtains. Two stories was a long drop, but in the low gravity of Luna, he wasn't too likely to be hurt ...
Footsteps were approaching the bathroom and Alan hopped quickly into the shower stall, his blaster gripped in both hands the way Mark had taught him. Wendlemere entered and the door shut.
The blaster hummed softly. The man pitched forward and Alan leaped from the shower to catch him as he fell. One of Wendlemere's hands struck a tall, graceful container of what appeared to be bubble bath, which crashed to the floor. Fragrant, blue liquid spattered across the marble tiles.
"You okay, Mr. Wendlemere?" the other man called.
Alan stepped from the bathroom. A small, thin man with a balding head was standing beside the file cabinet, a sheaf of print-outs held in one scrawny hand. His jaw dropped.
The blaster hummed, and the stunbolt caught him dead center. He crumpled to the carpet. Alan dashed for the door.
As he reached for the control, a familiar, very unpleasant sensation washed over him and he leaped lightly backward, bringing the blaster up and flipping the setting to kill. Then, the door slid open and Lord Linthvar strode into the room, flanked by two bodyguards.
The two men froze at the sight of the blaster in Alan's hand, but the Jilectan moved with the lightning reflexes of his species, his hand flashing toward the jewel-studded blaster at his hip. Alan fired.
Linthvar voiced a shrill, almost feminine scream and spun sideways, clutching at his right shoulder. He crashed into a lamp, which came down with a smash. Its light went out in a shower of sparks.
His guards remain frozen, but Alan could sense other presences approaching. He gestured with the blaster. "On your faces! Move!"
The guards fell flat, their hands stretched over their heads. Alan spun and darted through the bathroom door once more, locking it behind him, and scrambled up on the john. Frantically, he kicked the pane loose, hearing Linthvar's shouts in the other room. Fists pounded on the door. Alan jumped.
On Terra, the fall would probably have killed him. At the very least, he would have broken both ankles, but on Luna, he floated toward the ground, gaining speed gradually. He struck the emerald lawn below and stumbled, going to one knee. Above him somebody shouted and a blaster cracked. The bolt struck barely half a meter to his left, burning a black swath in the carefully manicured lawn. Then, he was up and running.
There must be a subsurface garage for the casino; Wendlemere and his associate had been speaking of it. He must locate it and rescue Woody. If he didn't, the clerk would die very soon and the information they so desperately sought would die with him. A tall line of Joqueleaf bushes provided cover from observation by those in the casino, and Alan slowed to a casual walk, simultaneously removing the ridiculous hat and fringed cape and the shoulder holster. As he passed a trash disposal unit, he dropped all three articles into it and shoved the blaster into his boot top, letting the flowing pantleg of the jumpsuit cover it. If no one examined him too closely, it shouldn't be noticed. He rounded the corner of the building, striving to look casual and unhurried.
"Why, it's Alan Russell, isn't it?"
Alan nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice. He turned, barely restraining the impulse to reach for his blaster. Lola Davenport, the singer they had met in the shuttle, was smiling at him, her silver-spangled clothing glittering brightly in the floodlights.
"Oh, hi, Miss Davenport."
"Fancy meeting you here! Where's your big brother?"
"In the casino. I just came out for a ... walk." Alan tried to conceal his impatience.
"Oh, good! I managed to shake my friends and I was going to put in a call for him." The girl giggled.
Terrific, Alan thought, but he said, "Brad'll be glad to see you, Miss Davenport."
"Oh, call me Lola." The girl came a step closer and reached out to place a slim finger against his cheek. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Gosh, you're cute too, Alan! Maybe we could have dinner somewhere until Brad is free ..."
If things had been less pressing, Alan knew he would have been beet-red. She moved closer, snuggling against him and hooking a hand through his arm. Behind them came the clatter of approaching footsteps, but Lola didn't appear to notice. She giggled again. He could smell her perfume.
"You!"
Alan turned, one arm encircling the giggling girl. A dozen security guards had appeared around the side of the building, their hands resting on the butts of prominently displayed blasters. One was coming toward them at a trot, his eyes hard and his mouth a grim line.
"You!" he repeated.
Alan stood his ground, mastering an impulse to take to his heels. "Yes?"
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
To Alan's surprise, Lola Davenport released his arm and stepped boldly forward, her chin elevated. "What business is it of yours? And who the devil are you?"
"Security guard, Blue Owl Casino. Identify yourselves at once!" the man snapped.
"I'm Lola Davenport," the girl said, tossing her platinum head. "And this is my date!"
The guard apparently recognized her name. "*The* Lola Davenport? Sorry, Miss Davenport. We've had an attempted robbery in the casino. Did you by any chance see someone running by here a few minutes ago?"
"A little short guy in a funny hat?" Lola said, wide-eyed. "Oh gosh, we sure did! He came skating around the corner and headed for the park."
"Thanks. Sorry for the trouble." The guard turned away, speaking rapidly into his wrist com, then hurried toward the park.
Alan let out his breath very slowly and looked at Lola Davenport. She was smiling faintly.
"That'll teach him to take the word of a stranger."
"You're shielded," Alan said, softly.
The singer laughed lightly. Her eyes were exactly on a level with his own.
"Naughty, naughty, Lieutenant," she said, softly. "It isn't nice to read your date's mind. Gives you an unfair advantage."
"But ..."
"You didn't think Phil would leave a partially trained Team on its own, did you?"
"Actually, I didn't think about it," Alan admitted.
"Well, he wouldn't." Lola Davenport flashed him a dazzling smile. "I've had an eye on you for some time. Where's Captain Linley?"
"I'm calling him, now." Alan touched the almost invisible stud next to the band on his chronometer. "Come on; I have to find the casino's subsurface garage."
"It's this way," Lola said. She tugged at his arm. "Come on. I think we'd better get out of here. What was all that fuss about, anyhow?"
"I got cornered," Alan said. "I had to shoot Linthvar to get away." There was a tiny shock on his wrist, and he lifted the communicator to his lips. "Mark?"
"You okay, kid? I been getting' the craziest links from you."
Alan gave him a very brief summary of the situation, omitting the wall safe and the wounding of Linthvar to discourage further discussion. "I'm heading for the garage, now," he concluded. "Better meet me there."
"Be right there. Wait for me."
"I'll try. Hurry."
"Out." The communicator went silent and he felt Lola's hand under his elbow, ushering him on. Under the floodlights, people passed, not glancing at them. They reached the street, and little balloon-tired vehicles bounded past. From overhead there came the shriek of a siren, drawing rapidly nearer. A moment later, a police car passed, making for the Blue Owl. Lola let out her breath.
"Not us," she said, softly. "Why *must* you always shoot the Jils, Alan? Isn't one enough? Or are you trying to beat Lieutenant Austell's record?"
"She can have it," Alan said, feelingly. "I didn't have a choice. He drew on me."
"It figures," Lola said, philosophically. "How bad was it?"
"Just a shoulder wound. There's the garage ahead."
Lola caught his elbow. "Easy, Alan. Just stroll toward it. We're in no hurry. We're just casino patrons coming to pick up our car."
They sauntered through the entrance, arm in arm. It was not as well lighted here, and the shadows were thick and opaque. Great place to get mugged, he was thinking, when a moon vehicle pulled through the entrance after them, moved past and proceeded into the dimness of the parking structure.
It was them! The broadcast of fear and despair that emanated from the car could issue from no one but Woody. Alan eased the blaster from his boot top and started after it at a run, Lola right beside him. Within a very few minutes, Woody would be dead. Where the dickens was Mark?
**********
(tbc)
