Kickaha wore dark glasses, a purple sleeveless and neckless shirt, a big leather belt with fancy silver buckle, and Levi’s. Under his long red hair, against the bone behind his ear, was a receiver. The device he wore on his wrist contained an audio transmitter and a beamer six times as powerful as that in his ring.
Kickaha took his station at the other end of the tar pit. He stood near the fence beyond which was the statue of a huge prehistoric bear. There were about fifty people scattered here and there, none of whom looked as if they would be Cambring’s men. This, of course, meant nothing.
A minute later, he saw a large gray Rolls Royce swing into the parking lot. Two men got out and crossed the grass in a straight line toward him. One was Ramos. The other was tall and gangly and wore a business suit, dark glasses, and a hat. When he came closer, Kickaha saw a horse-faced man of about fifty. Kickaha doubted then that he would be Red Orc, because no Lord, not even if he were twenty thousand years old, looked as if he were over thirty.
Anana’s voice sounded in his ear. “It’s not Red Orc.”
He looked around again. There were two men on his left, standing near the fountain by the museum and two men on his right, about twenty yards beyond Anana. They could be Cambring’s men.
His heart beat faster. The back of his neck felt chilled. He looked through the fence across the pit at Wilshire Boulevard. Parking was forbidden there at any time. But a car was there, its hood up and a man looking under it. A man sat in the front seat and another in the rear.
“He’s going to try to grab me,” Kickaha said. “I’ve spotted seven of his men, I think.”
“Do you want to abandon your plan?” she said.
“If I do, you know the word,” he said. “Watch it! Here they come!”
Ramos and the gangly man stopped before him. The gangly man said, “Paul?” using the name Kickaha had given Cambring.
Kickaha nodded. He saw another big car enter the parking lot. It was too far for him to distinguish features, but the driver, wearing a hat and dark glasses, could be Cambring. There were three others in his car.
“Are you Red Orc?” Kickaha said, knowing that the tall man was probably carrying a device which would transmit the conversation to the Lord, wherever he was.
“Who? Who’s Redark?” the tall man said. “My name is Kleist. Now, Mr. Paul, would you mind telling me what you want?”
Kickaha spoke in the language of the Lords, “Red Orc! I am not a Lord but an Earthling who found a gate to the universe of Jadawin, whom you may remember. I came back to Earth, though I did not want to, to hunt down the Beller. I have no desire to stay here; I wish only to kill the Beller and get back to my adopted world. I have no interest in challenging you.”
Kleist said, “What the hell you gibbering about? Speak English, man!”
Rarnos looked uneasy. He said, “He’s flipped.”
Kleist suddenly looked dumbfounded. Kickaha guessed that he was getting orders.
“Mr. Paul,” Kleist said, “I am empowered to offer you complete amnesty. Just come with us and we will introduce you to the man you want to see.”
“Nothing doing,” Kickaha said. “I’ll work with your boss, but I won’t put myself in his power. He may be all right, but I have no reason to trust him. I would like to cooperate with him, however, in tracking down the Beller.”
Kleist’s expression showed that he did not understand the reference to the Beller.
Kickaha looked around again. The men on his left and right were drifting closer. The two men in the car on Wilshire had gotten out. One was looking under the hood with the other man, but the third was gazing through the fence at Kickaha. When he saw Kickaha looking at him, he slowly turned away.
Kickaha said angrily, “You were told that only two of you should come! You’re trying to spring a trap on me! You surely don’t think you can kidnap me here in the middle of all these people?”