The only way to impress a Lord was to be even more arrogant than he.
Anana’s voice said, “The car’s gone. The police must have scared them out. The police car’s going now.”
Kickaha raised his arm and muttered into the transceiver, “Where are the others?”
“Closing in. They’re standing by the fence and pretending to look at the statues. But they’re working toward you.”
He looked past Kleist and Ramos across the grass. The two cars he had suspected were now empty, except for one man, whom he thought would be Cambring. The others were among the picnickers on the grass. He saw two men who looked grim and determined and tough; they could be Cambring’s.
“We’ll take off to my left,” he said. “Around the fence and across Wilshire. If they follow us, it’ll have to be on foot. At first, at least.”
He flicked a look toward Anana. She had gotten up from the bench and was strolling toward him.
Kleist said, “Very well. I am authorized to accept your terms.”
He smiled disarmingly and stepped closer. Ramos tensed.
“Couldn’t we go elsewhere? It’s difficult to carry on a conversation here. But it’ll be wherever you say.”
Kickaha was disgusted. He had just been about to agree that it would be best to tie in with Red Orc. Through him, the Beller and Wolff and Chryseis might be found, and after that the dam could break and the devil take the hindmost. But the Lord was following the bent of his kind; he was trusting his power, his ability to get anything or anybody he wanted.
Kickaha made one last try. “Hold it! Not a step closer! You ask your boss if he remembers Anana, his niece, or Jadawin, his nephew? Remembers how they looked? If he can identify them, then he’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
Kleist was silent and then nodded his head. He said, “Of course. My boss agrees. Just let him have a chance to see them.”
It was no use. Kickaha knew then what Red Orc was thinking. It should have occurred to Kickaha. The brains of Anana and Wolff could be housing the minds of the Bellers.
Kleist, still smiling, reached into his jacket slowly, so that Kickaha would not be thinking he was reaching for a gun. He brought out a pen and pad of paper and said, “I’ll write down this number for you to call, and . . .”
Not for a second did Kickaha believe that the pen was only a pen. Evidently Orc had entrusted Kleist with a beamer. Kleist did not know it, but he was doomed. He had heard too much during the conversation, and he knew about a device which should not be existing on Earth as yet.
There was no time to tell Kleist that in the hope that he could be per-suaded to desert the Lord.
Kickaha leaped to one side just as Kleist pointed the pen at him. Kickaha was quick, but he was touched by the beam on the shoulder and hurled sideways to the ground. He rolled on, seeing Kleist throw his hands up into the air, the pen flying away, and then Kleist staggered back one step and fell onto his back. Kickaha leaped up and dived toward the pen, even though his left shoulder and arm felt as if a two-by-four had slammed into it. Ramos, however, made no effort to grab the pen. Probably, he did not know what it really was.
Women were shrieking and men were yelling, and there was much running around.
When he got to his feet, he saw why. Kleist and three of his men were unconscious on the ground. Six men were running toward them-these must have been the latecomers-and were shoving people out of their way.
The fourth man who had been sneaking up on him was pulling a gun from an underarm holster.
Ramos, seeing this, shouted, “No! No guns! You know that!”
Kickaha aimed the beamer-pen, which, fortunately, was activated by pressing a slide, not by code words, and the man seemed to fold up and be lifted off the ground. He sailed back, hit on his buttocks, straightened out, and lay still, arms outspread, his face gray. The gun lay on the ground several feet before him.