“Of what sort?”
“Now, it would not be a surprise if I told you, would it, dear boy? Trust me.”
“Okay, here’s trust,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“Till later.”
“Goodbye.”
Thus, with premeditation and full intent, et cetera. No apologies. I was tired of being shot, and it is always a shame to waste any sort of gift certificate.
The hotel, as it turned out, was directly across the street from the same partly fleshed skeleton of a possible office building that I had used to gain access to the roof of the structure diagonally across the street-namely, the hall that housed the Rhennius machine.
I somehow doubted that this was a matter of pure coincidence. When I commented on it, though, Nadler did not reply. It was after midnight that we were checking in, and I had been with the man continually since he had picked me up.
Then: “I’m about out of cigarettes,” I said as we approached the desk, first noting, of course, that there was no cigarette machine in sight.
“Good,” be replied. “Filthy habit.”
The girl at the desk was more sympathetic, however, and told me where I could find one on the mezzanine. I thanked her, got our room number, told Nadler I would be up in a minute and left him there.
Naturally, I headed immediately for the nearest phone, got hold of Merimee and told him where I was.
“Good. Consider it staked out,” he said. “By the way, I believe that the customers are in town. One of my associates thinks she saw them earlier.”
“That was quick.”
“Accidental, too. Still … Be of good cheer. Sleep well. Adieu.”
“G’night.”
I headed for the elevators, caught one to my floor and sought our room. Lacking a key, I knocked.
There was no response for a time. Then, just as I was about to knock again, Nadler’s voice inquired, “Who is it?”
“Me. Cassidy,” I said.
“Come on ahead. It’s unlocked.”
Trusting, preoccupied and a trifle tired, I turned the knob, pushed and entered. A mistake anyone could have made.
“Ted! What the hell is-“ and by then a vine had snagged me by the leg and another was slipping about my shoulder-“it?” I inquired, going airborne.
I struggled, of course. Who wouldn’t? But the thing raised me a good five feet into the air, shifting me into a horizontal position directly above its less than attractive self. It then proceeded to turn me upside down, so that my field of vision was dominated by its gray-green bulk, its tub of slime and its octopal members all awrithe. I had a hunch it meant me ill even before its leafy appendages came open like switchblades, showing me-their moist, spiny and suspiciously ruddy insides.
I let out a bleat and tore at the vines. Then something that felt like a red-hot poker occurred behind my eyes and passed from side to side and back within my head. Stark terror poured forth, and I twisted convulsively within the living bonds.
Then came what seemed a sharp whistling noise, the stabbing sensation was gone from my cranium, the vines slackened, collapsed, and I fell, twisting, to the carpet, narrowly missing the bucket’s rim. A bit of the slime slopped over onto me, and inert tentacles fell like holiday streamers about me. I moaned and reached over to rub my shoulder.
“He’s hurt!” came a voice that I recognized as Ragma’s.
I turned my head to receive the sympathy I heard rushing toward me on little furry feet and big shod ones.
However, Ragma in his dog suit and Nadler and Paul Byler in equally appropriate garb rushed past me, squatted about the tub and began ministering to the militant vegetable. I crawled off into a corner, where I regained my feet if not my composure. Then I began mouthing obscenities, which were ignored. Finally, I shrugged, wiped the slime from my sleeve, found a chair, lit a cigarette and watched the show.
They raised the limp members and manipulated them, massaged them. Ragma tore off into the next room and returned with what appeared to be an elaborate lamp, which he plugged into an outlet and focussed on the nasty shrub. Producing an atomizer, he sprayed its vicious leaves. He stirred the slime. He dumped some chemicals into it.