I was wondering just what Lefty’s next move would be when a pair of powerful beams came on from the left, then pulled onto the highway, speeding up to pace me. I rocketed past before he had made full speed. I heard a loud spang, and glass chips scattered on my shoulder. I twisted and looked. A starred hole showed in the bubble, above the rear seat.
* * *
“Duck!” I yelled. Stenn leaned over, put his head down.
The beams were gaining on me. I twisted the rear viewer, hit the IR switch. A three-ton combat car, stripped, but still mounting twin infinite repeaters. Against that, old 16 was a kiddie car. I held my speed and tried to generate an idea. What I came up with wasn’t good, but it was all I had.
A half a mile ahead there should be a level-split, one of those awkward ones that caused more than one pile-up in the first few months the turnpike was open. Maybe my playmates didn’t know about it.
They were about to overtake me now. I slowed just a little, and started fading to the right. They followed me, crowding my rear wheel. I heard the spang again, twice, but nothing hit me. I was on the paved shoulder now, and could barely see the faded yellow cross-hatching that warned of the abutment that divided the pavement ahead.
I held the hack in the yellow until the last instant, then veered right and cleared the concrete barrier by a foot, hit the down-curve at a hundred and eighty in a howl of gyros and brakes—and the thunderous impact of the combat car.
Then I was off the pavement, fighting the wheel, slamming through underbrush, then miraculously back on the hard surface and coasting to a stop in the clear.
I took a deep breath and looked back. The burning remains of the car were scattered for a quarter of a mile along the turnpike. That would have been me if I had gauged it wrong.
I looked at the canopy of the hack. Three holes, not a foot apart, right where a passenger’s head would be if he were sitting upright. Stenn was unconcernedly brushing glass dust from his jacket.
“Very neat, Mr. Smith,” he said. “Now shall we resume our journey?”
“Maybe it’s time you levelled with me, Stenn,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows at me slightly.
“When Joe Naples’ boy Friday pointed the gun at your head you didn’t bat an eyelash,” I said.
“I believe those were your instructions,” Stenn said mildly.
“Pretty good for a simple businessman. I don’t see you showing any signs of the shakes now, either, after what some might call a harrowing experience.”
“I have every confidence in your handling—”
“Nuts, Stenn. Those three holes are pretty well grouped, wouldn’t you say? The man that put them there was hitting where he was aiming. And he was aiming for you.”
“Why me?” Stenn looked almost amused.
“I thought it was a little shakedown crew, out to teach me a lesson,” I said. “Until I saw where the shots were going.”
Stenn looked at me thoughtfully. He reached up and took a micro-speaker from his ear.
“The twin to the one you rashly disposed of,” he said. “Mr. Haug was kind enough to supply it—for a fee. I must tell you that I had a gun in my hand as we approached the South Radial Intermix. Had you accepted the invitation to turn off, I would have halted the car, shot you and gone on alone. Happily, you chose to resist the temptation, for reasons of your own . . .” He looked at me inquiringly.
“Maybe I’m sap enough to take the job seriously,” I said.
“That may possibly be true,” Stenn said.
“What’s your real errand here, Stenn? Frankly, I don’t have time to get involved.”
“Really? One wonders if you have irons in the fire, Smith. But never mind. I shan’t pry. Are we going on?”
I gave him my stern penetrating look.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re going on.”
* * *
In twenty minutes, we were on the Inner Concourse and the polyarcs were close together, lighting the empty sweep of banked pavement. The lights of the city sparkled across the sky ahead, and gave me a ghostly touch of the old thrill of coming home.
I doused that feeling fast. After eight years there was nothing left there for me to come home to. The city had a lethal welcome for intruders; it wouldn’t be smart to forget that.
I didn’t see the T-Bird until his spot hit my eyes and he was beside me, crowding.
I veered and hit the brakes, with a half-baked idea of dropping back and cutting behind him, but he stayed with me. I had a fast impression of squealing metal and rubber, and then I was skidding to a stop up against the deflector rails with the T-Bird slanted across my prow. Its lid popped almost before the screech died away, and I was looking down the muzzles of two power pistols. I kept both hands on the wheel, where they could see them, and sat tight.
I wondered whose friends we had met this time.
Two men climbed out, the pistols in sight, and came up to the hack. The first one was a heavy-set Slavic type zipped into a tight G. I. weather suit. He motioned. I opened up and got out, not making any sudden movements. Stenn followed. A cold wind was whipping along the concourse, blowing a fine misty rain hard against the hack. The Slav motioned again, and I moved over by the T-Bird. He fished my wallet out and put it in his pocket without looking at it. I heard the other man say something to Stenn, and then the sound of a blow. I turned my head slowly, so as not to excite my watchdog. Stenn was picking himself up. He started going through his pockets, showing everything to the man with the gun, then dropping it on the ground. The wind blew cards and papers along until they soaked up enough water to stick. Stenn carried a lot of paper.
* * *
The gunny said something and Stenn started pulling off his coat. He turned it inside out, and held it out. The gunny shook his head, and motioned to my Slav. He looked at me, and I tried to read his mind. I moved across toward the hack. I must have guessed right because he didn’t shoot me. The Slav pocketed his gun and took the coat. Methodically, he tore the lining out, found nothing, dropped the ripped garment and kicked it aside. I shifted position, and the Slav turned and backhanded me up against the hack.
“Lay off him, Heavy,” the other hood said. “Maxy didn’t say nothing about this mug. He’s just an Escort.”
Heavy started to get his gun out again. I had an idea he was thinking about using it. Maybe that’s why I did what I did. As his hand dipped into his pocket, I lunged, wrapped an arm around him and yanked out my own artillery. I held onto a handful of the weather suit and dug the pistol in hard. He stood frozen. Heavy wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
His partner had backed a step, the pistol in his hand covering all of us.
“Drop it, Slim,” I said. “No hard feelings, and we’ll be on our way.”
Stenn stood absolutely motionless. He was still wearing his mild expression.
“Not a chance, mug,” the gunny said softly. No one moved.
“Even if you’re ready to gun your way through your pal, I can’t miss. Better settle for a draw.”
“Maxy don’t like draws, mister.”
“Stenn,” I said. “Get in the T-Bird. Head back the way we came, and don’t slow down to read any billboards.”
Stenn didn’t move.
* * *
“Get going,” I said. “Slim won’t shoot.”
“I employed you,” Stenn said, “to take care of the heroics.”
“If you’ve got any better ideas it’s time to speak up, Stenn. This is your only out, the way I see it.”
Stenn looked at the man with the gun.
“You referred to someone named ‘Maxy.’ Would that by any chance be Mr. Max Arena?”
Slim looked at him and thought about it.
“Could be,” he said.
Stenn came slowly over to the Slav. Standing well out of the line of fire, he carefully put a hand in the loose pocket of the weather suit and brought out the pistol. I saw Slim’s eyes tighten. He was having to make some tough decisions in a hurry.
Stenn moved offside, pistol in hand.
“Move away from him, Smith,” he said.
I didn’t know what he had in mind, but it didn’t seem like the time to argue. I moved back.
“Drop your gun,” he said.
I risked a glance at his mild expression.