“You didn’t mean to. You didn’t mean to! Oh, no, you never do. I’m going to take your front feet and stuff them down your throat. You know that, don’t you? I’m going to beat you to a pulp and then use you for a rug. No supper for you. You didn’t mean to, indeed!”
The bright red car came close and hovered. “Okay?” demanded Chief Dreiser.
“Sure.”
“All right. Here’s the plan. I’m going to move that barrier up ahead. You get him back up on Hillcrest, going out the upper end of the draw. There will be an escort waiting; you fall in behind and stay with it all the way home. Get me?”
“Okay.” John Thomas saw that in both directions the arroyo road had been blocked with riot shields, tractors with heavy armor mounted on their fronts, so that a temporary barrier could be thrown across a street or square. Such equipment was standard for any city safety force since the Riots of ’91, but he could not recall that Westville had ever used them; he began to realize that the day that Lummox went to town would not soon be forgotten.
But he was happy that Lummox had been too timid to munch on those steel shields. He was beginning to hope that his pet had been too busy all afternoon to eat any ferrous metal. He turned back to him. “All right, get your ugly carcass out of that hole. We’re going home.”
Lummox complied eagerly; the viaduct again trembled as he brushed against it. “Make me a saddle.”
Lummox’s midsection slumped down a couple of feet. He thought about it very hard and his upper surface shaped itself into contours resembling a chair. “Hold still,” John Thomas ordered. “I don’t want any mashed fingers.” Lummox did so, quivering a little, and the young man scrambled up, grabbing at slip folds in Lummox’s durable hide. He sat himself like a rajah ready for a tiger hunt.
“All right. Slow march now, up the road. No, no! Gee around, you numskull. Uphill, not down.”
Docilely, Lummox turned and ambled away.
Two patrol ground cars led the way, two others brought up the rear. Chief Dreiser’s tomato-red runabout hung over them at a safe distance. John Thomas lounged back and spent the time composing first, what he was going to say to Lummox, and second, what he was going to say to his mother. The first speech was much easier; he kept going back and embellishing it with fresh adjectives whenever he found himself running into snags on the second.
They were halfway home when a single flier, hopping free in a copter harness, approached the little parade. The flier ignored the red warning light stabbing out from the police chiefs car and slanted straight down at the huge star beast. John Thomas thought that he recognized Betty’s slapdash style even before he could make out features; he was not mistaken. He caught her as she cut power.
Chief Dreiser slammed a window open and stuck his head out. He was in full flow when Betty interrupted him. “Why, Chief Dreiser! What a terrible way to talk!”
He stopped and took another look. “Is that Betty Sorenson?”
“Of course it is. And I must say, Chief, that after all the years you’ve taught Sunday School I never thought I would live to hear you use such language. If that is setting a good example, I think I’ll. . .”
“Young lady, hold your tongue.”
“Me? But you were the one who was using. . .”
“Quiet! I’ve had all I can take today. You get that suit to buzzing and hop out of here. This is official business. Now get out.”
She glanced at John Thomas and winked, then set her face in cherubic innocence. ‘But, Chief, I can’t.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“I’m out of juice. This was an emergency landing.”
‘Betty, you quit fibbing to me.”
“Me? Fibbing? Why, Deacon Dreiser!”
“I’ll deacon you. If your tanks are dry, get down off that beast and walk home. He’s dangerous.”
“Lummie dangerous? Lummie wouldn’t hurt a fly. And besides, do you want me to walk home alone? On a country road? When it’s almost dark? I’m surprised at you.”