Under Two Moons

IX

And then it was the roses, roses all the way. The local Bureau Chief appeared and efficiently arranged for medical attention, fresh clothes and a drink. The girl stayed beside him while Gull dictated a report and demanded immediate reservations back to Marsport—for two, he specified fiercely. They were produced, and by the time they disembarked and headed for the War Room Gull was nearly his old self. He was admitted at once to .5’s office, and, recognized it as a mark of signal favor when the girl was allowed in with him.

They stood there, proud and silent, in the presence of .5 and his secretary, and Gull’s hand was firm on the girl’s. What a thoroughbred she was, he thought admiringly, noting from the corner of his eye how her gaze took in every feature of the room so few persons had ever seen; how she studied .5’s somber expression and hooded eyes, but did not quail before them; how patiently and confidently she waited for McIntyre to leave off writing in his notebook and speak to them. She would be a fit wife for him, thought Johan Gull with quiet certainty; and she would make a fine agent for Security. And so would Kim, and Marie Celeste, and little Patty. A very successful mission all around, thought Gull cheerfully, thinking of the wad of bills that Perlman’s losses had put into his wallet.

“When you’re quite ready, Gull,” said McIntyre.

Gull jumped. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Excuse me, sir,” he added to .5, whose expression showed no particular resentment at being kept waiting while one of his agents was woolgathering, merely the usual patient weariness. “I guess you want a report.”

“.5 has already seen your report,” McIntyre reproved him. “He is a little concerned about your failure to obey standing orders, of course. A live captive is worth a lot more than a dead loser.”

“Well, yes, I know that’s right. But—” Gull hesitated.

“Well?”

Gull flushed and turned to .5 himself. “You see, sir, it was something Perlman said. Nasty sort of remark. Cheap. Just what you’d expect, from— Anyway, sir, it was about you. He said—” Gull swallowed, feeling self-conscious and stupid. The warm pressure of the girl’s hand showed him her sympathy, but he still felt like twelve kinds of a fool bringing it up.

“Gull! Spit it out before .5 loses his patience!”

Gull shrugged, looked his chief in the eye and said rapidly, “Perlman said you’ve been dead since ‘97, sir.” And he waited for the blow to fall.

Surprisingly, it did not. .5 merely continued to look at him, silently, levelly, appraisingly. There was not even a hint of surprise in his expression. At length McIntyre laughed one sharp, desiccated sort of laugh and Gull turned gratefully toward him, glad to be taken off the hook. “Nonsense, of course, McIntyre,” he said. “I really hated to have to say it.”

But McIntyre was raising a hand, chuckling in a sort of painful way, as though laughter hurt him. “Never mind, Gull,” he said. “After all, you’re not expected to evaluate information. Just go on and do your job. And now .5 had best be left alone for a while; there are other matters concerning us, you know.”

And, very grateful to have it happen, Gull found him-self and the girl outside. He discovered he was sweating. “Whew,” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’t want to go through that again. And now, my dear, I suggest a drink—thereafter a wedding—then a honeymoon. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Gladly, dearest Meesta Gull!” she cried. “And I don’t give a ‘ang about the order!”