Wasp

CHAPTER IX

The next day’s work was the easiest to date though not devoid of danger. All he had to do was gossip to anyone willing to listen. This was in accordance with the step-by-step technique taught him by the college.

“First of all you must establish the existence of an internal opposition. Doesn’t matter whether it is real or imaginary so long as the enemy becomes convinced of its actuality.”

He had done that much.

“Secondly, you must create fear of that opposition and provoke the enemy into striking back at it as best he can.”

He’d done that too.

“Thirdly, you must answer the enemy’s blows with enough defiance to force him into the open, to bring his reaction to public attention and to create the general impression that the opposition has confidence in its own power.”

That also had been achieved.

“The fourth move is ours and not yours. We’ll take enough military action to make hay of the enemy’s claims of invincibility. After that the morale of the public should be shaky.”

One bomb on Shugruma had done the shaking.

“You then take the fifth step by sowing rumours. Listeners will be ripe to absorb them and whisper them around—and the stories will lose nothing in the telling. A good rumour well planted and thoroughly disseminated can spread alarm and despondency over a wide area. But be careful in your choice of victims. If you pick on a fanatical patriot it may be the end of you!”

In any city in any part of the cosmos the public park is a natural haunt of idlers and gossips. That is where Mowry went in the morning. The benches were occupied almost entirely by elderly people. Young folk tended to keep clear of such places lest inquisitive cops ask why they were not at work.

Selecting a seat next to a gloomy looking oldster with a perpetual sniff, Mowry contemplated a bed of tattered flowers until the other turned. toward him and said conversationally, “Two more gardeners have gone.”

“So? Gone where?”

“Into the armed forces. If they draft the rest of them I don’t know what will happen to this park. It needs someone to look after it.”

“There’s a lot of work involved,” agreed Mowry. “But I sup-pose the war comes first”

“Yar. Always the war comes first” Sniffy said it with cautious disapproval. “It should have been over by now. But it drags on and drags on. Sometimes I wonder when it will end.”

“That’s the big question,” responded Mowry, making himself a fellow spirit.

“Things can’t be going as well as they’re said to be,” continued Sniffy, morbidly. “Else the war would be over. It wouldn’t drag on the way it does.”

“Personally, I think things are darned bad.” Mowry hesitated, went on confidingly, “In fact I know they are.”

“You do? Why?”

“Maybe I oughtn’t tell you-but it’s bound to come out sooner or later.”

“What is?” insisted Sniffy, consumed with curiosity.

“The terrible state of affairs at Shugruma. My brother came home this morning and told me.”

“Go on-what did he say?”

“He tried to go there for business reasons. but couldn’t get to the place. A ring of troops turned him back forty den from the town. Nobody except the military, or salvage and medical services, is being allowed to enter the area.”

“That so?” said Sniffy.

“My brother says he met a fellow who’d escaped the disaster with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. This fellow told him that Shugruma was practically wiped off the map. Not one stone left upon another. Three hundred thousand dead. The stench of bodies would turn your stomach. He said the scene is so awful that the news-sheets daren’t describe it, in fact they refuse to mention it.”

Staring straight ahead, Sniffy said nothing but looked appalled.

Mowry added a few more lurid touches, brooded with him for a short time, took his departure. All that he’d said would be repeated, he could be sure of that. Bad news travels fast. A little later and half a mile away he had another on the hook, a beady-eyed, mean-faced character only too willing to hear the worst.

“Even the papers dare not talk about it,” Mowry ended. Beady-eyes swallowed hard. “If a Spakum ship can dive in and drop a big one so can a dozen others.”

“Yar, that’s right”

“In fact they could have dropped more than one while they were at it. Why didn’t they?”

“Maybe they were making a test-run. Now they know how easy it is they’ll come along with a real load. If that happens there won’t be much left of Pertane.” He pulled his right ear and made a tzzk! sound between his teeth, that being the Sirian equivalent of showing thumbs down.

“Somebody ought to do something about it,” declared Beady. unnerved.

“I’m going to do something myself,” informed Mowry. “I’m going to dig me a deep hole way out in the fields.”

He left the other half-paralysed with fright, took a short walk, picked on a cadaverous individual who looked like a mortician on vacation.

“Close friend of mine—he’s a fieet leader in the space-navy—told me confidentially that a Spakum onslaught has made Gooma completely uninhabitable. He thinks the only reason why they’ve not given Jaimec the same treatment is because they’re planning to grab the place and naturally don’t want to rob themselves of the fruits of victory.”

“Do you believe all that?” demanded the Embalmer.

“One doesn’t know what to believe when the government tells you one thing and grim experience tells you another. It’s only his personal opinion anyway. But he’s in the space-navy and knows a few things that we don’t.”

“It has been stated authoritatively that the Spakum fleets have been destroyed.”

“Yar, they were still saying so when that bomb fell on Shugruma,” Mowry reminded.

“True, true—I felt it land. In my own house two windows collapsed and a bottle of zith jumped off the table.”

By mid-afternoon thirty people had been fed the tale of the Shugruma and Gooma disasters, plus allegedly first-hand warnings of bacteriological warfare and worse horrors to come. They could no more keep it to themselves than a man can keep a tornado to himself. By early evening a thousand would have the depressing news. At midnight ten thousand would be passing it around. In the morning a hundred thousand—and so on until the whole city was discussing it.

At the arranged time he called Skriva. “What luck?”

“I’ve got the form. Have you got the money?”

“Yar.”

“It’s to be paid before tomorrow. Shall we meet same place as last?”

“No.” said Mowry. “It’s not wise to create a habit. Let’s make it someplace else.”

“Where?”

“There’s a certain bridge where you collected once before. How about the fifth marker past it going south?”

“That’s as good as anywhere. Can you go there at once!”

“I’ve got to pick up my car. It’ll take a little time. You be there at the seven-time hour.”

He reached the marker on time, found Skriva already waiting. Handing over the money, he took the requisition-form and examined it carefully. One good look told him that the thing was well-nigh impossible for him to copy. It was an ornate document as lavishly engraved as a banknote of high denomination. They could cope with it on Terra but it was beyond his ability to duplicate even with the help of various instruments of forgery lying in the cave.

The form was a used one dated three weeks ago and obviously had been purloined from the jail’s filing system. It called for the release to the Kaitempi of one prisoner named Mabin Garud but had enough blank spaces for ten names. The date, the prisoner’s name and number had been typed. The authorizing signature was in ink.

“Now we’ve got it,” prompted Skriva, “what are we going to do with it?”

“We can’t imitate it,” Mowry informed. “The job is too tough and will take too long.”

“You mean it’s no use to us?” He registered angry disappointment.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, what do you say? Am I to give this stinker his twenty thousand or do I cram the form down his gullet?”

“You can pay him.” Mowry studied the form again. “I think that if I work on it tonight I can erase the date, name and number. The signature can be left intact.”

“That’s risky. It’s easy to spot erasures.”

“Not the way I do them. I know how to gloss the surface afterward. The really difficult task will be that of restoring the broken lines of engraving.” He pondered a moment, went on, “But that may not be necessary. There’s a good chance the new typing will fill in the blanks. It’s hardly likely that they’ll put the form under a microscope.”

“If they were that suspicious they’d grab us first,” 5kriva pointed out.

“I need a typewriter. I’ll have to buy one in the morning.”

“I can get you a typewriter for tonight,” offered Skriva.

“You can? How soon?”

“By the eight-time hour.”

“Is it in good condition?”

“Yar, it’s practically new.”

Mowry eyed him and said, “I suppose it’s no business of mine but I can’t help wondering what use a typewriter is to you.”

“I can sell it. I sell all sorts of things.”

“Things you just happened to find lying in your hands?”

“That’s right,” agreed Skriva, unabashed.

“Oh well, who am I to quibble? You get it. Meet me here at eight.”

Skriva pushed off. When he’d gone from sight Mowry followed into the city. He had a feed, drove back to the marker. Soon afterward Skriva reappeared, gave him the type-writer.

Mowry said, “I want Gurd’s full name and those of his two companions. Somehow or other you’ll have to discover their prison numbers too. Can you do that?”

“I’ve got them already.” Taking a slip of paper from his pocket, Skriva read them out while the other made a note of them.

“Did you also learn at what times the Kaitempi make their calls to collect?”

“Yar. Always between the three and four-time hours. Never earlier, rarely later.”

“Can you find out about noon tomorrow whether Gurd and the others are still in the jail? We’ve got to know that—we’ll get ourselves in a fix if we arrive and demand prisoners who were taken away this afternoon.”

“I can check on it tomorrow,” Skriva assured. Then his face tautened. “Are you planning to get them away tomorrow?”

“We’ve got to do it sometime or not at all. The longer we leave it the bigger the risk of the Kaitempi beating us to the draw. What’s wrong with tomorrow, hi?”

“Nothing except that I wasn’t counting on it being so soon.”

“Why?”

“I thought it’d take longer to work things. out.”

“There’s little to work out,” declared Mowry. “We’ve swiped a requisition-form. We alter it and use it to demand release of three prisoners. Either we get away with it or we don’t. If we do, well and good. If we don’t, we shoot first and run fast.”

“You make it sound too easy,” Skriva objected. “All we’ve got is this form. It isn’t enough—”

“It won’t be enough, I can tell you that now. Chances are ten to one they’ll expect familiar faces and be surprised by strange ones. We’ll have to compensate for that somehow.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll cope. Can you dig up a couple more helpers? All they need do is sit in the cars, keep their traps shut and look tough. I’ll pay them five thousand apiece just for that”

“Five thousand each? I could recruit a regiment for that money. Yar, I can find two. But I don’t know how good they’d be in a fight.”

“Doesn’t matter so long as they can look like plug-uglies. By that I don’t mean the Cafe Susun kind of roughneck, see? They’ve got to resemble Kaitempi agents.” He gave the other an imperative nudge. “The same applies to you. When it’s time to start the job I want to see all three of you clean and tidy, with well-pressed suits and neatly knotted neck-scarves. I want to see you looking as if about to attend a wedding. If you let me down in that respect the deal is off so far as I’m concerned.

You can count me out and go pull the stunt on your own. I don’t intend to try kid some hard-faced, gimlet-eyed warden with the aid of three scruffy looking bums.”

“Maybe you’d like us decked out in fashionable jewellery,” suggested Skriva sarcastically.

“A diamond on the hand is better than a smear of dirt,” Mowry retorted. “I’d rather you overdid the dolling-up than mooched along like hoboes. You’d get away with a splurge because some of these agents are flashy types.” He waited for comment but the other said nothing, so he continued, “What’s more, these two helpers had better be characters you can trust not to talk afterward—else they may take my five thousand and then get another five thousand from the Kaitempi for betraying you.”

Skriva was on firm ground here. He gave an ugly grin and promised, “One thing I can guarantee is that neither of them will say a word.”

This assurance and the way it was made bore a sinister meaning but Mowry let it pass and said, “Lastly, we’ll need a couple of dynos. We can’t use our own unless we change the plates. Any ideas on that?”

“Pinching a pair of dynos is as easy as taking a mug of zith. The trouble is keeping them for any length of time. The longer we use them the bigger the chance of being picked up by some lousy patrol with nothing better to do.”

“We’ll have to cut the use of them to the minimum.” Mowry told him. “Take them as late as you can. We’ll park our own cars on that lot the other side of the Asako Bridge. When we leave the jail we’ll beat it straight there and switch over to them.”

“Yar, that is best,” Skriva agreed.

“All right. I’ll be waiting outside the east gate of the municipal park at the two-time hour tomorrow. You come along with two cars and two helpers and pick me up.”

At that point Skriva became strangely restless and showed suspicion. He fidgeted around, opened his mouth, shut it. Watching him curiously, Mowry invited, “Well, what’s the matter? You want to call the whole thing off?”

Skriva mustered his thoughts and burst out with, “Look, Gurd means nothing to you. The others mean even less. But you’re paying good money and taking a big risk to get them out of clink. It doesn’t make sense.”

“A lot of things don’t make sense. This war doesn’t make sense—but we’re in it up to the neck.”

“Curses on the war. That is nothing to do with the matter.”

“It has everything to do with the matter,” Mowry contradicted. “I don’t like it. A lot of people don’t like it. If we kick the government in the rumps often enough and hard enough, they won’t like it either.”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re up to?” Skriva stared at him in frank surprise, thoughts of purely political reasons never having entered his mind. “You’re chivvying the authorities?”

“Any objections?”

“I couldn’t care less,” informed Skriva, and added virtuously, “Politics is a dirty game. Anyone who plays around in it is crazy. All it gets him in the end is a free burial.”

“It’ll be my burial, not yours.”

“Yar, that’s why I don’t care.” Obviously relieved at having got to the bottom of the other’s motives; Skriva finished, “Meet you at the park tomorrow.”

“On time. If you’re late I won’t be there.”

As before, he waited until the other had gone from sight before driving to town. It was a good thing, he thought, that Skriva had a criminal mentality. The fellow just wasn’t interested in politics, ethics, patriotism or anything similar except insofar as it provided opportunity to snatch easy money. It was highly probable that he viewed his recent activities as profitably illegal but not as treacherous. It simply wouldn’t occur to him that there are criminals and there are traitors.

Any one of Skriva’s bunch would surrender his own mother to the Kaitempi, not as a duty to the nation but solely for five thousand guilders. Similarly, they’d hand Mowry over and pocket the cash with a hearty laugh. All that prevented them from selling him body and soul was the fact they’d freely admitted, namely, that one does not flood one’s goldmine.

Providing the cars and helpers could be obtained Skriva would be there on time tomorrow. He felt sure of that.

Exactly at the two-time hour a big, black dyno paused at the east gate, picked up Mowry and whined onward. Another dyno, older and slightly battered, followed a short distance behind.

Sitting four-square at the wheel of the first car, Skriva looked neater and more respectable than he had done for years. He exuded a faint smell of scented lotion and seemed self conscious about it. With his gaze fixed firmly ahead, he jerked a manicured thumb over his shoulder to indicate a similarly washed and scented character lounging beetle-browed in the back seat.

“Meet Lithar. He’s the sharpest wert on Jaimec.”

Mowry twisted his head round and gave a polite nod. Lithar rewarded him with a blank stare. Returning attention to the windshield, Mowry wondered what on earth a wert might be. He’d never heard the word before and dared not ask its meaning. It might be more than an item of local jargon, perhaps a slang word added to the Sirian language during the years he had been away. It wouldn’t be wise to admit ignorance of it.

“The fellow in the other car is Brank,” informed Skriva. “He’s a red-hot wert too. Lithar’s right-hand man. That so, Lithar?”

The sharpest wert on Jaimec responded with a grunt. To give him his due, he fitted the part of an agent of the typically surly type. In that respect Skriva had chosen well.

Threading their way through a series of side-streets they reached a main road, found themselves held up by a long, noisy convoy of half-tracked vehicles crammed with troops. Perforce they stopped and waited. The convoy rolled on and on like a never ending stream. Skriva began to curse under ‘ his breath.

“They’re gaping around like newcomers,” observed Mowry, watching the passing soldiery. “Must have just arrived from somewhere.”

“Yar, from Diracta,” Skriva told him. “Six shiploads landed this morning. There’s a story going the rounds that ten set out but only six got here.”

“That so? It doesn’t look so good if they’re rushing additional forces to Jaimec despite heavy losses en route”

“Nothing looks good except a stack of guilders twice my height,” opined Skriva. He scowled at the rumbling half-tracks. “If they delay us long enough we’ll still be here when a couple of boobs start bawling about their missing cars. The cops will find us just waiting to be grabbed.”

“So what?” said Mowry. “Your conscience is clear, isn’t it?” Skriva answered that with a look of disgust. At last the procession of military vehicles came to an end. The car jolted forward as he rushed it impatiently into the road and built up speed.

“Take it easy” Mowry advised. “We don’t want to be nailed for ignoring some petty regulation.”

At a point a short distance from the jail Skriva pulled in to the kerb and parked. The other dyno stopped close behind. He turned toward Mowry.

“Before we go any farther let’s have a look at that form.”

Extracting it from a pocket, Mowry gave it to him. He pored over it, seemed satisfied, handed it to Lithar.

“Looks all right to me. What d’you think?”

Lithar eyed it impassively, gave it back. “It’s good enough or it isn’t. You’ll find out pretty soon.”

Sensing something sinister in this remark, Skriva became afflicted with new doubts. He said to Mowry, “The idea is that a couple of us walk in, present this form and wait for them to fetch us the prisoners, hi?”

“Correct.”

“What if this form isn’t enough and they ask for proof of our identities?”

“I can prove mine.”

“Yar? What sort of proof?”

“Who cares so long as it convinces them?” Mowry evaded.

“As for you, fix this inside your jacket and flash it if necessary.”

He gave the other Sagramatholou’s badge.

Fingering it in open surprise, Skriva demanded; “Where’d you get this?”

“An agent gave it me. I’ve influence, see?”

“You expect me to believe that? No Kaitempi soko would dream of—”

“It so happened that he had expired,” Mowry put in. “Dead agents are very co-operative, as perhaps you’ve noticed.”

“You killed him?”

“Don’t be nosey.”

“Yar, what’s it to us?” interjected Lithar from the back seat. “You’re wasting time. Put a move on and let’s get the whole thing over—or let’s throw it up and go back home.”

Thus urged Skriva started up and drove forward. Now that he was rapidly coming to the point of committing himself his edginess was obvious. He knew that if the rescue failed and he was caught he’d certainly pay for the attempt with bulging eyes and protruding tongue. If it succeeded there would follow a hue and cry that would make all of them cower in their rat-holes for a month and all he’d have gained would be three henchmen who, for the time being, would be more nuisance than asset.

Inwardly he regretted the idea that had made him suggest this stunt in the first place, namely, that there is safety in numbers. Perhaps he’d be better off without Gurd and his fellow jailbirds. Sure, four heads are better than one, four guns are better than one, but he could do without the official hullabaloo that the escapees would drag behind them like the tail of a meteor.

It was too late to retreat. The jail was now in sight, its great steel doors set in high stone walls. Rolling toward the doors, the two cars stopped. Mowry got out. Skriva followed suit, thin-lipped and resigned.

Mowry thumbed the bell-button set in the wall. A small door which formed a section of the bigger one emitted metallic clankings and opened. Through it an armed guard eyed them questioningly.

“Kaitempi call for three prisoners,” announced Mowry with becoming arrogance.

With a brief glance at the waiting cars and their wert occupants the guard motioned the two inside, closed the door, slid home its locking-bar. “You’re a little early today.”

“Yar, we’ve got a lot to do. We’re in a hurry.”

“This way.”

They tramped after the guard in single file, Skivra last with a hand in a pocket. Taking them into the administration building, along a corridor and past a heavily barred sliding gate, the guard led them into a small room in which a burly, grim-faced Sirian was sitting behind a desk. Upon the desk stood a small plaque reading: Commandant Tornik.

“Three prisoners are required for immediate interrogation,” said Mowry officiously. “Here is the requisition-form, Commandant. We are pressed for time and would be obliged if you’d produce them as quickly as possible.”

Tornik frowned over the form but did not examine it closely. Dialling an intercom phone he ordered somebody to bring the three to his office. Then he lay back in his chair and regarded the visitors with complete lack of expression.

“You are new to me.”

“Of course, Commandant, There is a reason.”

“Indeed? What reason?”

“It is believed that these prisoners may be more than ordinary criminals. We have reason to suspect them of being members of a revolutionary army, namely, Dirac Angestun Gesept. Therefore they are to be questioned by Military Intelligence as well as by the Kaitempi. I am the M.I. representative.”

“Is that so?” said Tornik, still blank-faced. “We have never had the M.I. here before. May I have evidence of your identity?”

Producing his documents, Mowry handed them over. This wasn’t going so swiftly and smoothly as hoped for. Mentally he prayed for the prisoners to appear and put a quick end to the matter. It was obvious that Tornik was the type to fill in time so long as everyone was kept waiting.

After a brief scrutiny Tornik returned the papers and commented, “Colonel Halopti, this is somewhat irregular. The requisition-form is quite in order but I am supposed to hand prisoners over only to a Kaitempi escort. That is a very strict rule that cannot be disobeyed even for some other branch of the security forces.”

“The escort is of the Kaitempi,” answered Mowry. He threw an expectant look at Skriva who was standing like one in a dream. Skriva came awake, opened his jacket and displayed the badge. Mowry added, “They provided me with three agents saying their attendance was necessary.”

“Yar, that is correct,” Pulling open a drawer in his desk, Tornik produced a receipt-form, filled it in by copying details from the requisition. When he had finished he studied it doubt-fully, complained, “I’m afraid I cannot accept your signature, Colonel. Only a Kaitempi official may sign a receipt for prisoners.”

“I’ll sign it,” offered Skriva, sweating over the delay.

“But you have a badge and not a plastic card.” Tornik objected. “You are only an agent and not an officer.”

Mentally abusing this infernal insistence upon rigmarole, Mowry interjected, “He is of the Kaitempi and temporarily under my conmmand. I am an officer although not of the Kaitempi.”

“That is so, but—”

“A receipt for prisoners must be given by the Kaitempi and by an officer. Therefore the proper conditions will be fulfilled if both of us sign.”

Tornik considered this, decided that it agreed with the letter of the law. “Yar, the regulations must be observed. You will both sign.”

Just then the door opened, Gurd and his companions shuffled in with a rattle of wrist-chains. A guard followed, produced a key, unlocked the manacles and took them away. Gurd, now worn and haggard, kept his gaze on the floor and maintained a surly expression. One of the others, a competent actor, glowered at Tornik, Mowry and Skriva in turn. The third, who was subject to attacks of delight, beamed around in happy surprise until Skriva bared his teeth at him. The smile then vanished. Luckily neither Tornik nor the attendant guard noticed this by-play.

Mowry signed the receipt with a confident flourish; Skriva appended his hurried scrawl beneath. The three prisoners silently stood by, Gurd still moping, the second scowling, the third wearing the grossly exaggerated expression of one in mourning for a rich aunt. Number three, Mowry decided, was definitely a dope who’d ham his way to an early grave.

“Thank you Commandant” Mowry turned toward the door.

“Let’s go.”

In shocked tones Tornik exclaimed, “What, without wrist-chains, Colonel? Have you brought no manacles with you?”

Gurd stiffened, number two bunched his fists, number three made ready to faint. Skriva stuck his hand back in his pocket and kept full attention on the guard.

Glancing back at the other, Mowry said, “We have steel anklets fixed to the floors of the cars. That is the M.I. way, Commandant” He smiled with the air of one who knows. “A prisoner runs with his feet and not with his hands.”

“Yar, that is true,” Tornik conceded.

They went out, led by the guard who had brought them there. The prisoners followed with Skriva and Mowry bringing up the rear. Through the corridor, past the barred gate, out the main door and across the yard. Armed guards patrolling the wall-top sauntered along and eyed them indifferently. Pairs of ears strained for a yell of fury and a rush of feet from the administration building, five bodies were tensed in readiness to slug the guide and make a dash for the exit door.

Reaching the wall, the guard grasped the locking-bar in the small door and just then the bell was rung from outside. This sudden, unexpected sound jolted their nerves, Skriva’s gun came halfway out of his pocket. Gurd took a step toward the guard, his, expression vicious. The actor jumped as if stung. Dopey opened his mouth to emit a yelp of fright, converted it into a gargle as Mowry rammed a heel on his foot.

Only the guard remained undisturbed. With his back to the others and therefore unable to see their reactions he lugged the locking-bar. to one side, turned the handle, opened the door. Beyond stood four sour-faced characters in plain clothes.

One of them said curtly, “Kaitempi call for one prisoner.”

For some reason best known to himself the guard found nothing extraordinary about two collecting parties turning up in close succession. He motioned the four inside, held the door open while the first arrivals went out. The newcomers did not head straight across the yard toward the administration block. They took a few steps in that direction, stopped as if by common consent, stared at Mowry and the others as they passed into the road. It was the dishevelled look of the prisoners and the chronic alarm on the face of Dopey that attracted their attention.

Just as the door shut Mowry, who was last out, heard an agent rasp at the guard, “Who are those, hi?”

The reply wasn’t audible but the question was more than enough.

“Jump to it!” he urged. “Run?”

They sprinted to the cars, spurred on by expectation of immediate trouble. A third machine now stood behind their own two, a big ugly dyno with nobody at the wheel. Lithar and Brank watched them anxiously, opened the doors in readiness. Scrambling into the leading dyno, Skriva started its motor while Gurd went through the back door and practically flung himself into Lithar’s lap. Behind, the other two piled into the rear of Brank’s car.

Mowry gasped at Skriva, “Wait a moment while I see if I can grab theirs—it’ll delay the chase.”

So saying he raced to the third car, frantically tugged at its handle. It refused to budge. Just then the jail’s door opened and somebody roared, “Halt! Halt or we—” Brank promptly stuck an arm out his open window, flicked four quick shots toward the door-gap and missed each time. But it was sufficient to make the shouter dive for cover. Mowry pelted back to the leading dyno and fell in beside Skriva.

“The cursed thing is locked. Let’s get out of here.”

The car surged forward, tore down the road, Brank accelerated after them. Watching through the rear window, Mowry saw several figures bolt out the jail and waste precious moments fumbling by their dyno before they got in.

“They’re after us,” he told Skriva. “And they’ll be bawling their heads off over the radio.”

“Yar, but they haven’t got us yet.”