Hammer in hand, he strides along the glare-strip-lighted passage to the control compartment.
"Welcome aboard, Captain-Lieutenant," a smooth voice says from above him. He goes flat against the wall, his teeth bared; he has forgotten that the ships of Ysar speak with a man's voice.
"Commander Lokrien is not aboard at this time," the construct-voice states. "Kindly make yourself comfortable until his return. The refreshment cubicle is located—"
"Where is he?"
"I detect that you are agitated," the voice says calmly. "You are invited to make use of a tranquiling spray." There is a soft
click!
and a small silver tube pops from a dispenser slot beside the conn chair.
Gralgrathor snarls, swings the hammer against the plaston panel. It rebounds harmlessly.
"Attention!" the voice says sharply. "You are ordered to withdraw from the control compartment at once! This is an operational urgent command!" A sharp jolt of electricity through the floor reinforces the words. Gralgrathor whirls and runs aft, slamming open each door, searching every cranny of the compact vessel.
"Where are you hiding, Loki?" he shouts. "Come out and face me, and tell me again about the needs of the empire!"
"Captain-Lieutenant, I perceive that you are in a dangerously excited state." The cybernetic voice issues from a speaker in the passage. "I must ask you to leave the vessel at once." A low-voltage shock throws him against the bulkhead; he turns and makes his way, stumbling, to the power-cell chamber door, smashes the lock with a blow; inside, ignoring repeated shocks, he takes aim at the massive conductors leading up from the coil chamber, and with all the power of his back and arms, brings the hammer down on the casing. The instantaneous blast that follows blows him into scarlet darkness.
1
Inside the big house, Falconer ushered the cab driver into a high-ceilinged room with trophy-covered oak walls, a vast granite fireplace, deep rugs, low, comfortable furniture. He poured the man a drink at a mahogany-topped bar that occupied most of one wall adjacent to glass doors that opened onto a flagstoned terrace.
"I'll be with you in about ten minutes," he said, and left the room, went up the wide, curved stairway, along the hall to a spacious bedroom. He donned a heavy cavalry-twill shirt, whipcord jodhpurs, low boots. He strapped a lightweight holster under his arm, fitted a flat pistol to it, then pulled on a dark-blue navy-issue weather jacket.
Zabisky looked around as Falconer reentered the study.
"You got some nice pieces here, mister," he said. He pointed a blunt forefinger at a tarnished cuirass and a pair of crossed pikes over the bar.
"That looks like the old Polish armor," he said. "Sixteen hundreds. It took a man to wear that stuff all day, I'll tell you."
Falconer nodded. "Indeed it did. You're interested in armory?"
"Well, you know. A guy's got to have a hobby," he said. "You got quite a collection here." His eyes roved over the array of weapons, plate armor, mail, the faded banners and scarred escutcheons. "Hey," he said, pointing with his chin toward a lozenge-shaped shield bearing a design of a two-headed eagle in dark bronze. "Where'd you get that?"
"At Vienna."
"Funny. I got a old beer tankard at home, been in the family for a long time, got the same picture on it. Supposed to belonged to my ancestors. The story is, we had a king in the family, once." He laughed, glancing sideways at Falconer. "I guess it's a lot of crap, but my old great-aunt Dragica, she's a nut on genealogy, you know; she comes up with all this stuff."
"Your name was familiar," Falconer said. "You're a descendant of King John Sobieski?"
"Yeah, that was his name. You heard of him? Geez. I'm named for him."
"He was a man," Falconer said. "Taller than you, big as an ox through the chest and shoulders, fair hair, but eyes much like yours. He had the gift of laughter. He was much beloved by his men."
Zabisky stared, gave a short laugh. "You talk like you knew the guy."
"I've read of him," Falconer said shortly. "Let's go, John."
"Yeah." Zabisky followed Falconer outside; in the drive, he halted.
"Hey, mister—there's just one more thing . . ."
Falconer turned. Zabisky took a quick step toward him, rammed a powerful right jab toward Falconer's sternum. Falconer turned half sideways, caught the wrist, brought it forward under his left arm, levered the elbow backward across his chest.
"O.K., I just wanted to check," Zabisky said.
They went along a brick walk; Falconer lifted one of the five doors on the long garage. Zabisky whistled at the gleaming shapes parked in the gloom. He walked along the line.
"A Jag XK120, an SJ Doosie, a SSK Mercedes, a Bugatti 41, ain't it? And what's that? It looks like a thirty-five Auburn. . ."
"It's a sixty-eight Auburn 866. New production."
"Man, you know your cars. Which one we taking?"
"The Auburn."
Zabisky whistled again, running a hand along the sleek lines of the car. "What's she got under the hood?"
"A Thunderbird 386-horsepower V-8."
"And I get paid too, hah? Let's go, pal. I want to see how this baby turns up."
They pulled out along the drive swiftly, noiselessly. At the road, Zabisky turned to Falconer.
"Where to?"
Falconer pointed.
"What town we headed for?"
"Just drive, John. I'll tell you when to turn." Falconer leaned back against the smooth leather seat and in ten seconds was sound asleep.
2
"The Highway Patrol found the car parked on a side street in Brooksville," Captain Brasher said. "Key in the ignition, nobody around."
"What kind of neighborhood was it?" Hardman asked.
The captain gave a lift of his khaki-epauleted shoulders. "After all, I wasn't there, I can't be expected to know every detail—"
"That's just what I do expect, Brasher! And I don't expect to wait until morning to find out what kind of car Grayle is driving now!"
The intercom buzzed; the governor jabbed the button savagely.
"Sir, Captain Lacey of the Highway Patrol on the line for Captain Brasher. Shall I—"
"Put him on." He picked up the phone, listened to clicks.
"This is Hardman at Caine Island, Captain," he said. "I'll take your report."
"Yes, sir. On the Rambler: we found it in Brooksville—"
"Yes, I know. Any leads?"
"Looks like he knocked over the watchman at the Ford car agency; it's just across the street from where the Rambler was parked. He's still out, but when he comes around he can tell us if anything's missing from the lot."
"Good. Keep me informed." The governor cradled the phone and looked across at Brasher. "He took a car from the Ford lot he was parked beside. We don't know what model or color, but we can be pretty sure it's a new one." He swiveled to look at the map of the state on the wall. "Lacey, I want you to watch I-74 and I-4, and US 19, north and south. Stop any new Ford."
"That's a pretty tall order—"
"Still—I'm ordering it!" He cradled the phone and turned to Brasher.
"I want a man on the scene—a reliable man, representing my— our—interests."
"Harmon," Brasher said at once. "He's keen, a good man—"
"I thought he was in the hospital."
"He has a headache that gives him a personal interest in nailing Grayle. They'd had run-ins before."
"Get him up there, right away."
When Brasher had left, the governor poured himself a stiff Scotch from his office bar, then keyed the intercom and called for Lester Pale. The man came in a few minutes later, looking troubled.
"Anything yet, Lester?"
"Nothing that makes any sense, sir."
"Let's have it anyway."
Lester spread papers on the edge of the desk.
"My Pentagon contact came through with a reference to a prisoner named Grayle—"
"First name?"
"Just an initial: T. This Grayle was transferred to Fort Leavenworth from Fort McNair at Washington, after a court-martial conviction for murder."
"Any details of the crime?"
"Yes, sir. The trial transcript is attached. It seems he was in an army stockade at the time of the murder."
"What motive?"
"It appears he knew the victim; other than that . . ." Lester shook his head. "Frankly, this is pretty hard reading; a poor photostat to begin with, and cramped handwriting—"
"What do you mean, handwriting? Don't you have a copy of the official record?"
"Yes, sir," Lester said flatly. "But in eighteen-sixty-three there weren't any typewriters."
Hardman stared blankly at his aide; he reached, plucked the papers from the other's hands, scanned the sheets, made a noise in his throat.
"What the devil is this, Lester? This is an account of a Civil War trial!"
"Yes, sir. The man Grayle was a Confederate prisoner, and the man he killed was a Union officer."
"Union officer?" Hardman echoed.
"There's one discrepancy in the story, though," Lester continued in a voice that seemed on the edge of breaking. "The rumor here at Caine Island was that Grayle did the job with an ax; but according to this, he used a hammer."
3
"Let me get this straight," the guard lieutenant said softly. "Are you giving me the kill order on this pigeon?"
"Not at all." Brasher's eyes stared through the other man. "But if he's gunned down in a fire fight—with witnesses that he fired the first shot . . ."
The lieutenant nodded, touched his tongue to his lips. "Yeah," he said. "Now you're talking, sir. Blake and Weinert'll feel better when they hear—"
"They'll hear nothing, damn you! Keep this to yourself. But be damned sure you're in at the kill, understand?"
"You bet, Cap'n." The lieutenant patted the old-fashioned .38caliber solid-slug pistol he wore at his hip. "I'll be there."
4
"We should leave the main road," Grayle said.
"We can't," the girl said decisively. "The whole road system of Florida was built to carry tourists north and south in a hurry. This was all unoccupied land just a few years ago; there isn't any network of farm roads and secondary roads like there is in most states."
"What about that?" Grayle pointed to an exit from the multilaned expressway.
"It just leads into a town. We're making good time—"
They saw the roadblock then: a pair of police cruisers parked across two of the four northbound lanes three hundred yards ahead, red flashers winking. Anne wrenched the wheel hard right, with a squeal of tires took the exit ramp.
Grayle looked back. One of the police cars was in motion, swinging in a tight turn around the central divider strip.
"They saw us."
Anne hurled the car down and out of the curving ramp, joined a wide, empty avenue glistening under the eerier blue glare of pole-mounted mercury-vapor lamps. Above high, concrete-retained banks, the fronts of ancient frame houses stared out across the traffic chasm like gaunt old men facing an open grave. A cross street was coming up; Anne braked, skidded, caught it, slammed over the curb and across the apron of a service station, missed a parked wrecker by inches, shot into the narrow mouth of a side street, sending black water sheeting. She cut the headlights, slowed to a crawl, pulled into a weed-grown driveway, reached across to tilt the rearview mirror. For a moment nothing stirred in the rectangle of glass; then light grew, became the glare of high beams, probing along the dark street. The flasher winked as the police car came slowly along the street. A spotlight beam lanced out, pushed hard shadows across the headliner. The car halted ten feet from the rear bumper of the Ford.
"Don't move." Grayle gripped the right-side door handle, twisted it silently, held it. Rain beat on the top of the car; faintly, feet squelched in mud, coming forward along the right side. As they halted, Grayle threw the door open, sending the man reeling back and down. He came out of the car in a lunge, stooped, and swept the gun from the hand of the felled policeman, threw it from him, flattened himself against the side of the car near the rear wheel. He looked at the angry, frightened face staring up at him.
"Tell your partner to throw away his gun and come around to this side," he said.
The man on the ground didn't move, didn't speak. Rain washed pink blood from a cut lip down across his face.
"Go for his feet, Charlie!" he shouted suddenly, and threw himself at Grayle in a scrambling plunge. A vivid double flash, the
boom-boom!
of a gun, from the other side of the car, whining ricochets. Grayle rounded the back of the car, straight-armed the man coming from the opposite side, sent him sprawling. He ran for the cover of the ragged junipers lining the drive, plunged through as the gun racketed again. He ran past the front of the house, ripped through a four-foot hedge, cut left, was back at the curb. One of the men was running heavily down toward the police car in the street. Grayle sprinted, reached it first, had the door open when he saw the second policeman grappling with a slim, furiously struggling figure beside the Ford. The running cop had seen Grayle; he skidded to a halt, bringing his gun up—
Grayle dived under the flash, heard the
spang!
of the solid slug against metal behind him as he took the man at knee height, felt bone break, heard the ragged scream of the man as he fell away. Grayle rolled to his feet, ran up the drive. The man by the car threw Anne from him; the slim, flat needle-pump in his hand made a harsh, rasping buzz; Grayle felt the blow of a fiery club against his chest; then he was on the man, spinning him, throwing the gun away into the darkness. He put a thumb hard into the base of the policeman's neck, dropped him. He lifted Anne, ran to the police car, tossed her onto the seat.
"Can you drive this?"
"Yes." The engine was idling. Grayle slid into the seat and closed the door; the car spun away from the curb, fishtailed, straightened out, its headlights burning a tunnel through blackness. Anne looked sideways at Grayle.
"Are you all right? I thought he shot you—"