The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.

      He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two, in the front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked about throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.

      Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to make even a try for the men in the back seat.

      * * * * *

      He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. "It's all right," he told her, feeling ineffectual.

      "I never saw anybody killed before," she said.

      "It's all right," Malone said. "Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll protect you."

      He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did. Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. "Mr. Malone--"

      "Ken," he said.

      "I'm sorry," she said. "Ken--I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the men's heads, when you fired--it was--"

      "Don't think about it," Malone said. To him, the job had been an unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see, though, how it might affect people who were new to it.

      "You're so brave," she said.

      Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. "Just depend on me," he said. "You'll be all right if you--"

      The State Trooper walked up then, and looked at them. "Mr. Malone?" he said. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming.

      "That's right," Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the little golden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them, and looked back at Malone.

      "What's with the getup?" he said.

      "FBI," Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. "Official business."

      "In costume?"

      "Never mind about the details," Malone snapped.

      "He's an FBI agent, sir," Barbara said. "And what are you?" the Patrolman said. "Lady Jane Grey?"

      "I'm a nurse," Barbara said. "A psychiatric nurse."

      "For nuts?"

      "For disturbed patients."

      The Patrolman thought that over. "Hell, you've got the identity cards and stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How would I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."

      "Let's cut the monologue," Malone said savagely, "and get to business."

      The Patrolman stared. Then he said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?"

      Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them, and what happened afterward.

      Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and looked over toward them. "I guess it's okay, sir," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why they'd want to kill you?"

      Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason--but it might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts of FBI life?

      "Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."

      The Patrolman nodded. "I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but--"

      "I know," Malone said. "Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?"

      "I guess," the Patrolman said. "Go ahead. We'll take care of the rest of this. You'll be getting a call later."

      "Fine," Malone said. "Trace those hoods, and any connections they might have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible."

      Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You won't have to leave the state, will you?" he asked. "I don't mean that you can't, exactly--hell, you're FBI. But it'd be easier--"

      "Call Burris in Washington," Malone said. "He can get hold of me--and if the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State's Attorney, put them in touch with Burris too. Okay?"

      "Okay," Lieutenant Adams said. "Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen," he said. "About those costumes--"

      "We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn," Malone said with a polite smile. "Okay?"

      "I was only asking," Lieutenant Adams said. "Can't blame a man for asking, now, can you?"

      Malone climbed into his front seat. "Call me later," he said. The car started. "Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas," Malone said, and the car roared off.

      Chapter 7

       Table of Contents

      Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought, but they weren't good for him.

      The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.

      Or was that yucci?

      Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks.

      And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he couldn't stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for only one thing.

      It wasn't summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive in closed cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they might have started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now, in what was supposed to be winter.

      The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared through the cloudless sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. Sir Thomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasses he was wearing, while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses, or the rest of the world, that was an anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln toward the Yucca Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour.

      Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat. Past them, through the rear window of the Lincoln, he could see the second car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition to Sir Kenneth Malone's Collection of Bats.

      "Bats?" Her Majesty said suddenly, but gently. "Shame on you, Sir Kenneth. These are poor, sick people. We must do our best to help them--not to think up silly names for them. For shame!"

      "I suppose so," Malone said wearily. He sighed and, for the fifth time that day, he asked: "Does Your Majesty have any idea where our spy is now?"

      "Well, СКАЧАТЬ