June 21,
1959
The anti-gravity field crushed Steve Flanagan against the laboratory ceiling, spreading his jacket out to either side like worn brown wings. A paperback copy of Kiss Me Deadly slid
out of one pocket and hung a foot away from Steve’s hand.
It had been less than seven hours ago that he’d slipped it into
his jacket…
I
“I told you Roboticus wouldn’t keep me down for long.” Dog-earing a page to mark his place, Steve dropped Spillane into his pocket and took the folding chair between Gwen Montgomery, and fellow Science Investigator Jo Davies. He flexed his cast-free left arm to prove his point. “Miss
me?”
“After six weeks partnering with Tobey, having you back is a joy,” Gwen said in her Southern drawl. She was the only woman in the Science Investigations briefing room in a skirt rather than pants, which showed off the nylons she’d somehow managed to obtain. “Some men just do not know how to conduct themselves toward a woman partner, and with Nate announcing this major new assignment—”
“Major’s the word for it, Gwen.” Cigar clenched in his teeth, Science Investigations Director Nate Strawn strode toward the podium at the front of the subterranean hall, clutching a huge file folder. He set it on the podium long enough to straighten his tie, then continued. “I imagine most of you have read the reports about those aliens in the Midwest carbon-copying human men and trying to breed with their wives—”
One of the agents made a crude suggestion. Jo’s fist slammed down on the empty chair to her right. “It’s not funny, dammit! I was with Quatermass when the meteor creatures replaced so many blokes in the English government. It’s—you can’t
imagine.”
“Since the reports hit the papers, every Science Investigation branch has been flooded with even more false reports than usual,” Nate said. “Happens every time there’s a ceecee case, of course, but having women married to monsters from outer space has really touched a nerve. So—”
“I keep saying, alien invasions are the military’s responsibility, Nate” Gwen said. “Our
job is supposed to be dealing with unlicensed scientific research.”
“The military has its hands full coping with all the aliens who try to take us over by force, or so the Joint Chiefs say,” Nate replied. “The FBI ain’t interested either, so we’re stuck hunting for alien fifth columnists, same as always. This file—” He hefted it and almost dropped it to the floor. “—contains all the latest ceecee reports from the Texas border to Big Sur. We got two weeks to get through ‘em.”
Groans erupted all around the room.
“Chief, you know 90 percent—hell, 99 percent will be baloney,” said DiNaldi, a sallow-skinned woman with a stiletto gaze. “And you think unlicensed scientists are going to sit twiddling their thumbs until we’re
free to hunt them again?”
“Lone-wolf researchers are as high a priority as ever,” Strawn said. “If it takes overtime, we have the budget for it.” He gestured with the file folder toward DiNaldi. “You and Slim check as many CeeCee reports from your desk as you can—”
“That should be Flanagan’s job, chief.” DiNaldi jerked her thumb at Steve. “He became a real pro at research while his arm—”
“Fully healed!” Steve snapped. “And if I have to shuffle more papers—”
“He’s done his part, DiNaldi,” Strawn said, “you and Slim do yours. Anything that might be the real deal, pass on to Landry and Smith.” Landry muttered something to his partner. “Your wives married cops, they should be used to the hours. But all of you got to remember, when you call whoever made these reports—”
“They could have been ceeceed too by now,” Slim, a plump, deceptively soft-looking man said. “Yeah, we know anyone saying ‘It was all a big mistake’ is
a red flag.”
“And tape all the conversations, so Doc Romanov can go over them, see if psychoanalysis spots any non-human thought patterns,” Nate went on. “Remember, if the one percent of real ceecee cases go undetected, we could wake up tomorrow and find it’s
100 percent.
“Moving on to our regular duties…” Strawn set down the file, opened a small notebook. “O’Keefe,
I know Janus is back from burying his pop today. Pick him up, head
to Sacramento; a bunch of whores have turned up dead, and cops
say it looks like some sort of death ray. From the details we got,
looks more like unlicensed experiments than aliens.”
“A scientist using broads as guinea pigs? I’ll experiment on his face with my knuckles,” O’Keefe said with a curt nod. Steve remembered what the late Dr. Sinclair had done to O’Keefe’s kid sister, and didn’t
doubt it.
“Trueblood,” Strawn went on, “you and Davies head to UCLA. Some kind of a monster’s been stalking around the women’s dorms—” Fresh snickers erupted throughout the room. “—and it leaves radioactive traces behind. Check out the science department—”
“See if someone’s been mutating something.” Trueblood chuckled, adjusting the carnation in the lapel of his suit. “Hope the coeds aren’t too scared, I’ll have to hold them, comfort them—”
“Crikey, Strawn, can I trade him in for a partner who isn’t a
goddamned wolf?”
“No.” Nate took a pull on his cigar. “Remember, if it is a mutation, it could be accidental, try not to use lethal force if you can help it. And if there’s a lab, for God’s sake, don’t burn it down this time.” Davies muttered something under her breath. “Montgomery,
Flanagan, head over to Future Technologies in Phoenix. Five of
their researchers have turned up dead, and not by accident.”
“Murder’s not our beat, even in a lab,” Steve said. “The cops will be calling you up and demanding—”
“This time, they’re the ones called us for help. Three of the guys weren’t just killed, every bone in their body was shattered. In one case, so was the guy’s car. Number four broke his neck falling out a window.” Nate paused. Steve refused to ask. “A
first floor window. On account of the car, the cops are thinking
robot.”
“Beautiful.” Steve glanced down at his arm, remembering what a
breaking bone sounded like. And before Roboticus, there were
Caldwell’s magnetic robots and Phelps’ robot spiders…
“They could also have been dropped from some rogue scientist’s rocket-ship,” Gwen said. “Never
theorize in advance of the facts, remember?”
“Good advice for everyone in this room,” Strawn said. “The case file’s
on your desk, Gwen; take a look, then head up to the surface and
make for Phoenix.
“Lamb and Cornwell, there’s been some reports outside Yuma of queer lights from some old shack. We have no research permits filed…”
“Robots again?” The alarm in Dani’s Boston Brahmin-accented voice was audible over Steve’s wrist-radio, not just to him but to Gwen, and probably to DiNaldi and Slim a few desks away. “Is it too much to hope you won’t
take any stupid risks?”
“Roboticus was gonna step on a kid, remember? I didn’t have a choice.“ There was background noise behind her voice; after a second, Steve identified it. “You
on the helitrooper chopper?”
“Giant scorpion attacking a school in Yuma. Shouldn’t
be any trouble, but my wrist-radio will be on standby most of
the day.”
“And you’re worried about me? You can reason with robot-makers, you can’t
make nice with giant bugs.”
“The last time you ‘reasoned’ with someone, you and Gwen almost wound up on a rocket to Jupiter. I’m only a medic, I won’t
have to get near the scorpion.”
“You said that when your unit went up against that radioactive ivy or whatever the hell it was. Look, I’ll make you a deal—I
make it back in one piece, I buy you chop suey at the Bamboo
Dragon.”
“And I make it back, I’ll buy yours, same
as always. But I have to go, Sergeant Hill wants me. Stay safe.”
“Safe.” Steve made a face as he clicked the wrist-radio off. He stared around the fluorescent-lit room, three stories underground. “Dammit, if the Martians hadn’t killed so many—”
“Yes, I know, the National Guard wouldn’t need girl medics and she’d be safe working in a hospital somewhere,” Gwen said, closing the file. “Of course, you wouldn’t
have me as a partner.”
DiNaldi, hand on the phone, stopped dialing
to glare at Steve, who held up his hands in protest. “You girls know I don’t object to dames in SI, or even on the front lines. But Dani—it’s
different. I worry.”
“So?” DiNaldi said. “I worry about my brother the gunner’s mate, my brother in the National Guard, the brother who lost a leg in Chicago—you don’t
think I should fight for them like they fight for me?”
“It’s different when you’re in love.” Steve indicted DiNaldi, Slim and Gwen with a sweep of his hand. “You guys got no idea, you all play the field—“
“We could all be dead tomorrow, let’s live while we can,” Gwen said. “Nothing else makes sense.” She handed him the file and headed for the elevator. Steve picked up his fedora and followed. “Go over it on the way to Phoenix. I’ll
drive us to the train.”
II
“How dare you suggest I employ unlicensed researchers?” Striding from behind his massive oak desk, Martin Carstairs glared down and thrust the stem of his pipe into Steve’s face. “I
will certainly mention your conduct the next time I speak with
my good friend President Nixon!”
“I’m sorry, is SI moving to fast for you?” Steve wanted to swat the pipe to the floor, but busied his hands adjusting his brown jacket. “Maybe instead of five suspicious deaths, you’d rather we wait for what, eight? Nine? Is there some reason you’d
rather have us wait that long?”
“The Phoenix police, the Arizona state police
and the FBI Science Crime division have personally assured me
there is no evidence linking those deaths with anyone here at
Future Technologies!”
“Other than the fact they all worked here,” Gwen
said, making it sound as if she regretted even bringing it up.
“Most of my employees also socialize away from work.” Carstairs restored his pipe to his mouth, but his tone softened as he took another look at Gwen. “You’d probably learn more checking out the Subterraneans or another of the local ‘hang outs.’”
“The police did that when Paul Wozniak died,” Steve said. “Nothing. And they haven’t found any locals who can crush every bone in a man’s body with one blow, let alone demolish a car. So I’m thinking, maybe you got a mutant in the basement? Some radioactive freak you traded for on the black market, run a few tests—”
“Allegations about my business could be
considered actionable, Flanagan.”
“What a coincidence, buddy, murder is, too.” With a smile, Steve jabbed his finger into the blue shirt under Carstairs’ tailored
gray flannel suit.
“Steve, please.” Reaching forward, Gwen plucked his hand away with white-gloved fingers, then flashed her patented smile at Carstairs. After two years working together, they had the rhythm down pat. “Mr.
Carstairs, I assure you, you are not under any suspicion whatsoever
of conducting unlicensed research. I have the highest regard
for your operation, especially since I bought one of your new
color televisions a few months ago.”
Liar. Steve kept his poker face on. Like
you’d ever let TV drag you away from Faulkner.
“Well, it’s hardly my work alone, Miss Montgomery,” Carstairs said with what struck Steve as completely insincere modesty. “Everyone
here at Future Technologies is dedicated to adapting alien science
for legitimate uses. But excuse me, is that the sound of Georgia
I hear in your voice?”
“Why how perceptive, sir.” Gwen’s hand rested at the collar of her white shirt, not-so-coincidentally drawing Carstairs’ attention to her full breasts. Steve could see him succumbing. “Unfortunately, your very success makes your company a natural target for espionage or alien infiltration—”
“Our security is airtight, Miss Montgomery. So tell me, how does a woman as lovely as yourself become involved in such a brutal line of work?” His
glance darted, disapprovingly, toward Steve.
“Because it annoyed my momma,” Gwen said, with a light laugh that drew a surprisingly hearty response from Carstairs. “And
please, call me Gwendolyn.”
“Gwendolyn, how—charming.”
Montgomery’s law—sex makes guys stupid. Steve
kept a stony scowl on his face as Carstairs’ eyes did everything
but give a wolf whistle.
“In any case,” Carstairs said, “we follow all security protocols: Regular psychoanalysis sessions, annual LSD tests, brain-wave scans—”
“And since your people started dying?” Steve asked. “Given
anybody an extra checkup?”
“As you should know perfectly well, I have to have probable cause to order one,” Carstairs
said with a snarl.
“Even if you did,” Gwen said, “testing can’t spot a murderer if he’s a human. Even when dealing with aliens—are
you familiar with the Caldwell case?”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before.” Carstairs snapped his fingers suddenly. “A news photograph of you and your assistant here, after you killed the alien mentality that took over Caldwell’s
body.”
“And passed multiple security screenings,” Gwen said, nodding. Caldwell puffed thoughtfully for a second. “You
yourself said that modern science has no place for lone wolves,
Mr. Carstairs.”
“Martin, please.” He’d managed to position himself almost a foot closer to Gwen. “Yes, well, Gwendolyn…how
can I help?”
Steve kept himself from smiling, just in case Carstairs looked his way.
“It was horrible.” The curvy blonde fitted a cigarette into her holder; Steve lit it, playing it cool when she moved so her breast brushed his arm. “No, Arnie was a great guy, nobody would have minded—”
“Come on, Sharon.” Dr. Reinman, an older German woman sitting at a nearby lunch table, rolled her eyes. “Arnie Newell was the eyes and ears of Project Review, Mr. Flanagan; his word could determine whether we got lab time and a research license or we spent six months washing out someone else’s
test-tubes before applying again.”
“Anyone he turned down recently?” Steve
asked, moving away from Sharon.
“Too many to count.” Oscar Grayson, a Negro with a burn scar covering half his face, lit his pipe with a dour laugh. “Since Nixon put Carstairs in charge of making money out of alien leftovers, there’s
been a brain drain to Phoenix from every lab in the country.
Every research proposal Carstairs applies to license, Project
Review probably rejects fifty.”
“But Franklin Rose was just a janitor,” Steve said. “Wozniak and Kendall were researchers, Jonas Smith was decontamination—”
“My theory is, somebody’s been slipping into the lab to do some devolution research,” the freckle-faced kid—okay, not more than two or three years younger than Steve, really—at the end of the table said. “Like
that college professor who turned himself into a Neanderthal?
Or that woman in Florida who turned into some kind of reptile
monster under hypnosis?”
“That one was bull,” Steve said. “Some guy was using a phony monster to cover up a murder, not the first time that’s
happened.”
“I’ll bet you see all kinds of amazing things,” Sharon said, drawing closer. “Maybe
after work you could tell me some of your war stories.”
“If we don’t get this case cracked, I’ll be working pretty late,” Steve
said, with a regretful smile. Not that I have any regrets
when I’m seeing Dani tonight. “Jenkins, you got anything
to suggest?”
“Me?” The bespectacled man at the end of the table stiffened and wiped sweat off his brow. “No, no, I have no idea! None! I’m
not a detective, just a scientist!
“Don’t expect to get anything out of Abner until tomorrow,” the freckled kid—Frank Comstock, that was his name—said. “He’s got a presentation to the new Review head, that’s
a lot to have on your mind.”
“I’m taking the afternoon off, just to make sure I didn’t screw up any of the formulas.” Jenkins knocked the dottle out of his pipe into the nearest ashtray. “So I have to go—unless
you got more questions for me?”
“What’s your project?” Steve asked.
“I don’t have to say yet! Not until I present
it!”
“In that case, none.”
The man relaxed so visibly, Steve almost
asked him then and there why he’d committed the murders—but he’d
learned the hard way it helped to have a little evidence before
he shot his mouth off.
“Third floor, Gwen, end of the east wing,” Steve whispered into his wrist-radio. “Jenkins is spending his afternoon off in a lab that’s
officially closed for decontamination.”
“Which Smith would have gotten to by now if his death hadn’t set d-con back a few days, I checked the log book. And the new head of Project Review is a bowling buddy of Jenkins. Good to know those weeks sitting behind a desk haven’t
dulled your instincts.”
“Did Jenkins stage the contamination, do
you think, or was it a genuine accident?”
“We can ask Jenkins after he’s in handcuffs. I’ll
be there in three minutes.”
“Maybe I should go in now, just in case—”
“You do not cast an eyeball around that lab until I’m there, Steve. Not when we don’t
know what Jenkins has in there, or how he killed those people.
And yes, that was an order.”
“I hate it when you give me orders.”
“You hate it when anyone gives you orders.” The
wrist-radio fell silent. Steve contemplated the lab door, but
he waited, fingers drumming out a silent tattoo on his trouser
leg.
“He still in there?” Steve turned at Gwen’s voice, nodded, saw his partner already aiming her pocket Geiger counter at the lab. “It would have been a very lucky accident—not
enough roentgens to pose a real risk, but enough it has to stay
closed.”
“It should never have been opened.” In Steve’s view, licensed nuclear research was as nutty as the US and the USSR still refusing to destroy all their a-bombs. “So
what do you think Jenkins has inside? Mutant? Some kind of force-ray?”
“Don’t theorize, remember? Just be ready for anything.” Trading
the Geiger counter for her gun, Gwen started up the corridor,
Steve falling into step beside her.
A foot away from the laboratory door, they
heard discordant humming from inside, the familiar, ominous sound
of potent energies channeled by technology. Steve seized the
doorknob, found it wasn’t locked and cracked the door open.
The long room stood quiet, oscilloscopes
and bunsen burners sitting still and lifeless along the lab tables…except at the far end. The small console in front of Jenkins flickered with life, the glowing metal orb over it gave out the hum. Jenkins’ attention
was divided between the dials on his machine and the slide rule
he kept adjusting. Then he frowned and turned back toward the
door.
“Freeze, Jenkins!” Steve kicked the door open, moving in with gun pointed, trusting Gwen to be behind him. “Get away from your death ray now—”
The portly scientist froze, then twisted the dial under his hand. Steve shot up into the air before he could fire, smashing into the ceiling a second before Gwen rose to join him.
“What the hell?” Steve pushed his hand down
so he could shoot, but an unseen force pressed it flat against
the white plaster.
“Why the devil did you have to find me?” Jenkins raced over to the door—carefully going around the edge of the room to reach it—closed and locked it. “I’ve almost got the instability licked, just a few more weeks…wait, what am I worried about? Who’s going to come in here?” With a happy chortle, the man turned back to the console, studied the dials thoughtfully. “I suppose the first fall won’t kill you, but two or three times—”
“Mr. Jenkins, that’s never going to work,” Gwen said sweetly. “Do you know what our corpses will smell like? You’ll never be able to hide us for more than—”
“As soon as it’s dark, I’ll open the window, push you out and let antigravity do the rest.” Chewing his lip, Jenkins adjusted one knob, then another. “‘’Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars—’”
He jabbed his finger into a button and gravity reasserted itself. Steve had figured on that: As he started to drop, he fired off three bullets at Jenkins in the second before falling made accuracy impossible.
Jenkins sagged against the wall with a scream, staring at the blood leaking from his side, and the hum turned into a desperate whine; Steve realized two of his bullets had hit the invention instead of the inventor.
Six inches above the floor, Steve’s body
reversed course and rocketed back into the ceiling, banging his
head against the white paint as Kiss Me Deadly came free of his pocket.
“Oh, my back!” Gwen groaned as she struck the plaster. “Jenkins, it’s going wild, I think you’d
better turn it off now!”
“You hit it!” Jenkins turned horrified eyes from his bleeding abdomen to the whining orb, then back to himself, then back to the machine—and then he flew up, screaming, into the air, clutching his side in pain when he hit. “The
repulsor field is expanding, you fool, you stupid, stupid fool!”
“How do we turn it off?” Gwen angled her gun, managed to discharge a bullet, but it arced up and away from the machine, shattering the window instead. “How do we—oh, dammit, Steve, he’s passed out!” An oscilloscope rocketed up, hitting the ceiling next to her. “Steve,
suggestions?”
“Can’t even reach my wrist-radio.” The pressure had increased, painfully, and beakers, machines, chairs kept springing up to join them at the top of the room. “The
repulsor field, how big? Just this room? The building?”
“Move!” Fingers pressing against the ceiling, Gwen inched herself along, brow furrowed. “If we can get closer, we can—”
“Holy cow!” Steve heard the voice from the doorway, twisted his head, saw Comstock standing there. “Hang on, I can—”
“No!” Gwen barked. “Get to Carstairs—” A test tube shattered inches from her face, but the shards forced themselves into the plaster, without scattering. “Have
him turn off the power!”
“No time!” Gripping the door, the man swung it inward, reached for the nearest lab table as he started to rise and successfully caught the edge of it. “If it’s this powerful now—” Letting go the door, he pulled his legs under the table, which Steve realized was bolted to the floor, and began to push himself along. “—this whole building could collide with Sputnik IV by the time I reach Carstairs’ office.”
His hands turned white with pressure on
the table’s edge as he pushed himself down the long room, fighting
the pull of the machine as it tried to fling him upward.
“You know how to turn it off?” Steve asked.
“I can see the power cord, if I yank that out…” As he transferred between tables, his legs shot up into the air, making it look like he was pulling a handstand. After a long second, he forced them back down. “Jenkins bragged that ‘someday’ he’d
master antigravity, but I never thought the cat would be crazy
enough to build it unlicensed.”
“Nobody ever thinks someone they know could be a lone wolf,” Gwen sighed. “When you think of what anti-gravity could do for transportation, or for rocketry—”
“Can we save the theoretical—” Steve groaned in pain as a chair rammed into his solar plexus, then stayed there squeezing his breath out. “D-damn!”
“Yeah, anti-grav is real gone,” the man said, “but I don’t want to be gone with it.” From
the table next to the machine, he reached down for the power
cord, straining, straining…
“It’s too low! The field won’t let me—”
“Then make your way out and get help,” Gwen said. “We told you—”
The oscilloscope near her suddenly punched through the ceiling and vanished overhead. Someone above them screamed.
“It’s growing so strong, I wouldn’t make it—hell,
in for a penny right?”
Twisting around, Comstock pushed himself
as low as he could, brought a gun out of his pocket and fired
up into the shining sphere. Antigravity yanked the gun from his
hand a second later, but almost at the same instant, the globe’s shrill whine reached an ear-piercing crescendo—and
then died.
The pressure on Steve vanished. He fell
along with Gwen, swatted the chair out from under him a second
before he hit the floor, cursed savagely. “That hurt!”
“Sorry, man.” Comstock picked himself up, wincing as he rubbed his arms. “Best
I could do though.”
“The best would have been turning off the power.” Gwen got up slowly, limping a little, then helped Steve to his feet. “But risky as your approach was, you shut it down—however,
I would like to know how you got through that locked door?”
“I’m not in cahoots with Abner, ma’am.” Comstock pulled a badge and a pass key out of his pocket, knelt and picked up his gun. “FBI Science Police. The research here is pretty damn important, Uncle Sam—or at least my director—thought
we should look into the deaths.”
“You saved our lives, buddy.” Steve started over to shake his hand, felt a little dizzy and stayed where he was, trying to uncrumple his crushed fedora. “First chance I get, I’m
buying you a beer.”
“You wanna pay me back, just don’t tell the eggheads who work here I’m a G-man.” Comstock put handcuffs on the unconscious Jenkins, after doing a quick check to see he was breathing. He picked up Steve’s paperback from where it had fallen and tossed it to him. “I’ll have to leave in a couple of days, but I’m still hoping I can get Sharon to go out to the Subterraneans with me, and if she knows I’ve been lying—”
“I see no reason to reveal anything,” Gwen said, though Steve could see she didn’t think Comstock had a prayer. “Now, let’s work out our explanation of what happened before the guards arrive, and how we’re
going to divide up credit later with our various bosses, shall
we?”
III
“Yes, Martin, Mr. Comstock single-handedly risked his life to save us.” Leaning on Jenkins’ console, Gwen touched up her lipstick, studying her mouth in her compact. “I think—”
“And in the process, destroyed the machine itself.” Carstairs scowled as he turned from admiring Gwen’s lips to the shattered ball. “God knows if we’ll
be able to reconstruct it now.”
“Let me guess,” Gwen said, “Jenkins kept
minimal notes in code, so cryptic he probably had trouble deciphering
it himself?”
“The paranoia of the lone wolf,” Carstairs bit down on his pipe. “That’s why Newell turned him down for license review, Jenkins wouldn’t
divulge enough of his concept for Projects to make an informed
assessment.”
“Too bad,” Steve said. “Still, you gotta
admit a busted machine is better than having this building become
part of the Space Wheel.”
“Well, we’ll do what we can to analyze it,” Carstairs said. “And when it’s time for Jenkins’ trial, perhaps the prosecutor will consider the benefits to society of offering him a reduced sentence in return for his secrets.” Steve didn’t doubt Carstairs was more interested in the benefit to his wallet. His kind always was. “Gwendolyn, perhaps if you could join me up in my office, we can discuss any final details you need to include in your report—?”
“Of course I didn’t hit him, Steve.” As Steve held the door open, Gwen slid into the driver’s seat of the rental Packard. “I mentioned I’d met his wife at that fund-raiser for orphans of the Martian invasion, and hoped to meet her again—”
“And he became a perfect gentleman, gotcha.” Steve moved around the car, got in on the passenger side. In keeping with Science Investigations’ gas-conservation rules, they’d drive to the station, take a train back to Wind Song, pick up Gwen’s car there. “So why’d you tell him about how your mom hates you being in such an ‘unladylike’ job?”
“It’s in his file: Carstairs turned down a position in his family law firm to go into science. He brings that up in every interview he’s ever given.” Gwen pulled out a package of Luckys; Steve took one, then lit both of theirs with the cigarette lighter. “Remember, Steve—”
“To find the truth, know the people. Yeah, but if I have to read interviews with some pompous pain in the—”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to broaden your reading beyond Spillane and Heinlein, Steve.” Gwen backed the car out of the parking space. Muffled by the new sound shields, the engine was barely audible. “Or to follow procedure—I
realize you thought Jenkins heard us, but you know perfectly
well you never rush in when a scientist is that close
to his machine.”
“Heinlein is a genius.” There was no point in arguing Gwen’s other point, since she was right. “When we take the war to the stars someday, it’s
going to be exactly like he wrote about in Starship Soldiers.”
“Possibly, but he’s still no Dos Passos.
By the way, that chair tore a button off your shirt.”
“I’ll change before I see Dani tonight, then I’ll darn it my next day off. Speaking of Dani—” Steve
indicated his wrist-radio; Gwen nodded as she steered the car
out of the parking lot.
Steve tapped out Dani’s code, hoping he wouldn’t
get standby. That would leave him worrying the whole way home
whether she was dead, injured or simply caught up in the middle
of a battle.
“Steve? You okay?”
“Banged up, but fine. You?”
“It went easier than we expected. Saved
a playground full of kids from winding up scorpion food, and
we found the nest before more than a couple of eggs had hatched.
Wykoski took a stinger from a baby, but he pulled through.”
“You mean you pulled him through,
right? Probably with a couple more scorpions breathing down your—”
“Steve, since I’ve known you, you’ve been mind-controlled once, almost transformed into one of Dr. Cavanaugh’s protoplasm-creatures, almost shot into space twice, nearly disintegrated, had your arm broken—”
“What can I say, it’s a cop’s life.”
“—not to mention nearly becoming breeding stock for the Atomazons, though I’m sure that would have suited you fine. All things considered, I’m
just happy one of you thinks before she acts. Thanks for keeping
him alive, Gwen.”
“It’s a full-time job, Dr. Taylor,” Gwen said, “but he’s
worth it.”
“Oh, to hell with it.” Dani laughed. “We’re both fine, let’s
celebrate tonight.”
“Any time I’m with you I feel like celebrating.” There was an awkward silence; there often was, when he said anything sappy. “Okay,
see you tonight, gorgeous.”
Steve clicked the wrist-radio off.
“Is she any closer to saying yes to your proposal?” Gwen
said, fiddling with the radio and trying to get a station.
“She’ll come around. Eventually. And if not—” Steve shrugged. “I
love her.”
“Love.” Gwen shook her head. “The odds of finding each other here four years after you met in Boston…you
almost make me believe love exists.”
“Well, if we make you believe in
love, it’s got to be the real thing.” Steve laughed. “Hey, if a classy girl like Dani can fall for me, maybe someday you’ll—”
“I said almost, Steve. I like my
life just fine the way it is.”
“Hey, you got a job protecting innocent people from stupid bastards like Jenkins, you got a terrific partner, why shouldn’t you like it? I’m just saying it could be improved.” Gwen started to say something, then the lyrics of “Teen Angel” burst
forth from the radio:
“That fateful night the Martians came
We were caught in their attack
We reached the shelter just in time
But she went running ba-a-ack.”
“Love in the middle of a Martian attack,” Gwen said with a laugh. “It’s like they’re
playing your song.”
“Except the girl dies.” Steve shook his
head. I’d give my eyeteeth to get you off the front lines someday, baby. Besides, if we ever have kids, this messed-up world doesn’t
need more orphans.
Steve pulled his hat down over his eyes in hopes of catching forty before they made it back to base. When Dani wanted to celebrate, being tired was not a good idea.
