The Long Twilight (31 page)

"Yes—I caught him. But he's stubborn! But he'll crack! I assure you of that!"

"What about the fancy woman he was keeping?" Miltrude queried grimly. "Turn her over to me; I'll see she makes him cooperate."

"Get out!" Fraswell roared.

"Here, you Alvin!" his spouse snapped. "Mind your tone!"

Fraswell swept an empty concentrate flask from the table and hurled it viciously; it struck the wall beside Miltrude; she screeched and fled, almost knocking her son down in passing.

"Make him talk!" Fraswell yelled. "Get those keys; do whatever you have to do to him, but I want results—now!"

One of the men holding Nolan gave his arm a painful wrench.

"Not here—outside!" Fraswell sank back in his chair, panting. "Of course, you're not to do him any permanent injury," he muttered, looking into the corner of the room as they hustled Nolan away.

X

Two men held Nolan's arms while a third doubled his fist and drove it into his midriff. He jackknifed forward, gagging.

"Not in the stomach, you fool," someone said. "He has to be able to talk."

Someone grabbed his hair and forced his head back; an openhanded slap made his head ring.

"Listen, you rich scum," a wild-eyed, bushy-headed man with gaps between his teeth hissed in Nolan's face. "You can't hold out on us—"

Nolan's knee, coming up fast, caught the man solidly; he uttered a curdled scream and went down. Nolan lunged, freed an arm and landed a roundhouse swing on someone's neck. For a moment he was free, facing two men, who hesitated, breathing hard.

"In a matter of minutes there's going to be a stampede, right across this spot," he said blurrily. "It's a wild herd—big fellows, over a ton apiece. You'll have to warn your men."

"Get him," a man snapped, and leaped for Nolan. They were still struggling to pin his legs when a heavy crashing sounded from behind the house. A man screamed—a shocking yell that froze Nolan's attackers in mid-stroke. He rolled free and came to his feet as a man sprinted into view from around the corner of the house, pale face rigid with terror, legs pumping. A heavy thudding sounded behind him. A big male tusker charged across the wheel-rutted turf, the remains of a wrecked rose trellis draped around his mighty shoulders. The man dived aside as the beast galloped on into the cover of what remained of the woodlot, whence sounded a diminishing crashing of timber.

For a moment, the three men stood rigid, listening to a sound as of thunder in the mountains, then, as one, they whirled and ran. Nolan hurried around to the front of the house.

Fraswell was on the front terrace, his head cocked, a blank expression on his big features, the boy Leston beside him. The Director shied when he saw Nolan, then charged down the steps, ran for the corner of the house—and skidded to a halt as a tusker thundered past.

"Good God!" Fraswell backed, spun, started for the porch. Nolan blocked his way.

"Run for the boat," he shouted.

"This is your work! You're trying to kill us all!" Fraswell shouted.

"Dad," Leston started as two men sprinted into view around the side of the house. One carried a rifle.

"Get him!" Fraswell yelled, pointing. "He's a fanatic! It's his doing!"

"Don't be a fool, Fraswell," Nolan snapped. "If you're in danger, so am I—"

"A fanatic! He intends to pull me down with him! Get him!" Fraswell jumped at Nolan; the other two men closed in. Wild fists pummeled Nolan; clutching hands caught his arms, dragged him down. A boot caught in the side. He grabbed the ankle, brought the man down on top of him. The other man was dancing sideways, gun at the ready.

"Kill the bloodsucker," the one Nolan had felled shouted as he scrambled up. "Here—gimme that!" He seized the gun from the other's grip, aimed it at Nolan's head. It was tall, thin Leston who jumped forward, knocked the gun down as it fired. A gout of lawn exploded beyond Nolan.

"Pa—you can't—" the boy started; Fraswell whirled on him, struck him an open-handed blow that sent him sprawling.

"A traitor in my own house! You're no son of mine!" The drumming of the approaching herd was a continuous surf-roar now. The man with the gun threw it down and ran for the dock. As more tuskers swung into view, Fraswell turned too, and ran for it, followed by his two men. Nolan struggled to his feet, noted the animals' course, then set off at a dead run toward a stand of native thorn on a low rise near the path of the charging herd, snatching up a broken branch from the uprooted gardenia hedge as he went. The lead animals were less than fifty feet behind him when he stopped and turned, waving the branch and shouting. The approaching tuskers shied from the hateful scent, crowding their fellows to the right of the thorn patch—onto a course dead for the dock.

Nolan dropped down on the grass, catching his breath as the herd thundered past. Through the dust he could see the group gathered down on the pier and on the dock of the boat.

A man on the pier—Fraswell, Nolan thought—was shouting and pointing toward the house. Someone on the boat seemed to yell a reply. It appeared there was a difference of opinion among the leadership and the rank-and-file of the HPU.

"Time for one more little nudge," Nolan muttered, getting to his feet. A few elderly cows, stragglers, were galloping past the grove. Nolan searched hastily, wrenched off a stalk of leatherplant, quickly stripped it. A thick, pungent odor came from the ripe pulp. He went forward to intercept a cow, waving the aromatic plant, turned and ran as the cow swung toward him. He could hear the big animal's hooves thudding behind him. He yelled; down below, the men crowding the pier looked up to see Nolan sprinting toward them, the tusker cantering in his wake.

"Help!" he shouted. "Help!"

The men turned and ran for the gangway. Fraswell caught at a man's arm; the man struck at him and fled. The plump figures of Miltrude and the Director held their ground for a moment; then they turned and bolted onto the boat.

As they turned to look back, the sound of the ship's engines started up. The gangplank slid inboard when Nolan was fifty feet from the pier. He tossed the branch aside as the cow braked to a halt beside him, nudging him to capture the succulent prize. Nolan gave a piercing scream and fell, leaving the cow to stare after the hastily departing vessel, munching peacefully.

XI

A tall, lean youth came around the side of the house to meet Nolan as he came up.

"Uh . . . I . . ." he said.

"Leston—how did you get left behind?" Nolan asked in dismay.

"On purpose," the boy blurted.

"I don't think your father will be back," Nolan said.

Leston nodded. "I want to stay," he said. "I'd like a job, Mr. Nolan."

"Do you know anything about farming, Leston?" Nolan asked dubiously.

"No, sir." The boy swallowed. "But I'm willing to learn."

Nolan looked at him for a moment. He put out his hand and smiled.

"I can't ask any more than that," he said.

He turned and looked across the ruined lawn, past the butchered hedges and the mutilated groves toward the languishing fields.

"Come on, let's get started," he said. "The plague's over, and we've got a lot of work ahead before harvest time."

I didn't hear anything: no hushed breathing, no stealthy slide of a shoe against the carpet. But I knew before I opened my eyes that there was someone in the room. I moved my hand under the edge of the blanket onto the worn butt of the Belgian-made Browning I keep by me for sentimental reasons, and said, "Let's have some light."

The dim-strip by the door went on. A medium-sized, medium-aged man in a plain gray suit stood by the door. He looked at me with a neutral expression on a face that was just a face. The bathroom door beside him was open a couple of inches.

"You interrupted a swell dream," I said. "I almost had my finger on the secret of it all. By the way, tell your partner to come on out and join the party."

The bathroom door opened wider and a thin, lantern-jawed man with a lot of bony wrist showing under his cuffs slid into view. He had scruffy reddish hair, a scruffy reddish complexion with plenty of tension lines, a neat row of dental implants that showed through a nervous grimace that he might have thought was a smile. I lifted a pack of smokes from the bedside table, snapped a weed out, used a lighter on it. They watched all this carefully, as if it were a trick they'd heard about and didn't want to miss. I blew out smoke and said, "Why not tell me about it? Unless it's a secret, of course."

"We have a job for you, Mr. Florin," the gray man said in a terse, confidential voice. "A delicate mission requiring a man of unusual abilities."

I let that ride.

"Our mode of entry was in the nature of a test," the bony man said. He had a prissy, high-pitched voice that didn't go with the rest of him. "Needless to say, you passed." He giggled.

The cigarette tasted terrible. I smashed it out in a glass ashtray with
Harry's Bar
on the bottom.

"Sorry you had the trouble for nothing," I said. "I'm not looking for work."

"We represent a very important man," Slim said, and showed me an expression like that of a man who worked for a very important man. It looked a lot like the expression of a man in need of a laxative.

"Would he have a name?" I said. "This very important man, I mean."

"No names; not for the present," the gray man said quickly. "May we sit down, Mr. Florin?"

I waved my free hand. The gray man took two steps and perched on the edge of the straight chair beside the dresser. Slim drifted off into the background and sank down into one of those big shapeless chairs you need a crane to get out of.

"Needless to say," the gray man said, "the pay will be commensurate with the gravity of the situation."

"Sure," I said. "What situation?"

"A situation involving the planetary security." He said it impressively, as if that settled everything.

"What's the planetary security got to do with me?"

"You're known to be the best man in the business. You're discreet, reliable, not easily frightened."

"And don't forget my winning smile," I said. "What business?"

"The confidential investigation business, of course."

"The personal escort aspect," Slim amplified.

"Bodyguarding," I said. "It's all right; you can say it right out loud. You don't have to make it sound elegant. But you overlooked a point. I'm on vacation—an extended vacation."

"This is important enough to warrant interrupting your holiday," Slim said.

"To you or to me?"

"Mr. Florin, you're aware of the tense—not to say desperate state—of public affairs today," the gray man said in a gray voice. "You know that public unrest has reached grave proportions—"

"You mean a lot of people are unhappy with the way things are going. Yeah, I know that; I recognize the sound of breaking glass when I hear it. But not me. I'm a contented man. I keep my head down and let the waves roll over me."

"Nonsense," the gray man said without visible emotion. He slipped a hand inside his jacket and brought out a flat leather folder, flipped it open. The little gold badge winked at me.

"Your government needs you, Mr. Florin," he said indifferently.

"Is this a pinch or a sales pitch?" I asked.

"Your cooperation will have to be voluntary, of course."

"That word 'voluntary' sure takes a beating," I said, and yawned, not entirely honestly.

The gray man almost smiled. "Your cynical pose is unconvincing. I'm familiar with your record in the war, Mr. Florin. Or may I say Colonel Florin?"

"Don't," I said. "Reminiscences bore me. The war was a long time ago. I was young and foolish. I had lots of big ideas. Somehow they didn't survive the peace."

"There is one man who can save the situation, placate the malcontents. I think you know the man I mean."

"Campaign oratory in the middle of the night is no substitute for sleep," I said. "If you've got a point, get to it."

"The Senator needs your help, Mr. Florin."

"What ties a small-time private cop to the Senator? He could buy the block where I live and have it torn down—with me in it."

"He knows you, Florin; knows of your past services. He reposes great confidence in you."

"What does he want me to do—ring doorbells?"

"He wants to see you; now, tonight."

"Don't tell me the rest," I said. "You've got a fast car waiting at the curb to whisk me off to headquarters."

"A copter," the gray man said. "On the roof."

"I should have thought of that," I said. "OK if I put my pants on before we go?"

It was a big room with deep rugs and damask walls and a fancy cornice and a big spiral chandelier that must have taken a family of Venetian glassblowers a year to put together. A big fellow with a long, solemn face and a big nose full of broken blood vessels met me just inside the door, shook my hand carefully, and led me over to a long table with a deep wax finish where four other men sat waiting.

"Gentlemen, Mr. Florin," he said. The boys behind the table had faces that were curiously alike, and had enough in common with a stuffed flounder to take the edge off my delight in meeting them. If they liked my looks they didn't say so.

"Mr. Florin has consented to assist us," Big Nose started . . .

"Not quite," I cut in. "I agreed to listen." I looked at the five faces and they looked back. Nobody offered me a chair.

"These gentlemen," my host said, "are the Senator's personal staff. You may have complete trust in their absolute discretion."

"Fine," I said in that breezy manner that's earned me so many friends over the years. "What are we being discreet about?"

One of the men leaned forward and clasped hands with himself. He was a wizened little fellow with pinched, clay-pale nostrils and eyes like a bird of prey.

"Mr. Florin, you're aware that anarchists and malcontents threaten our society," he said in a voice like the whisper of conscience. "The candidacy of the Senator for the office of World Leader is our sole hope for continued peaceful progress."