Bert put his Identity-cum-Credit Card in the car’s screen slot and dialed the entry. He had been in a hurry to set the coordinates of the house before their captive had recovered any further. Kneedler was obviously no man of action. His life was not such that he was accustomed to violence, even though he had carried a gun the day before. However, Bert Alshuler was also unfamiliar with what motivated the man but suspected it was an ideological reason, no matter how mistaken. If so, the other might at any time strengthen and become difficult so far as further information was concerned. And information was what they were in particularly dire need of.
The vehicle smoothed into the underground traffic and Bert leaned back in his seat.
lie said conversationally, “So you teach communism, eh? It’s been a long time since I met a commie here in the United States of the Americas.”
Kneedler said through puffed lips, which he was presently trying to clean up with the handkerchief, “You don’t have to be a communist to teach communism, any more than you have to be an American to teach early American history.”
Jim said with a chuckle, “Our boy is getting chipper, real chipper. Maybe I’d better knock out a few more of his teeth, just to keep him in line.”
The teacher cringed. “Please… I’m badly hurt.”
Which he wasn’t, Bert thought inwardly. He didn’t know what being badly hurt was. He had never been exposed to it. Jim was probably in considerably more pain —unless that doctor friend of Marsh’s had given him a shot. But Jim in his time had taken many a hit. Not that you ever got used to being hit, but you learned to ride with it.
“So you’re not a communist?” Bert said.
The other took a deep breath. “You might keep in mind that you can’t fight a thing effectively if you don’t understand it. In my classes, I try to keep without prejudice, either… either way. In the past, many universities didn’t even have a copy of Das Kapital in the library, evidently afraid students might read it. I teach communism right from the days of Marx and Engels down to today’s Number One in the Soviet Complex, and whatever you might call the present socio-economic system that prevails over there. I have no idea if any of my more intelligent students are subverted by what they learned in my class. I doubt it.”
Bert said suddenly, “Why was Jill Masterson kidnapped?”
“I… can’t tell you.”
Jim said, looking at him benignly, “You’re beginning to irritate me a little again, buddy. Now, I picked up a little trick a few years ago that involves ramming a sharp pencil down a man’s ear. You’d be surprised at the effects. For one thing, later he can’t hear out of it so good any more.”
It was a new one to Bert Alshuler and he suspected that it was new to Jim too, but he held his peace. They had to keep this customer under a condition of intimidation if they were going to get any more out of him. He was inwardly amused at the fact that Kneedler had crowded over a little in his direction, to get as far away from Jim Hawkins as possible.
“Can’t tell, or won’t?” Bert said.
They had arrived at the entry and the vehicle came to a halt on the dispatcher. Bert took over the controls manually, and they merged onto an open road. He flicked on the map screen and dialed the coordinates the other had given him. The appropriate map faded in, a red cross marked on the house that was his destination.
He said to Kneedler, “Come, come, friend.”
Kneedler said, “Miss Masterson is in no danger. She has simply been… been taken to a place where the true nature of Katz and his clique can be explained to her. But I warn you that the men she is with are dedicated and will put up with no interference from you.”
“Oh, they won’t, eh?” Bert said grimly. “Kay. Well just keep that in mind.”
“Who’s Katz?” Jim said.
Bert said, “Professor Leonard Katz. I’ll tell you more about him later.” He turned back to Kneedler. “Go on, friend. This all sounds so cozy. Just wanted a little talk with Jill. Unfortunately, there’s already one man dead, and Jim, here, was nicked a bit. Your explanations better improve.”
From the side of his eyes, he could see the other tighten up. He was beginning to regain some of his lost confidence.
Kneedler said stubbornly, “I tried to warn you, too.”
“No, you didn’t. You tried to browbeat me into telling you what Katz wanted of me.”
Jim said, “We’re coming up on this place.”
Bert said, “Kay. Well use the old house-to-house, clean-up deal. You blast the door down, I’ll go in shooting.” He looked at Kneedler. “You stay in the car. Don’t try to make a break for it, or Jim will gun you down. These are laser pistols we’re carrying. Jim’s a crack shot, but he doesn’t have to be with a laser beam. He could cut you down a couple of blocks away and several of the houses in the vicinity along with you. Understand?”
“I… I understand. I’ve read about laser weapons.”
“Good. Jim, I’m going to drive up as near as I can get to the front door. Move fast. We don’t know what sort of defenses they might have.”
“I know, I know,” Jim said. “Holy smokes, I thought we’d gone through this routine for the last time.”
Bert Alshuler made out the house for which they were heading. It was one of various smaller constructions built for those who rebelled against living the ant-like existence of the high-rise buildings in the university city proper. All very fine, if you could afford it.
There was a short stretch of lawn, two steps that led up to a small porch. There were three windows on the front of the house If there had been an armed guard posted at any of them, he and Jim would have had it.
However, once again, he was of the opinion that these adversaries were amateurs. Hell, practically anybody was an amateur compared to him and to Jim.
He came up fast, slammed up against the curb, jammed on the brakes. He and Jim bolted out of the car, and they dashed, zig-zagging and crouching almost double as combat men run under fire, for the door.
Jim bounced to one side when he reached the entry. He aimed the laser and burnt off doorknob and lock. Bert hit the door with his shoulder, slammed on through and kept on the move. A very short hallway. Down it as fast as he could go, the pistol extended.
Into a living room, into the center of the room, moving fast. There were two men there, one seated with a book, one in the process of entering through a far door. Their eyes popped at him. Leaning up against the wall next to the seated one, was a rifle. He reached for it—far too slowly.
Bert burned him down.
The other made a dash for a table in the room’s center. There was an old-fashioned revolver on it. Bert cut him nearly in two, and the body crashed to the floor, upsetting and crumbling a straight chair on his way down.
Bert kept moving, the gun ever at the ready. He yelled, “Jill!”
There was a door that would seemingly lead to a bedroom. It opened and another man came dashing in. Even at the speed with which things were developing, Bert Alshuler recognized him as one of the four who had abducted Jill Masterson. He blasted him in the belly, let the laser beam mount higher. The newcomer folded forward and collapsed to the floor.
“Jill!” he yelled.
A voice from the room from which his last adversary had emerged called shakily, “In here!”
He didn’t know if she was alone. He bounced through the door, into the room’s center, swinging the gun around as he whirled. But she was alone, seated on the bed, her eyes wide.
“How many of them in the house?” he barked.
“Three. What’s happened?”
“Jim Hawkins and I came to get you. Jim’s outside, covering. Come on, let’s get out of here. Close your eyes when we go through the living room. It’s messy. I’ll take your arm.”