The announcer said, "Industry sources are predicting that Lyle Lavallette may be asked to head National Automobiles. This after the tragic death last night of Drake Mangan, shot and killed in the penthouse apartment of a Ms. Agatha Ballard, who was not believed to be acquainted with Mr. Mangan."
"Right, a total stranger," Millis hooted. "He'd been humping her for three years." He remembered his security guard was in the room and mumbled, "Well, at least that's what I heard. Something like that."
The announcer went on about industry sources. "They" said that Lavallette's new Dynacar might be the biggest thing to hit Detroit since Henry Ford. "They" said that National Autos was thinking of asking Lavallette to run the company so that it could control the development of the Dynacar. "They" said that Genera! Autos and American Automobiles might even follow suit, especially if this environmental killer kept up his attacks on auto-industry officials.
"They" said a lot more but Millis did not hear it because he turned the television set off.
"Bullshit," he said. "Every one of us fired that goddamn Lavallette because he's a goofball. It's going to take more than one damned gunman to make me turn over the company to that loser." He went to the window and looked out over the cars massed in the parking lot. "You sure nobody can get through?" he asked his security chief. "I don't think a bumblebee could get in here."
"I believe you're correct, Lemmings," Millis said. "You know, though, I think it might have been more artistic if you had used different models from our car fleet out there. Sound advertising, you know."
Lemmings looked confused. "I did, sir."
"You did?"
Millis looked through the triple-thickness window again. From this vantage point, every one of the encircled cars looked alike. He paid design engineers six-figure salaries so that American Automobiles' cars were distinctive and original and stood out from the competition and this is what he got?
"They all look alike," Millis said.
"Isn't that the idea?" asked Lemmings. "Mass production and all that?"
"But they all look exactly alike. Funny I never noticed that before. Does everybody else's cars look exactly alike?"
"Yes, sir," said Lemmings. "Much more so than ours do."
"Good," Millis said. "Then we're still the industry leader. That's what I like around here. Hey! What's that?"
"Sir?"
"Something's happening at the gate. See what it is." Lemmings picked up the phone and got the gate. "What's going on down there, people?" he said.
"Someone trying to get past the gate, Mr. Lemmings."
"What's his business?"
"He says he has to see Mr. Millis. And he won't take no for an answer," the security guard said.
"So what's the problem? Just run him off."
"Impossible, sir. He's taken our guns."
Lemmings looked out the window and saw an assault rifle fly over the Cyclone fence, followed by a shotgun. They were, in turn, followed by assorted handguns and a truncheon. Then a telephone handset sailed after the weapons and the line in Lemmings' hand went dead.
"I think we have serious trouble at the gate, Mr. Millis."
"I can see that," Millis said. "Must be a hit team. God, do you think that gunman belongs to some terrorist gang?"
Then another object appeared in the air over the fence. One man, and at that long distance, he didn't look impressive, but he floated up the Cyclone fence as if he were being pulled by a magnet.
"No hit team," Lemmings said. "Just that skinny guy in the black T-shirt."
"How's he getting over that fence? Is he climbing or jumping?" Millis asked.
"I can't say, sir, but it doesn't matter. When he touches the electrified wire on top, he's gone."
But the skinny guy was not gone. He kept going and landed on both feet, perfectly balanced on the electric wire that ran along the top of the fence.
"Shouldn't he be dead now?" Millis asked.
"No, sir. He knows what he's doing. He timed that jump perfectly to land on the wire with both feet. The charge is fatal only if the person touching the wire is grounded. "
"I don't understand that 'grounded' business. That's what the electrical department's for," Millis said. "I thought when you touched a hot wire, you died."
"If you ever saw a pigeon land on the third rail of a subway, you'd understand, Mr. Millis."
"I don't ride subways. I own six cars and they all look alike. "
"That man won't be hurt by the current as long as he doesn't touch another object while he's on the wire."
"He can't stay there forever, can he? Unless these terrorists belong to a circus. Maybe they're all acrobats and wire walkers and like that," Millis said.
"There's only this one, so far," Lemmings said, and as he spoke, the man on the electrified fence jumped and seemed to float to the ground, just as he had seemed to float up to the wire in the first place.
"I'll have him stopped in his tracks," Lemmings said and dialed the main security outpost on the office phone. Hubert Millis watched the man in the black T-shirt run across the grassy ground that separated his office building from the first defense perimeter. A tiny puff of dust kicked up near his feet. Then another. But still the man kept coming.
"What's wrong with those guards of yours? Can't they hit just one running man?"
"They're trying," said Lemmings.
"What's the matter with you people?" he yelled into the telephone. "Can't you hit just one running man?"
"Wait," Millis said. "He's turning. I think he's running away."
Lemmings rushed to the window. The thin man in black had doubled back. The dust-puff marks of high-powered rifle bullets still pursued him, still missed, but now the man was running in the opposite direction.
He vaulted toward the Cyclone fence in a high-arcing leap. This time he did not land on the electric wire, but cleared the whole fence and landed on his feet, running, on the other side.
He kept on going. "We scared him off," Lemmings said happily. "My people did it."
"Maybe," said Millis. "And maybe not. I saw him before he turned back. He was looking at that building on the other side of the highway. It looked like something caught his eye and made him change his mind."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that doesn't make sense. Obviously, he's after you. He wouldn't turn back after coming this far."
"Yeah? Then why's he running toward that building?" asked Hubert Millis.
Remo Williams had gotten past the American Auto guards without a problem. Like all fighters who relied on weapons instead of the powers locked inside their own bodies, they were helpless once their weapons were taken away.
The fence too had been easy. The hair on the backs of Remo's arms had registered the electrical current even before he had consciously become aware of it. The few seconds he had spent balanced on the wire had given him time to scan the complex layout, and once on the ground, the ragged fire of the inner security forces-anxious not to shoot their own men-had been easy to evade.
Millis would be found, he knew, on the top floor of the tallest building in the complex but as he cleared the space toward that structure, he had caught the glint of something out of the corner of one eye.
On the roof of a building outside the complex, the dying red sunlight was reflected from something glass. Remo's eyes spotted the source of the light.
A man was crouched on the roof. He was sighting down the scope of a long-barreled weapon and even at the distance of five hundred yards, Remo had recognized the man as the scar-faced gunman he had encountered earlier in the day.