I wonder where the funds for this apparatus appeared from, he wondered. Because these items cost a hell of a lot, or so I've read.
He was, a few minutes later, just making the final preparatory adjustments when two dark, massive, upright shapes materialized along the nocturnal sidewalk close beside the wheel. The shapes appeared to be wearing green and silver uniforms which sparkled faintly, like moonlight.
Cautiously, with a near-Psionic sense of suspicions, Lackmore rolled down the wheel window.
'What do you want ?' he asked the two CLEAN members.
'Get out,' one of them said brusquely.
'Why ?' Lackmore froze, did not budge. Could not.
There's been an alteration of plans. Engel just now buzzed us on the portable seek-com. You're to give that boulder back to us.'
'No,' Lackmore said. Obviously, the CLEAN movement had at the last moment sold out; he did not know exactly why, but there it was. The assassination would not take place as planned - that was all he knew, all he cared about. Rapidly, he began to screw the handle in.
'Engel says to forget it!' the other CLEAN man shouted. 'Don't you understand ?'
'I understand,' Lackmore said, and groped for the detonating switch.
The door of his wheel popped open. One of the CLEAN men grabbed him by the collar, yanked him from the back seat and dragged him kicking and thrashing from the wheel and out onto the sidewalk. The other snatched up the boulder, the expensive weapon, from him and swiftly, expertly, unscrewed the detonating handle.
Lackmore bit and fought. He did not give up.
It did him no good. The CLEAN man with the boulder had already disappeared into the night darkness; along with the weapon he had vanished - the boulder, and all of Lackmore's tireless, busy, brooding plans, had gone.
'I'll kill you,' Lackmore panted futilely, struggling with the fat, powerful CLEAN man who had hold of him.
'You'll kill nobody, fella,' the CLEAN man answered, and increased his pressure on Lackmore's throat.
It was not an even fight; Herb Lackmore had no chance. He had sat at a government desk, stood idly behind a counter too many years.
Calmly, with clear enjoyment, the CLEAN man made mincemeat out of him.
For someone supposedly devoted to the cult of non-violence, it was amazing how good he was at it.
From the two mutants' plush, Titan elk-beetle fuzz; carpeted office, Tito Cravelli vidphoned Jim
Briskin at the Gallon Plaza Hotel in Chicago.
'Are you all right ?' he inquired.
One of the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite's nurses was engaged in attempting futilely to bind up the injured brother with a dermofax pack; she worked silently, as Cravelli held the laser rifle and Francy stood by the office door with a pistol which Tito had located in the brothers'
desk.
'I'm all right,' Briskin said, puzzled. He evidently could see around Tito, past him to George Walt.
Tito said. 'I've got a. snake by the tail here, and I can't let go. You have any suggestions ? I've prevented your assassination, but how the heck am I going to get out of here ?' He was beginning to become really worried.
After meditating, Briskin said, 'I could ask the Chicago police ...'
'Niddy,' Cravelli said, in derision. 'They wouldn't come.' He knew that for a certainty. "They have no jurisdiction up here; that's been tested countless times - this isn't part of the United
States, even, let alone Chicago.'
Briskin said, 'All right. I can send some party volunteers up to help you. They'll go where I say.
We have a few who've clashed on the streets with Engel's organization; they might know exactly what to do.'
"That's more like it,' Cravelli said., relieved. But his stomach was still killing him; he could scarcely stand the pain and he wondered if there were any way he could obtain a glass of milk.
'The tension's getting me down, he said. 'And I haven't had my dinner. They'll have to get up here pretty soon, or frankly I'm going to fold up. I thought of taking George Walt off the satellite entirely, but I'm afraid I'd never get them to the launch field. We'd have to pass too many Golden
Door employees on the way.'
'You're directly over N'York now,' Jim Briskin said. 'So it won't take too long to get a few people there. How many do you want ?'
'Certainly at least a hopper-load. Actually, all you can spare. You don't want to lose your future
Attorney General, do you ?'
'Not especially.' Briskin seemed calm, but his dark eyes were bright. He plucked at his great handlebar mustache, then, pondering. 'Maybe I'll come along,' he decided.
'Why ?'
'To make sure you get away.'
'It's up to you,' Cravelli said. 'But I don't recommend it. Things are somewhat hot, up here. Do you know any girls at the satellite who could lead you through to George Walt's office ?'
'No,' Jim Briskin said. And then a peculiar expression appeared on his face. 'Wait. I know one.
She was down here in Chicago today but perhaps she's gone back up again.'
'Probably has,' Cravelli said. 'They flit back and forth like lightning bugs. Take a chance on it, anyhow. I'll see you. And watch your step.' He rang off at that point.
As he started to board the big jet-bus, which was filled with R-L volunteers, Jim Briskin found himself facing two familiar figures.
'You can't go to the satellite,' Sal Heim said, stopping him. Beside him Patricia stood somberly in her long coat, severing in the evening wind that drew in off the lakes. 'It's too dangerous ... I
know George Walt better than you do - remember ? After all, I had you figured for a business deal with them; that was to be my contribution.'
Pat said, 'If you go there, Jim, you'll never come back. I know if. Stay here with me.' She caught hold of his arm, but he tugged loose.
'I have to go,' he told her. 'My gunsel is there and I have to get him away; he's done too much for me just to leave him there.'
'I'll go instead of you,' Sal Heim said.
'Thanks.' It was a good offer, well meant. But - he had to repay Tito Cravelli for what he'd done; obviously he had to see that Tito got safely away from the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. It was as simple as that. 'The best I can offer you,' he said, 'is the opportunity to ride along.' He meant it ironically.
'All right.' Sal said, nodding. 'I'll come with you.' To Pat he said, 'but you stay down below here.
If we get back, we should be showing up right away - or not at all. Come on, Jim.' He climbed the steps into the jet-bus, joining the others already there.
'Take care of yourself,' Pat said to Jim Briskin.
'What did you think of my speech ?' he asked her.
'I was in the tub; I only heard part of it. But I think it was the best you ever made. Sal said so, too, and he heard it all. Now he knows he made a terrific mistake; he should have stuck with you.'
'Too bad he didn't,' Jim said.
'You wouldn't say something along the lines of "better late than..."
'Okay,' he said. 'Better late than never.' Turning, he followed Sal Heim onto the jet-bus. He had said it, but it was not true. Too much had happened; too late was too late. He and Sal had split forever. And both of them knew it ... or rather, feared it. And sought instinctively for a new rapprochement without having any idea how it could be done.
As the jet-bus whirled upward in brisk ascent, Sal leaned over and said, 'You've accomplished a lot since I saw you last, Jim. I want to congratulate you. And I'm not being ironic. Hardly that.'
'Thanks,' Jim Briskin said, briefly.
'But you'll never forgive me for handing you my resignation when I did, will you ? Well, I can't really blame you.' Sal was silent, then.