The cart rocked on its creaking springs as Albers and one of the androids climbed onto the seat. "Don't look up, friends," Albers said, "but rely on my word that I am staring down at you with a revolver in my right hand. I can't afford to kill any of you yet, but I sure won't hesitate to blow off an arm or two. Okay, Hamburger or whatever your name is, move out."
Thomas heard the snap of the reins, and the cart lurched and rattled as it swung out of the parking lot and east onto Beverly. In a moment the snare-drumming of hooves on cobblestones sounded as the five horses fell in behind.
"What time is it. Captain?" inquired St. Coutras politely.
"Shut your filthy hole, traitor," Albers snapped. "Step on it, will you?" he said to the android driver, and Thomas felt the cart's speed increase. He glanced at St. Coutras, and the old gunrunner winked at him.
The cart leaned and creaked as it weaved to pass slower vehicles. The steady roar of the cobbles under the wheel-rims had risen in pitch. "Don't stop for him," Albers snarled. "Go around! There, grab that space! Oh yeah?" he shouted to some outraged driver they'd cut off. "Well how'd you like to—look out!"
The cart's brakes squealed and Thomas was thrown forward.
"Hit the back brake!" St. Coutras called out commandingly, "or we're doomed!"
A deep, hollow boom shook the cart to its axles, and immediately St. Coutras was up on his knees. "Run for it, Aeolus!" he howled and butted his white-maned head into the driver's shoulder. The horse leaped forward in a sudden burst of speed and the android, off balance, was pitched from the bench into the street.
The old man frantically wrestled his manacled hands under his legs as the driverless cart picked up speed. When, a few seconds later, he'd pulled them up in front of him, he vaulted onto the driver's bench and caught the flapping reins.
"Go, Aeolus, darling!" he yelled to the horse.
Thomas rolled over and managed to drag his own hands around to the front. "Have you got a gun?" he shouted to St. Coutras. "They're coming up fast behind us."
The driver held the reins in his teeth for a moment while he groped under the bench; he came up holding a pistol. Thomas took it and faced the rear.
The three android riders were terribly close, and even as Thomas raised the pistol one of them got off a shot at him, almost burning his cheek as it passed. Thomas fired full into the rider's face, and the android rolled off the back of its horse. The two others fell back a little.
Thomas's next shot went wide as St. Coutras wrenched the speeding cart around a tight corner. Spencer was sitting up, looking tense but cheerful. A bullet splintered the bench over his head and he ducked low. "Be careful, Rufus!" he yelled.
Thomas nodded and squeezed off a shot at the nearer rider. It tore a hole in the android's arm, but didn't slow it down. Thomas's next shot crippled its horse, and mount and rider tumbled across the street in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
"Only one more!" Thomas called.
This one was standing in the stirrups now, raising its pistol in both hands for one well-aimed shot. Thomas centered the android in his sights, and both guns roared simultaneously.
Thomas spun violently back into the cart bed, his gun whirling away into the street, as the last android clutched its exploded belly and rolled off its horse.
Spencer grabbed Thomas's shoulder. "Where are you hit?" he demanded.
"My hand," Thomas whispered through clenched teeth. His whole left hand was a blaze of pain, and more than anything he feared to look at it. He could feel hot blood running up his wrist and soaking his sleeve.
"Head for the Bellamy Theater," Spencer called to the driver.
"The hell I will, son," St. Coutras replied, not unkindly. "Our best bet is to head for the gate muy pronto and get out of this maniac city before they hear about this and lock us in."
"Well look, my buddy here's bleeding like a cut wineskin; at least drop us off here."
"Okay." St. Coutras reined in in front of a dark shop, and Spencer helped Thomas out of the cart.
"Listen," the old man said. "When Albers was blown out of the cart your 5,000 solis went with him. But I'm willing to write that off as taxes if you still want the guns."
"We do," Spencer said.
"Good. No change in the delivery plans, then. Thomas?"
"Yes?"
"You're a good lad to have at one's back in a fight. Hope I see you again."
Though he was pale and trembling, Thomas managed a smile. "Thanks," he said. "We were lucky to have you in the driver's seat."
"We owe it all to Aeolus. Here." He tossed a box from under the seat to Spencer. "First aid. See you Saturday, boys!" He flicked the reins and the cart rattled away up the street.
Thomas and Spencer stepped into an alley. "Hold out your arm," Spencer said. He poured alcohol all over the injured hand and began wrapping it in a bandage. "This ain't easy to do when both of us are handcuffed," he remarked.
"How's it look?"
"Oh, you won't die of it, I guess."
"Do the bandages have to be that tight?"
"Yes." When he'd laboriously tied a knot and bitten off the slack, Spencer patted him on the back. "That'll do for now. We're close enough to the theater to be able to walk back. If we pass anyone, just keep to the shadows and sing as if you're drunk. With any luck at all they won't notice the cuffs."
CHAPTER 8: The Head in the Box
The front of the Bellamy Theater was dark; the cluster of gargoyles and decorated balconies were homogenous blurs in the huge shadow that was the building. On a second floor balcony a match was struck and held to the end of a cigar. The flame flared up as the smoker puffed, revealing briefly the bushy beard, bald head and deep-set eyes of Nathan Gladhand. The match was abruptly whipped out, leaving only the dull red pinpoint of the cigar tip.
Gladhand looked anxiously up and down the dark, empty expanse of Second Street, listening carefully as the city hall clock faintly struck six-and-a-half.
Suddenly he heard singing, a few blocks to the west. Two slightly hysterical voices were warbling a Christmas carol—incongruous, for it was only October.
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by . . .
It has to be them, he thought; pretending to be drunk. Or maybe they are drunk. He could see them now—weaving along the sidewalk and leaning on each other—and, farther behind them, a tall figure following. The theater manager reached into his coat pocket and rested his hand on the butt of a shoulder-holstered pistol. But as he watched, the man following entered a hotel, and the two young men walked the last block-and-a-half alone. When they were directly below, Gladhand leaned over the balcony rail.
"Spencer! Rufus!" he called quietly. "Is all well?"
Spencer looked up. "Yes and no, sir."
"Come up here and tell me."
Two minutes later they sat in canvas chairs on the balcony, gratefully drinking glasses of cold beer.
"All right," Gladhand said. "Tell me what happened? How did Rufus hurt his hand?"
"That guy McHugh is dead." Spencer filled Gladhand in on the events of the last two hours, ending with a description of the awkward bandaging procedure.
"How bad is his hand?"
Spencer started to speak, stopped, then tried again: "The first finger's gone completely. Sorry, Rufe. The rest's okay, though the thumb is a bit messed up."
"Are you left-handed, Rufus?"
"Well—yes sir."
"Ah. That will be difficult. I'm sorry." He turned to Spencer. "And the guns?"
"Delivery at 23:00 hours Saturday. No trouble there."