Sherrine stiffened. The police were coming? They would catch her here, among fans. She would lose her job. She would… "How do you know?" she asked.
"Secret source."
A closet fan in the police department. She remembered a civilian analyst who'd been active before. Probably a secret Hocus subscriber--
"Look, you've got to leave now," Umber said. "There's still time before they get here."
She turned to climb in the van. Bob grabbed her arm."Wait! Gabe and Rafe!" She looked into his eyes. "We've got to find them," he said.
"They're with Thor and Steve," she told him. "They'll get them out."
"Gabe and Rafe," Chuck said. "Dell 'Angelo. A pair of angels?"
"Chuck--"
"Don't worry," Chuck said. "I didn't hear a thing. We'll get them out. Now go! The fewer people in your van, the less suspicious you'll look at the roadblocks."
"Roadblocks?"
"Yeah. This isn't any ordinary bust. The 'danes are out in force. They're looking for something. This isn't just the cops, the Air Force is in it."
Again she traded looks with Bob.
"But I still don't know how the Air Force knew where to look," Umber said. "Hey, get going! Now. And get the badge off, Bob!"
The Rotsler cartoon badge. Bob dropped it in a pocket. "Don't have it on you," Chuck said.
Sherrine said, "How will we find our friends?"
"I said don't worry," Chuck told her. "I've got it all scoped out. Always map escape routes first thing. Head for River Road just south of the big curve near the Bell Museum. Your friends will meet you there."
"Can you get them out in time?"
Chuck grinned. "Did I ever fail to get Hocus out on time? Then I won't fail to get this issue out, either."
She climbed into the passenger seat and Chuck slammed the door on her. Bob started the van and they pulled out of the parking apron. "Sherrine, where's your badge?"
"My--? Back at the apartment."
"Good thing," Bob said. He pulled on the radio panel. It opened, and he dropped his badge into the cluttered cavity.
SHERRINE HARTLEY, her badge said, and the little William Rotsler figure looked fondly up at the letters, thinking, "Infatuation Object." It wasn't hidden in her apartment. She'd thought it too dangerous. She'd thrown it away.
The chlorine buckets in back rolled and thumped.
Sherrine twisted in her seat and looked out the back window at Chuck. He was already running back toward the Tre-house. She straightened and stare through the windshield. Her hands were clenched in her lap.
"What is it?" Bob asked.
"Nothing," she said. She was thinking of all the times her issue of Hocus had come late.
The Tre-house was in confusion. Fans grasping duffel bags and knapsacks scampered up one corridor and down another. Tremont J. Fielding stood in the tiled foyer giving directions, dividing the flow of fannish refugees so that they did not bottleneck at any one exit. He wore a long, flowing cape--his trademark--and indicated one corridor or another with his malacca walking stick. Wolfson was at the far end of the west hallway, near the carport entrance, hustling them along. Some of the fans were still in their hall costumes: elves, warriors, ancient gods, aliens and spacemen.
3MJ allowed himself a moment to appreciate Pat Davis's mermaid. The tail was split so she could walk. She seemed to swim along the corridor. Much skin was showing, and much more implied. Her fine blond hair bobbed and waved almost as if she were underwater.
Priorities. Who had to run, who could stay? The nature people were safe. The Greens didn't hate them, except for their association with technophiles. The kids were all right, too young to worry the cops. Students would get lectures, maybe some remedial reading on Ecodisasters, but students could get away with a lot.
People with mundane jobs were in trouble. Get them out first, since even if they weren't arrested, they could lose their jobs. And the pros. Most of them had judgments hanging over their heads. They could be sentenced to "community service" for not paying their debts.
Wolfson raised a circled thumb and forefinger. Good. All the pros were hidden in the vaults below. So far no one had ever found those. Of course, there's a firsttime for anything.
OK. The people are safe. Now our treasures. Most of the high tech posters were already gone, leaving the paintings of wizards and elves and witches and fairies. Over there! A medal, stamped in aluminum from the original Apollo 11 capsule and given to people who had worked on the program! Priceless. He plucked it and put it in his pocket. None of this stuff was worth dying for, but this--The bell rang insistently. 3MJ took a deep breath and opened it.
There were at least a dozen cops, eight blues and several greens. Behind them was a squad of Air Police at parade rest, and behind them were more airmen with rifles. An Air Force captain was pointing to a group of students who had run away. "Catch them and check their ID. You know what we're looking for." The sergeant nodded grimly and led four men at double time.
Tremont pretended not to notice the Air Force and Greens and turned to the leader of the local police. "Yes, Officer?" he said politely. The name badge read Sergeant Pyle.
"Sorry to bother you, sir. Are you the householder?"
Tremont smiled grimly. "You know who I am, Sergeant. Yes, I'm Tremont Fielding."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Fielding, we're serving a complaint."
He pulled a warrant from his jacket pocket and handed it over. "Public nuisance. One of your neighbors complained about the noise from the party."
Tremont studied the warrant. "I see. Yes, this is all in order. But, Sergeant, I know the noise wasn't loud enough to disturb my neighbors."
Pyle exchanged looks with his Green partner, a Sergeant Zaftig. ` And how do you 'know' that, sir?" asked Zaftig.
3MJ spread his hands guilelessly. "I throw a great many parties, officer. Charity affairs. All those bodies, it's an easy way to warm the house. As you know, I'm a firm supporter of the Patrolman's Benevolent Association. Hope you liked the party last month--"
"Yes, sir." Pyle frowned. "So?"
"Like everyone else, I am concerned about pollution; especially noise pollution from my many affairs. So the edge of my property is ringed with sound meters that record the noise levels. I checked them earlier tonight, and the decibel readings have been no higher than normal background noise. Certainly not as high as they were during the PBA benefit last month."
"Sound meters," said Zaftig. The Green looked triumphant.
"Yes. I rent them from the EPA through the local Nader franchise. I have them calibrated there every two months." He turned to Pyle. "I'll be glad to apologize to any neighbor who has been offended, but really, any disturbance must have come from somewhere else. Is there anything else, Sergeant?"
Pyle sighed. "Yes, sir--" He fished in his uniform pocket and pulled out a second warrant and unfolded it carefully, then held it out for Tremont to read. "All right, then. Suspicion of harboring dangerous fugitives."
"Fugitives. May I ask who these fugitives are?"
"Read it."
Tremont adjusted his glasses. He took hold of the warrant in one hand but the policeman refused to relinquish it. Tremont raised an eyebrow, Spock-fashion.
"Sorry, Mr. Fielding," Pyle muttered. "I've got to show it to you, but I can't let you have it."
"I see." Tremont took his time reading the warrant. The longer he stalled, the better for everyone. "There's nothing about who the fugitives are."
"Classified."
"Oh. And the space for the judge's signature is blank," he observed. "Just an X."