'Just slide the bag along the bar counter. Slowly now, don't make any sudden moves.'
'Why are you doing this, Danny?' I did as I was bid. 'Because I know the truth, and I know what must be done with the handbag.' Danny reached out his hand.
'Don't touch it, kid!'
I glanced around. Fangio had pulled his Colt Peacemaker out from beneath the bar. He was pointing it at Danny.
'Put down the pistol, kid,' said Fangio, and Danny put down the pistol.
'Nice one, Fange,' I said.
'But not nice enough!'
I glanced around once more. The dame was back on her feet. She was holding a Derringer and pointing it at Fangio. 'Drop the gun,' she said. 'The handbag comes with me.'
Fangio laid his gun upon the counter.
'Nice one, dame,' I said. 'No, hang about. The handbag comes with me? That can't be right.'
'Only I know the real truth,' said the dame.
'I'd have said that I knew the real truth,' said Fange. 'But you didn't give me a chance.'
'Only I know the real truth,' said someone else. Which gave me the opportunity to have another good glance around.
A man stood in the main doorway. He was a well-dressed man, nice tie, polished shoes. But there was something odd about his head. was tiny. About the size of an orange.
'Drop the Derringer,' he told the dame. And the dame dropped the Derringer.
'Drop your gun!' said Danny, who had snatched his up again.
'Drop yours!' said Fange, who had done likewise.
'And yours!' said the dame, who had done likewise, likewise.
And I stood right there in the middle. It was the now legendary Mexican stand-off Fangio pointed his gun at Danny. Danny pointed his gun at Orange head. Orange head pointed his gun at the dame. And the dame pointed her gun at Fangio.
And as no-one was pointing anything at me, I picked up the handbag and buggered off.
Mills on Wheels
8
Information wants to be free.
CYBERPUNK MAXIM
Billy took two suitcases to the station. One contained his clothes. The other, his granny. It was now Wednesday morning, and as on Wednesday mornings Billy's mother always took breakfast in a high tree at the end of the garden, Billy had taken the opportunity to slip away through the front door.
The telephone conversation of the previous evening had not been to Billy's liking. The man at Necrosoft was vague and evasive. He did not answer Billy's questions to Billy's satisfaction. He offered Billy fifty quid for his granny, 'and no more questions asked' and then put down the phone when Billy asked more questions. Billy called back, but there'd been no reply.
So Billy set out for Brentford.
He would take the offices of Necrosoft by storm.
But it would be a gentle storm. More of a light shower, really. A bit of a breeze that would waft Billy gently into employment. Once the management of Necrosoft met Billy they would be instantly impressed by his eminent suitability. Billy would be just the chap they needed. He would fit in perfectly. After all, he looked like all the rest.
Only he knew he was different.
And how very different he was.
Billy caught the London mail train at Bramfield Halt. He did not have the exact address of Necrosoft. The package had said only Brentford, Middlesex, and the unhelpful chap Billy had spoken to on the phone refused to give out the address. But this presented no problem for Billy.
Once Billy had found himself an empty carriage, he placed the suitcase containing his granny on the luggage rack and opened the other on his knees. From this he took out a brightly coloured parcel. It was addressed simply to NECROSOFT INDUSTRIES. BRENTFORD. MIDDLESEX. Billy closed his suitcase and placed this on the other luggage rack. Then he slipped along the train to the guard's van and when the guard was distracted he slipped the parcel into the mail sack marked Brentford.
And then Billy went off to the buffet car and had a cup of tea.
Now, for most travellers, entering Brentford for the first time is an unforgettable experience. The sky seems bluer here, the grass more green, the trees more tall, the river much more rivery. And see, the mellow London brick, the grey slate roofs, the terracotta chimneys. And view the women, fair of face, the happy children singing hymns, the tradesmen plying their trades. And smell the honeysuckle and the dog rose and the sweet wild-
Billy checked his suitcases into the left-luggage office, then stood upon a corner of the street smoking a cigarette and gently squeezing the bright plastic something he'd received in the post.
Presently a van came to pick up the mail sacks. Billy followed it the two streets to the sorting office. Outside he smoked two more cigarettes and gave the something further squeezings. And then he followed the postman who came out pushing a bicycle.
On the front of the bicycle was a rack and in the rack were several drab brown paper parcels and one that was brightly coloured.
Billy kept his eyes on this.
The postman set off upon his round. He was a very small postman. Positively dwarf-like. Billy wondered whether, perhaps, he was Welsh.
The small postman went about his business in a ,quite unhurried fashion. He dillied and dallied and dawdled. He looked into shop windows and picked flowers in the park. He did take a short cut across the allotments, but only so he could steal some sprouts from one of the plots. It was nearly three in the afternoon before he parked his bicycle next to a boarded-up shop front and took Billy's parcel from its rack.
Billy hastened forward. He squeezed himself between the postman and the shop door.
'Something for Necrosoft?' he said. 'I'll take it, I'm just going in.'
The small postman looked up at him. 'There's three bob to pay,' he said.
'There bloody isn't,' said Billy, who knew he had put on sufficient stamps.
'And how would you know?'
Billy smiled. How would he indeed? 'Three bob, you say?' And he fished out the coinage and gave it to the postman.
'Have a nice day,' said the postman, passing him the parcel.
Billy watched the postman as he dilly-dallied and dawdled away. And then he took stock of the shop front. This was not what he had expected. He had expected some big corporation building, all mirror glass and Bauhaus furniture. Why would Necrosoft Industries, 'The cutting edge of computer technology', be holed up in a dump like this?