The Negro was a shade too fly.
He dodged Tucker’s heavy body and Tucker slipped in a pool of blood left by the other man. He went down smack on his back and his attacker moved in with the aerosol — and at that moment, as the container was poised over Tucker, one of the Washington agents fired at the Negro holding the gun. The man swung round with his side shredded, but fired a burst before he died; one of the bullets smacked into the aerosol. The liquid poured out over Tucker’s face and chest. He gave a wild, unearthly scream and staggered to his feet, staring across the studio, right into the cameras, his face changing colour visibly, seeming to change even its very texture as the horrified men watched. The skin took on a leathery aspect, stiffening, the living flesh already looking like a dead man’s. Tucker was trying to speak, trying to cry out his agony, but there was a decreasing mobility in the bloodless lips. He was struggling for air; his eyelids were twitching and his pupils had contracted, were already little more than pin-points. Every part of his body seemed to be suffering from a muscular twitch. He was sweating badly and the lips were drooling saliva. Then his hands went to his stomach as though he were suffering from intense abdominal cramp and suddenly there was a great gush of vomit.
Somehow he remained upright; then all at once there was some curious and horrifying reaction from the fluid, some stricture of the flesh that tightened the epidermis and drew the corners of the mouth upward, parting the lips to show the white teeth. Tucker gave that final, horrible grin to the watching world and then went down, stiff as a dead log.
Sweating himself, Shaw gave the final order: “Cut.”
The stand-down orders had been flashed and the world was already returning to normal.
Washington had reported minor rioting fairly widespread but no bloodshed to speak of; the Negroes were in the main beating up only their own people, the smaller, local leaders who, along with Tucker, had misled and almost crucified them. Otherwise everything was fully under control and the Army had not been needed even to protect the places Tucker had said were threatened; and similar reports came in soon after from London. Over the United States, the Chinese aircraft had turned away and were running unmolested for home — Peking had taken its cue from Shaw without waiting for Tucker. They had been exposed and the great bid for world power had failed. In the West there were to be no reprisals; Tucker was dead and nobody wanted any more trouble. Many of Tucker’s own disillusioned lieutenants had come across with information and within hours most of the arms dumps had been taken over peacefully and their contents impounded by the Federal authorities. A party had been sent to take apart what was left of the Kansas headquarters. The Hound-Tucson set-up and the other Dead Line depot in San Francisco had already been inhibited equally peacefully. The Sex Kitten had been torn apart so as to nail any undisclosed activities of Tucker alias Big Pete Omofouloo. Spice and Vilera and a number of others had been arrested and would be indicted before a Federal grand jury charged with treason and violation of the constitutional rights of those they had murdered in the name of the Dead Line. With Tucker’s very public death, the whole show had collapsed. World Communism itself had taken a knock from which it wouldn’t recover quickly.
As early as he could that night, Shaw turned in and had a long sleep in a Little Canyon hotel, with a security man watching the door and another two patrolling the grounds below his window; he flew out for Washington next day and when he got to Kirkham’s office he was met by Latymer, who had just flown in from London.
Latymer talked about the final scene in Little Canyon. “It was horrible to watch,” he said quietly. “Horrible… but it worked, and that’s the main thing. It put the final touch to the débâcle — which I suppose is why you kept the cameras going. What that Negro did to Tucker was what millions of other Negroes would have wanted to do. You did a good job, my boy.”
Shaw rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Good or not,” he said, “I’ll be damn glad to get on with an interrupted leave. It’s the Maribu boards for me!” He added, “Perhaps Prunella would care to join me.”
“The girl from the Ministry? Why not? I thought,” Latymer said slyly, “you’d like a few quiet days at sea first, however. At sea no-one can get at you and send you off on another job. So I’ve booked a couple of staterooms in the Queen Elizabeth leaving New York tomorrow afternoon.”
“Two? You mean you want a few days at sea as well, sir?”
Latymer said, “You took the words right out of my mouth.…”
As the Queen Elizabeth came off the pier in the Hudson River and turned to head beneath a clear blue sky for the Narrows and the Atlantic, Latymer found Shaw staring moodily over the rail. “Exercise,” he said briskly, “is good for the soul as well as the body. Let’s walk.” Together they took a fast walk along the deck. The liner gathered speed past the Statue of Liberty, still holding aloft its great torch of freedom, high over the harbour. It looked better from here than it had from the Hound-Tucson warehouse, Shaw thought.… When the liner was well down harbour and passing beneath the 4,260-foot span of the Verrazano-Narrows suspension bridge into Lower Bay, a long line of grey-painted ships began to come into sight ahead beyond Sandy Hook.
“Warships,” Shaw remarked. The wind blew his crisp brown hair about. “Yanks.…”
“Oddly enough, yes!” Latymer looked sideways at Shaw with a curious half-smile playing around his lips. He went on quietly, “As a matter of fact, it’s the United States Sixth Fleet out of Norfolk… entering New York, all in one piece.”
Shaw grunted. “Impressive,” he said.
“Very. They’re still a symbol of something… ships. Even today. Perhaps more so today than a few days ago!” He added musingly, “When you think what could have happened to those ships and the men in them, and what that could have led to… yes, it’s impressive, Shaw.” Again he gave that curious, meaning smile. “A steam-past like that — it’s as good in its way as a ticker-tape send-off down Broadway — don’t you think?”
Shaw grinned tightly, mirthlessly. He said, “If you want to know what I think… I think the bars should be open by now. Do you think the expense account could run to a couple of Old Fashioneds?” Flame had liked Old Fashioneds. She’d been a gutsy girl and Shaw, who was feeling bitter about the demands his job made on innocent people, knew she would have appreciated the gesture.