In this case, however, I had a reason for drawing Willy's ire down upon me, and I said bombastically, "Why, you murdering bastard, I'm going to kill you according to instructions, sooner or later."
Willy laughed and, stepping forward, swung an oversized hand at my face, knocking me fiat. Then he kicked me hard in the hip and laughed again.
"Well, you'd better make it sooner, Helm, because you won't be around much later!"
"That's enough, Willy." Mr. Soo stepped forward.
"All right, all right. I can wait. Just don't make me wait too long."
"You will wait as long as I say." The Chinaman's voice was quite soft. "You will wait forever if I say so."
"Maybe." Willy's voice was harsh. "And then again, maybe not. I'm doing a job for you, Soo. You need me. Okay, so throw the dog a bone for being a good doggie. That's the bone I want, right there. I want that interfering, lucky, creep who-"
"We'll talk about it later, Mr. Hansen. If we are to take advantage of this favorable weather system, we must hurry. You had better see what progress is being made with the truck." There was a brief pause. The Chinaman was looking steadily at Willy, who made a sudden, growling sound in his throat and turned away. When he had gone out of earshot, Mr. Soo gave a short laugh. "He is not really very good dog. But even bad dogs have their uses, if they are vicious enough. It is merely matter of establishing proper control, somewhat difficult when subject has been accustomed to independence. We are still somewhat lacking in discipline, as you see, but training is proceeding well. I am pleased to have acquired Mr. Hansen; I foresee much employment for him. I thank you for the present, Mr. Helm."
"De nada," I said. "Be my guest."
He studied me narrowly for a moment, and said, "Well, sir, will you be brave and stupid or will you tell me what I need to know without, shall we say, further persuasion?"
I looked back at him, making no attempt to check the blood that trickled down my chin from a split lip-not that there was much I could have done about it with my hands tied in back. I forced myself not even to glance at the blond girl sitting on a rock in the sunshine.
She was not a pro, not in my sense of the word. At least I sincerely hoped she wasn't. Of course she'd been trained to a certain extent: she'd been taught how to behave more or less like the kind of pretty, mildly talented, young American girl who might have been drawn to Hollywood from Yuma, Arizona. Maybe she'd also been taught a little about codes and ciphers, and instructed in the various data-transmitting techniques she might have to employ; but I was betting that she'd had no instruction or experience in the arts of violence. An agent in place seldom has. As Charlotte Devlin had once put it in a different connection: Bobbie was information people, not action people.
Anyway, I hoped this was the first time she'd seen a helplessly bound man slapped and kicked around-not to mention seeing him killed. Of course, she'd intimated that she'd been through some fairly unpleasant times as a kid, before the Chinese communists selected her for this work. Maybe she was tougher and more callous than I thought. If so, I was in real trouble.
But in my favor was the fact that the man who was being knocked around-the man scheduled to die before her eyes, if Willy had his way: me -was a man who'd made love to her and bought her a pleasant dinner; a man with whom she'd walked. hand-in-hand along the shore to watch the sun set into the Pacific. Certainly no gentleman would trade on such a tender relationship; but if Mac ever caught me being gentlemanly, he'd be justified in firing me on the spot. You play the cards you're dealt, all of them, and those were mine.
So, having already planted in her mind the treasonous-from her point of view-idea I wanted her to consider, I now refrained from looking at her, lest she suspect what a calculating louse I really was. I just let the stuff drip messily on my shirt while I endured my bruises bravely…
"Well, Mr. Helm?" the Chinaman said again.
"What was the subject under discussion?" I asked. "I kind of lost track."
Mr. Soo spoke deliberately: "When first notified of your presence in Los Angeles, I assumed it was coincidental, as I have said. However, investigation soon proved this assumption untenable, Mr. Helm."
"Untenable?" I said. "Why?"
"It was determined that you had spent several weeks in New Mexico before appearing on the coast," the China-man said. "You had rented a car there and driven several thousand miles. To be sure, you had carried along fishing tackle and even employed it upon occasion, but I do not really think you were after trouts or basses. You were seeking larger fish, were you not, Mr. Helm?"
The trouble with being a pro is that sometimes you get too smart and suspicious for your own good. No professional ever permits himself to believe in coincidence; it's against his principles.
Yet coincidences do occur, even in our business, and it was becoming fairly obvious that Mr. Soo had accidentally picked, for his second test with the Sorenson generator, the one state of the fifty in which I'd once made my home, to which I occasionally returned for rest and relaxation. However, I knew I'd never be able to convince him that this was wholly coincidental, particularly since I had a hunch that at least one of my casual fishing expeditions must have taken me into the actual area in which he was operating.
This was why he'd tried to have Beverly Blame attach herself to me a second time, hoping that she could wheedle out of me just how much I'd learned about the New Mexico end of his project. The late Mr. Tillery had been quite right in thinking that I was suspected of knowing something dangerous to the opposition; his only mistake had been in thinking that I knew what it was.
Mr. Soo was still talking. "… so you see, sir, it is essential for me to determine how much you discovered, and how much you reported to superiors. At present, generator is almost completely discharged from previous test. It will require additional catalyst and fuel before we can proceed…"
"What's this fuel bit?" I asked. "That's the second time you've mentioned it."
"You are stalling," the Chinaman said. "However, I will answer question. To call it generator is, perhaps, misleading. Actually, it does not generate catalyst; that has already been produced and purified elsewhere. What so called generator does is to project this rare metallic substance into atmosphere in finely divided form so it can be carried by air currents high above earth. To provide power for dispersion, fuel is required; kerosene-type liquid such as is employed by jet engines. Catalyst is mixed with fuel, and mixture is burned under controlled conditions. I hope that is satisfactory explanation."
"Sure," I said. "So what you want to know is whether it's safe for you to visit your secret hideaway for refueling, or whether I've arranged a nice little trap for you there."
"Precisely, Mr. Helm."
I said, "I suppose it's no use insisting that I was just relaxing with a fishing rod after a hard winter's work."
"None whatever," said Mr. Soo. He held out his hand to the side, and Bobbie put into it a hypodermic syringe, not mine. The girl, and the case, seemed to be just bristling with needles. Mr. Soo said to me, "You can guess what this is."
"The old babble-juice, otherwise known as truth serum?"
"That is correct. Quite effective, but not too pleasant for the subject."
I said, "I know. And I'm already feeling like a human pincushion. I don't really need any more shots of anything, thanks." I drew a long breath, and went on: "Okay. You win. Why waste time trying to fight your damn drug? There is a trap waiting for you, Mr. Soo, so you're going to have to get your kerosene and chemicals elsewhere."