He looked up into the hating eyes of Perlman. “Imagine,” he breathed. “I appear to have won second prize in a beauty contest. You’ll have to give me fifteen dollars.”
And Perlman’s poise broke. Snarling, he pushed across the chips, snatched the dice from Gull and contemptuously flung them down. The glittering cubes rattled and spun. Gull did not have to look at the board; the position was engraved on his brain. A five would put Perlman on Park Place, with four houses: damaging, but not deadly. An eight or higher would carry “him safely to “Go” and beyond, passing the zone of danger and replenishing his bankroll. But a seven… Ah, a seven! The Boardwalk, with a hotel! And the first die had already come to rest, displaying a four.
The second stopped.
There was a gasp from the glittering crowd as three bright pips turned upward to the light.
Gull glanced down at the dice, then across at Perlman. “How unfortunate,” he murmured politely, extending a hand to Perlman—and only Perlman could see the bright, deadly little muzzle that pointed out of it toward him. “You seem to have landed on my property. I’m afraid you’ve lost the game.”
—And he was up and out of his chair, standing clear, as the pencil of flame from the shelter of the draperies bit through the smoky air where his head had just been.
“Down!” he shouted to the girl and snapped a shot at Rosencranz; heard that man’s bellow of pain and saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the girl had disobeyed his order; she had drawn a weapon of her own and was trading shot for shot with the Black Hats that ringed the room. “Idiot!” Gull cried, but his heart exulted Good girl! even as he was turning to blast the next Black Hat. There were nine of them, all armed, all drawing their weapons or, like Rosencranz, having fired them already. It was not an equal contest. Five shots from Gull, five from the girl—she missed one—and all the Black Hats were on the floor, writhing or very still. All but one. Perlman! Whirling back to face him, Gull found he was gone.
But he couldn’t be far. Gull caught the flicker-of motion in the gaping crowd at the door that showed where he had gone, and followed. At the entrance Gull caught a glimpse of him and fired; at the corner, plunging through a knot of milling, excited UFOlogists, Gull saw him again—almost too late. Coolly and cleverly Perlman had waited him out, his own weapon drawn now. The blast sliced across the side of Gull’s head like a blow from a cleaver; stunned, hurting, Gull drove himself on.
And as Perlman, gaping incredulously, turned belatedly to flee again, he tripped, and stumbled, and Gull was on him. His head was roaring, his hold on consciousness precarious; but he pinned Perlman’s arms in a desperate flurry of strength and panted, “That’s enough! Give it up or I’ll burn your head off.” The trapped man surged up but Gull withstood it and cried: “Stop! I want to take you back to .5 alive—don’t make me kill you!” The Black Hat spat one angry sentence; Gull gasped and recoiled; Perlman grabbed for the weapon, they struggled—
A bright line of flame leaped from the gun to Perlman’s forehead; and in that moment the leader of the Black Hats in Heliopolis ceased to be.
Waves of blackness swept over Johan Gull. He fell back into emptiness just as the girl came running up, dropped to the ground beside him, sobbing, “Johan! My dear, dear Meesta Gull;”
Hurt and almost out he managed to grin up at her. “Cash in my chips for me,” he gasped. “We’ve won the game!”
IX
And then it was the roses, roses all the way. The local Bureau Chief appeared and efficiently arranged for medical attention, fresh clothes and a drink. The girl stayed beside him while Gull dictated a report and demanded immediate reservations back to Marsport—for two, he specified fiercely. They were produced, and by the time they disembarked and headed for the War Room Gull was nearly his old self. He was admitted at once to .5’s office, and, recognized it as a mark of signal favor when the girl was allowed in with him.
They stood there, proud and silent, in the presence of .5 and his secretary, and Gull’s hand was firm on the girl’s. What a thoroughbred she was, he thought admiringly, noting from the corner of his eye how her gaze took in every feature of the room so few persons had ever seen; how she studied .5’s somber expression and hooded eyes, but did not quail before them; how patiently and confidently she waited for McIntyre to leave off writing in his notebook and speak to them. She would be a fit wife for him, thought Johan Gull with quiet certainty; and she would make a fine agent for Security. And so would Kim, and Marie Celeste, and little Patty. A very successful mission all around, thought Gull cheerfully, thinking of the wad of bills that Perlman’s losses had put into his wallet.
“When you’re quite ready, Gull,” said McIntyre.
Gull jumped. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Excuse me, sir,” he added to .5, whose expression showed no particular resentment at being kept waiting while one of his agents was woolgathering, merely the usual patient weariness. “I guess you want a report.”
“.5 has already seen your report,” McIntyre reproved him. “He is a little concerned about your failure to obey standing orders, of course. A live captive is worth a lot more than a dead loser.”
“Well, yes, I know that’s right. But—” Gull hesitated.
“Well?”
Gull flushed and turned to .5 himself. “You see, sir, it was something Perlman said. Nasty sort of remark. Cheap. Just what you’d expect, from— Anyway, sir, it was about you. He said—” Gull swallowed, feeling self-conscious and stupid. The warm pressure of the girl’s hand showed him her sympathy, but he still felt like twelve kinds of a fool bringing it up.
“Gull! Spit it out before .5 loses his patience!”
Gull shrugged, looked his chief in the eye and said rapidly, “Perlman said you’ve been dead since ‘97, sir.” And he waited for the blow to fall.
Surprisingly, it did not. .5 merely continued to look at him, silently, levelly, appraisingly. There was not even a hint of surprise in his expression. At length McIntyre laughed one sharp, desiccated sort of laugh and Gull turned gratefully toward him, glad to be taken off the hook. “Nonsense, of course, McIntyre,” he said. “I really hated to have to say it.”
But McIntyre was raising a hand, chuckling in a sort of painful way, as though laughter hurt him. “Never mind, Gull,” he said. “After all, you’re not expected to evaluate information. Just go on and do your job. And now .5 had best be left alone for a while; there are other matters concerning us, you know.”
And, very grateful to have it happen, Gull found him-self and the girl outside. He discovered he was sweating. “Whew,” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’t want to go through that again. And now, my dear, I suggest a drink—thereafter a wedding—then a honeymoon. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Gladly, dearest Meesta Gull!” she cried. “And I don’t give a ‘ang about the order!”