Hawk said, "You know that witch Gloria, goes with one of the Boomer
Dukes? She opened her big mouth to my girl. Yeah, opened her mouth and
much bad talk came out. Said Fayo primed some jumper with a zip and the
punk cooled him, and then a couple of the Boomers moved in real cool.
Now they got the punk with the zip and much other stuff, real stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
Hawk looked worried. He finally admitted that he didn't know what kind
of stuff, but it was something dangerous in the way of weapons. It had
been the "zip" that had knocked out the five Leopards.
I sent Hawk out to the drug-store for smelling salts and containers of
hot black coffee--not that I knew what I was doing, of course, but they
were dead set against calling an ambulance. And the boys didn't seem to
be in any particular danger, only sleep.
* * * * *
However, even then I knew that this kind of trouble was something I
couldn't handle alone. It was a tossup what to do--the smart thing was
to call the precinct right then and there; but I couldn't help feeling
that that would make the Leopards clam up hopelessly. The six months I
had spent trying to work with them had not been too successful--a lot of
the other neighborhood workers had made a lot more progress than I--but
at least they were willing to talk to me; and they wouldn't talk to
uniformed police.
Besides, as soon as I had been sworn in, the day before, I had begun the
practice of carrying my .38 at all times, as the regulations say. It was
in my coat. There was no reason for me to feel I needed it. But I did.
If there was any truth to the story of a "zip" knocking out the
boys--and I had all five of them right there for evidence--I had the
unpleasant conviction that there was real trouble circulating around
East Harlem that afternoon.
"Champ. They all waking up!"
I turned around, and Hawk was right. The five Leopards, all of a sudden,
were stirring and opening their eyes. Maybe the smelling salts had
something to do with it, but I rather think not.
We fed them some of the black coffee, still reasonably hot. They were
scared; they were more scared than anything I had ever seen in those
kids before. They could hardly talk at first, and when finally they came
around enough to tell me what had happened I could hardly believe them.
This man had been small and peculiar, and he had been looking for, of
all things, the "Mafia," which he had read about in history
books--_old_ history books.
Well, it didn't make sense, unless you were prepared to make a certain
assumption that I refused to make. Man from Mars? Nonsense. Or from the
future? Equally ridiculous....
* * * * *
Then the five Leopards, reviving, began to walk around. The cellar was
dark and dirty, and packed with the accumulation of generations in the
way of old furniture and rat-inhabited mattresses and piles of
newspapers; it wasn't surprising that we hadn't noticed the little
gleaming thing that had apparently rolled under an abandoned potbelly
stove.
Jap picked it up, squalled, dropped it and yelled for me.
I touched it cautiously, and it tingled. It wasn't painful, but it was
an odd, unexpected feeling--perhaps you've come across the "buzzers"
that novelty stores sell which, concealed in the palm, give a sudden,
surprising tingle when the owner shakes hands with an unsuspecting
friend. It was like that, like a mild electric shock. I picked it up and
held it. It gleamed brightly, with a light of its own; it was round; it
made a faint droning sound; I turned it over, and it spoke to me. It
said in a friendly, feminine whisper: _Warning, this portatron attuned
only to Bailey's Beam percepts. Remain quiescent until the Adjuster
comes._
That settled it. Any time a lit-up cue ball talks to me, I refer the
matter to higher authority. I decided on the spot that I was heading for
the precinct house, no matter what the Leopards thought.
But when I turned and headed for the stairs, I couldn't move. My feet
simply would not lift off the ground. I twisted, and stumbled, and fell
in a heap; I yelled for help, but it didn't do any good. The Leopards
couldn't move either.
We were stuck there in Gomez's cellar, as though we had been nailed to
the filthy floor.