"I know. But he--? Look, Dusty, what do we do now?"
Dusty looked down at the bleeding man. "Cops," he said thickly. "I've
just shot a--" He could not finish; his face was turning green again.
"Cops nothing," snapped Barbara.
"But shooting--"
"Come off it, Dusty. The cops will only delay and investigate and
generally botch things up until it will be two months and a thousand
years from here."
"Cops aren't that stupid."
"Cops aren't stupid at all," she snapped. "They're just smart enough
to insist on knowing all the answers. So tell you what. You go to the
phone and call Lieutenant Yonkers and explain carefully that you've
just shot a Marandanian Marauder in my living room. Tell him you've
collected one of your Great Galactics, only he's defunct. See how far
you'll get!"
Dusty looked at her blankly.
"The first stop will be the bull pen," she went on hotly. "The second
stop is the nut-locker. And the third stop is some unknown star a
thousand years from now while the F.B.I. try to match the guy's
fingerprints. Then you call on me for a witness and that gets us the
front page in big black letters saying: 'Former Hero Shoots Rival In
Leading Lady's Boudoir!' Start thinking right, Dusty Britton. Or," she
added scathingly, "call up one of your writers."