X
It took minutes only.
He had headed back to the waterfront, afraid to run, with some vague
notion of stealing a boat. Before he reached the row of saloons and
joints, a smart-looking squad of eight tall men overtook him.
"Hold it, mister," a sergeant said. "Are you Orsino?"
"No," he said hopelessly. "That crazy woman began to yell at me that I
was Orsino, but my name's Wyman. What's this about?"
The other men fell in beside and behind him. "We're stepping over to
O.N.I.," the sergeant said.
"There's the son of a bitch!" somebody bawled. Suddenly there were a
dozen sweatered Guardsmen around them. Their leader was the thug Orsino
had beaten in a fair fight. He said silkily to the sergeant: "We want
that boy, leatherneck. Blow."
* * * * *
The sergeant went pale. "He's wanted for questioning by the O.N.I.," he
said stolidly.
"Get the marine three-striper!" the Guardsman chortled. He stuck his jaw
into the sergeant's face. "Tell your squad to blow. You marines ought to
know by now that you don't mess with the Guard."
A very junior officer appeared. "What's going on here, you men?" he
shrilled. "Atten-_shun_!" He was ignored as Guardsman and marines
measured one another with their eyes. "I said _attention_! Dammit,
sergeant, _report_!" There was no reaction. The officer yelled: "You men
may think you can get away with this but by God, you're wrong!" He
strode away, his fists clenched and his face very red.
Orsino saw him stride through a gate into a lot marked _Bupers Motor
Pool_. And he felt a sudden wave of communal understanding that there
were only seconds to go. The sergeant played for time: "I'll be glad to
surrender the prisoner," he started, "if you have anything to show in
the way of--"
The Guardsman kicked for the pit of the sergeant's stomach. He was a
sucker Orsino thought abstractedly as he saw the sergeant catch his
foot, dump him and pivot to block another Guardsman. Then he was
fighting for his life himself, against three bellowing Guardsmen.
A ripping, hammering noise filled the air suddenly. Like cold magic, it
froze the milling mob where it stood. Fifty-caliber noise.
The jaygee was back, this time in a jeep with a twin fifty. And he was
glaring down its barrels into the crowd. People were beginning to stream
from the saloons, joints and shipfitting shops.
The jaygee cocked his cap rakishly over one eye. "_Fall in!_" he rasped,
and a haunting air of familiarity came over Orsino.
The waiting jeep, almost bucking in its eagerness to be let
loose--Orsino on the ground, knees trembling with tension--a perfect
change of mount scene in a polo match. He reacted automatically.
There was a surrealist flash of the jaygee's face before he clipped him
into the back of the square little truck. There was another flash of
spectators scrambling as he roared the jeep down the road.
From then on it was just a question of hanging onto the wheel with one
hand, trying to secure the free-traversing twin-fifty with the other,
glancing back to see if the jaygee was still out, avoiding yapping dogs
and pedestrians, staying on the rutted road, pushing all possible speed
out of the jeep, noting landmarks, estimating the possibility of
dangerous pursuit. For a two-goal polo player, a dull little practice
session.
The road, such as it was, wound five miles inland through scrubby
woodland and terminated at a lumber camp where chained men in rags were
dragging logs.
Orsino back tracked a quarter-mile from the camp and jolted overland in
a kidney-cracking hare and hounds course at fifty per.
The jeep took it for an hour in the fading afternoon light and then
bucked to a halt. Orsino turned for an overdue check on the jaygee and
found him conscious, but greenly clinging to the sides of the vehicle.
But he saw Orsino staring and gamely struggled to his feet, standing in
the truck bed. "You're under arrest, sailor," he said. "Striking an
officer, abuse of government property, driving a government vehicle
without a trip-ticket--" His legs betrayed him and he sat down, hard.
Orsino thought very briefly of letting him have a burst from the
twin-fifty, and abandoned the idea.
He seemed to have bitched up everything so far, but he was still on a
mission. He had a commissioned officer of the Government approximately
in his power. He snapped: "Nonsense. _You're_ under arrest."
The jaygee seemed to be reviewing rapidly any transgressions he may have
committed, and asked at last, cautiously: "By what authority?"
"I represent the Syndic."
It was a block-buster. The jaygee stammered: "But you can't--But there
isn't any way--But how--"
"Never mind how."
"You're crazy. You must be, or you wouldn't stop here. I don't believe
you're from the continent and I don't believe the jeep's broken down."
He was beginning to sound just a little hysterical. "It can't break down
here. We must be more than thirty miles inland."
"What's special about thirty miles inland?"
"The natives, you fool!"
The natives again. "I'm not worried about natives. Not with a pair of
fifties."
"You don't understand," the jaygee said, forcing calm into his voice.
"This is The Outback. They're in charge here. We can't do a thing with
them. They jump people in the dark and skewer them. Now fix this damn
jeep and let's get rolling!"
"Into a firing squad? Don't be silly, lieutenant. I presume you won't
slug me while I check the engine?"
The jaygee was looking around him. "My God, no," he said. "You may be a
gangster, but--" He trailed off.
Orsino stiffened. Gangster was semi-dirty talk. "Listen, pirate," he
said nastily, "I don't believe--"
"_Pirate?_" the jaygee roared indignantly, and then shut his mouth with
a click, looking apprehensively about. The gesture wasn't faked; it
alarmed Orsino.
"Tell me about your wildmen," he said.
"Go to hell," the jaygee said sulkily.
"Look, you called me a gangster first. What about these natives? You
were trying to trick me, weren't you?"
"Kiss my royal North American eyeball, gangster."
"Don't be childish," Charles reproved him, feeling adult and superior.
(The jaygee looked a couple of years younger than he.) He climbed out of
his seat and lifted the hood. The damage was trivial; a shear pin in the
transmission had given way. He reported mournfully: "Cracked block. The
jeep's through forever. You can get on your way, lieutenant. I won't try
to hold you."
The jaygee fumed: "You couldn't hold me if you wanted to, gangster. If
you think I'm going to try and hoof back to the base alone in the dark,
you're crazy. We're sticking together. Two of us may be able to hold
them off for the night. In the morning, we'll see."
Well, maybe the officer did _believe_ there were wildmen in the woods.
That didn't mean there _were_.
The jaygee got out and looked under the hood uncertainly. It was obvious
that in the first place he was no mechanic and in the second place he
couldn't conceive of anybody voluntarily risking the woods rather than
the naval base. "Uh-huh," he said. "Dismount that gun while I get a fire
started."
"Yes, sir," Charles said sardonically, saluting. The jaygee absently
returned the salute and began to collect twigs.