The voice became expansive. "Lots of things. Take this Cold War. If you
drop into any neighborhood bar, you'll hear what the common man thinks
about it."
The three of them stared at the seemingly empty chair.
"Drop the bomb first!" Crowley snapped. "Finish those reds off before
they start it. In fact, I'm not even sure they've got the bomb. They're
not smart enough to...."
"There was sputnik, you know," Ross interrupted sourly.
"Yeah, but built by those captured German scientists. We're way ahead of
those Russkies in everything. Hit 'em now. Finish 'em off. The eggheads
in Washington are scared of their own shadows. Another thing I'd end is
getting suckered in by those French and English politicians. What does
America need with those countries? They always start up these wars and
get us to bail them out. And I say stop all this foreign aid and keep
the money in our own country.
"And we can do a lot of cleaning up right here, too. We got to kick all
the commies out of the government. Make all the commies and socialists
and these egghead liberals, illegal. In fact, I'm in favor of shooting
them. When you got an enemy, finish him off. And take the Jews. I'm not
anti-Semitic, like, understand. Some of my best friends are Jews. But
you got to realize that wherever they go they cause trouble. They stick
together and take over the best businesses and all. O.K., you know what
I say? I say kick them out of the country. And they all came over here
poor and made their money here. So let them leave the way they came.
We'll, like, confiscate all their property except like personal
things."
Patricia had closed her eyes in pain long before this. She said, softly,
"I imagine somewhere along in here we'll get to the Negroes."
"I'm not against them. Just so they stay in their place. But this
integration stuff is bunk. You got to face facts. Negroes aren't as
smart as white people, neither are Chinks or Mexicans or Puerto Ricans.
So, O.K., give them their own schools, up to high school is all they
need, and let them have jobs like waiters and janitors and like that.
They shouldn't take a white man's job and they shouldn't be allowed to
marry white people. It deteriorates the race, like."
Crowley was really becoming wound up now. Wound up and expansive.
"There's a lot of things I'd change, see. Take freedom of speech and
press and like that. Sure I believe in that, I'm one hundred per cent
American. But you can't allow people to talk against the government.
Freedom of speech is O.K., but you can't let a guy jump up in the middle
of a theater and yell fire."
"Why not?" Ross growled. "Freedom of speech is more important than a few
movie houses full of people. Besides, if one man is allowed to jump up
and yell fire, then somebody else can yell out 'You're a liar, there is
no fire.'"
"You're not funny," Crowley said ominously.
"I wasn't trying to be," Ross muttered, and then blurred into sudden
action. He shot to his feet, and then, arms extended, dashed toward the
source of the voice. He hit the chair without slowing, grappled crazily.
"I've got him!" He wrestled awkwardly, fantastically, seemingly in an
insane tumbling without opponent.
Patricia was on her feet. She grasped an antique bronze candle-holder
and darted toward the now fallen chair and to where Ross was wrestling
desperately on the floor. Crowley was attempting to shout, but was
largely smothered.
Patricia held the candlestick at the ready, trying to find an opening,
trying to locate the invisible Crowley's head.
Frederick Braun staggered to his own feet, bewildered, shaking.
A voice from the door said flatly, "O.K., that's it." Then, sharper, "I
said cut it out. You all right, Mr. Crowley?"
It was Larry. His thin black automatic was held almost negligently in
his right hand. He ran his eyes up and down Patricia, taking in the
candlestick weapon. His ordinarily empty face registered a flicker of
amused approval.
Patricia gasped, "Oh, no," dropped her bludgeon and sank into a chair,
her head in her hands.
Ross, his face in dismay, came slowly to his feet. The redhead stared at
the gunman, momentarily considering further attack. Larry, ignoring
both Braun and Patricia, swung the gun to cover him exclusively. "I
wouldn't," he said emptily.
Of a sudden, Ross' head jerked backward. His nose flattened, crushingly,
and then spurted blood. He reeled back, his head flinging this way and
that, bruises and cuts appeared magically.
Crowley's voice raged, "You asked for it, wise guy. How do you like
these apples?"
The saturnine Larry chuckled sourly. "Hey, take it easy, chief. You'll
kill the guy."
Ross had crumpled to the floor. There were still sounds of blows.
Crowley raged, "You're lucky I'm not wearing shoes, I'd break every rib
in your body!"
Patricia was staring in hopeless horror. She said sharply, "Don,
remember you need Ross! You need all of us! Without all of us there can
be no more serum."
The blows stopped.
"There will be no more serum anyway," Braun said shakily. The thin
little man still stood before his chair having moved not at all since
the action began.
Crowley's heavy breathing could be heard but he managed a snarl. "That's
what you think, Doc."