_For every weapon there was a defense, but not against the deadliest
weapon--man himself!_
Raging, Trooper Lane hovered three thousand feet above Tammany Square.
The cool cybrain surgically implanted in him was working on the problem.
But Lane had no more patience. They'd sweat, he thought, hating the
chill air-currents that threw his hovering body this way and that. He
glared down at the three towers bordering on the Square. He spat, and
watched the little white speck fall, fall. _Lock me up in barracks. All
I wanted was a little time off. Did I fight in Chi for them? Damn right
I did. Just a little time off, so I shouldn't blow my top. Now the lid's
gone._
He was going over all their heads. He'd bowled those city cops over like
paper dolls, back at the Armory. The black dog was on Lane's back. Old
Mayor himself was going to hear about it.
_Why not? Ain't old Mayor the CinC of the Newyork Troopers?_
The humming paragrav-paks embedded beneath his shoulder blades held him
motionless above Newyork's three administrative towers. Tammany Hall.
Mayor's Palace. Court House. Lane cursed his stupidity. He hadn't found
out which one was which ahead of time. _They keep Troopers in the Armory
and teach them how to fight. They don't teach them about their own city,
that they'll be fighting for. There's no time. From seven years old up,
Troopers have too much to learn about fighting._
The Mayor was behind one of those thousands of windows.
Old cybrain, a gift from the Trooper surgeons, compliments of the city,
would have to figure out which one. Blood churned in his veins, nerves
shrieked with impatience. Lane waited for the electronic brain to come
up with the answer.
Then his head jerked up, to a distant buzz. There were cops coming. Two
black paragrav-boats whirred along the translucent underside of
Newyork's anti-missile force-shield, the Shell.
_Old cybrain better be fast. Damn fast!_
The cybrain jolted an impulse through his spine. Lane somersaulted.
Cybrain had taken charge of his motor nerves. Lane's own mind was just
along for the ride.
* * * * *
His body snapped into a stiff dive position. He began to plummet down,
picking up speed. His mailed hands glittered like arrowheads out in
front. They pointed to a particular window in one of the towers. A
predatory excitement rippled through him as he sailed down through the
air. It was like going into battle again. A little red-white-and-green
flag fluttered on a staff below the window. Whose flag? The city flag
was orange and blue. He shrugged away the problem. Cybrain knew what it
was doing.
The little finger of his right hand vibrated in its metal sheath. A pale
vibray leaped from the lensed fingertip. Breakthrough! The glasstic
pane dissolved. Lane streamed through the window.
The paragrav-paks cut off. Lane dropped lightly to the floor, inside the
room, in battle-crouch. A 3V set was yammering. A girl screamed. Lane's
hand shot out automatically. A finger vibrated. Out of the corner of his
eye, Lane saw the girl fold to the floor. There was no one else in the
room. Lane, still in a crouch, chewed his lip.
_The Mayor?_
His head swung around and he peered at the 3V set. He saw his own face.
"Lashing police with his vibray," said the announcer, "Lane broke
through the cordon surrounding Manhattan Armory. Two policemen were
killed, four others seriously injured. Tammany Hall has warned that this
man is extremely dangerous. Citizens are cautioned to keep clear of him.
Lane is an insane killer. He is armed with the latest military weapons.
A built-in electronic brain controls his reflexes--"
"At ease with that jazz," said Lane, and a sheathed finger snapped out.
There was a loud bang. The 3V screen dissolved into a puddle of
glasstic.
_The Mayor._
Lane strode to the window. The two police boats were hovering above the
towers. Lane's mailed hand snapped open a pouch at his belt. He flipped
a fist-sized cube to the floor.
The force-bomb "exploded"--swelled or inflated, really, but with the
speed of a blast. Lane glanced out the window. A section of the energy
globe bellied out from above. It shaded the view from his window and
re-entered the tower wall just below.
Now the girl.
He turned back to the room. "Wake up, outa-towner." He gave the blonde
girl a light dose of the vibray to slap her awake.
"Who are you?" she said, shakily.
Lane grinned. "Trooper Lane, of the Newyork Special Troops, is all." He
threw her a mock salute. "You from outa-town, girlie. I ain't seen a
Newyork girl with yellow hair in years. Orange or green is the action.
Whatcha doing in the Mayor's room?"
* * * * *
The girl pushed herself to her feet. Built, Lane saw. She was pretty and
clean-looking, very out-of-town. She held herself straight and her
blue-violet eyes snapped at him.
"What the devil do you think you're doing, soldier? I am a diplomat of
the Grassroots Republic of Mars. This is an embassy, if you know what
that means."
"I don't," said Lane, unconcerned.
"Well, you should have had brains enough to honor the flag outside this
window. That's the Martian flag, soldier. If you've never heard of
diplomatic immunity, you'll suffer for your ignorance." Her large, dark
eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?"
"My cybrain sent me."