THE REVERSIBLE REVOLUTIONS
THE REVERSIBLE
REVOLUTIONS
J. C. BATTLE, late of the Foreign
Legion, Red Army, United States Marines, Invincibles De Bolivia and Coldstream
Guards, alias Alexandre de Foma, Christopher Jukes, Burton Macauly and Joseph
Hagstromne Etzel Bernsteinput up his hands.
"No tricks," warned the
feminine voice. The ample muzzle of the gun in his back shifted slightly,
seemingly from one hand to another. Battle felt his pockets being gone through.
"Look out for the left hip," he volunteered. "That gat's on a
hair-trigger."
"Thanks," said the
feminine voice. He felt the little pencilgun being gingerly removed. "Two
Colts," said the voice admiringly, "a police .38, three Mills
grenades, pencilgun, brass knuckles, truncheons of lead, leather and rubber,
one stiletto, tear-gas gun, shells for same, prussic-acid hypo kit, thuggee's
braided cord, sleeve Derringer and a box of stink bombs. Well, you walking
armory! Is that all?"
"Quite," said Battle. "Am I being taken for a ride?" He looked up and down the dark street and
saw nothing in the way of accomplices.
"Nope. I may decide to drop
you here. But before you find out, suppose you tell me how you got on my
trail?" The gun jabbed viciously into his back. "Talk!" urged
the feminine voice nastily.
"How I got on your trail?"
exploded Battle. "Dear lady, I can't see your face, but I assure you that
I don't recognize your voice, that I'm not on anybody's trail, that I'm just a
soldier of fortune resting up during a slack spell in the trade. And anyway, I
don't knock off ladies. Wewe have a kind of code."
"Yeah?" asked the voice
skeptically. "Let's see your left wrist." Mutely Battle twitched up
the cuff and displayed it. Aside from a couple of scars it was fairly ordinary.
"What now?" he asked.
"I'll let you know,"
said the voice. Battle's hand was twisted behind his back, and he felt a cold,
stinging liquid running over the disputed wrist. "What the?" he
began impatiently.
"Oh!" ejaculated the
voice, aghast. "I'm sorry! I thought" The gun relaxed and Battle turned. He could dimly see the girl in the light of the merc lamp far down the
deserted street. She appeared to be blushing. "Here I've gone and taken
you apart," she complained, "and you're not even from Breen at all!
Let me help you." She began picking up Battle's assorted weapons from the
sidewalk where she had deposited them. He stowed them away as she handed them
over.
"There," she said.
"That must be the last of them."
"The hypo kit," he
reminded her. She was holding it, unconsciously, in her left hand. He hefted
the shoulder holster under his coat and grunted. "That's better," he
said.
"You must think I'm an awful
silly," said the girl shyly.
Battle smiled generously as he
caught sight of her face. "Not at all," he protested. "I've made
the same mistake myself. Only I've not always caught myself in time to realize
it." This with a tragic frown and sigh.
"Really?" she
breathed. "You must be awfully important all these guns and things."
"Tools of the trade," he
said noncommittally. "My card." He handed her a simple pasteboard
bearing the crest of the United States Marines and the legend:
LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE SOLDIER OF
FORTUNE REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY
She stared, almost breathless.
"How wonderful!" she said.
"In every major insurrection
for the past thirty years," he assured her complacently.
"That must make youlet's
see" she mused.
"Thirty years, did I
say?" he quickly interposed. "I meant twenty. In case you were
wondering, I'm just thirty-two years old." He tweaked his clipped,
military moustache.
"Then you were in your first
at"
"Twelve. Twelve and a half,
really. Shall we go somewhere for a cup of coffee, Misserah?"
"McSweeney," she said,
and added demurely, "but my friends all call me Spike."
"China? Dear me, yes! I was
with the Eighth Route Army during the celebrated long trek from Annam to Szechuan Province. And I shouldn't call it boasting to admit that without me"
Miss Spike McSweeney appeared to
be hanging on his every word. "Have you ever," she asked, "done
any technical work?"
"Engineering? Line of
communication? Spike, we fighters leave that to the `greaseballs,' as they are
called in most armies. I admit that I fly a combat fighter as well as the
nextassuming that he's pretty goodbut as far as the engine goes, I let that
take care if itself. Why do you ask?"
"Lieutenant," she said
earnestly, "I think I ought to tell you what all this mess is about."
"Dear lady," he said
gallantly, "the soldier does not question his orders."
"Anyway," said Miss
McSweeney, "I need your help. It's a plota big one. A kind of revolution.
You probably know more about them than I do, but this one seems to be the
dirtiest trick that was ever contemplated."
"How big is it?" asked Battle, lighting a cigarette.
"Would you mind not
smoking?" asked the girl hastily, shrinking away from the flame.
"Thanks. How big is it? World-scale. A world revolution. Not from the
Right, not from the Left, but, as near as I can make out, from Above."
"How's that?" asked Battle, startled.
"The leader is what you'd
call a scientist-puritan, I guess. His name's BreenDr. Malachi Breen, formerly
of every important university and lab in the world. And now he's got his own
revolution all planned out. It's for a world without smoking, drinking,
swearing, arguing, dancing, movies, music, rich foods, steam heatall those
things."
"Crackpot!" commented
the lieutenant.
She stared at him grimly.
"You wouldn't think so if you knew him," said Spike. "I'll tell
you what I know. I went to work for him as a stenographer. He has a dummy
concern with offices in Rockefeller Plaza and a factory in New Jersey. He's
supposed to be manufacturing Pot-O-Klutch, a device to hold pots on the stove
in case of an earthquake. With that as a front, he goes on with his planning.
He's building machines of some kind in his plantand with his science and his
ambition, once he springs his plans, the world will be at his feet!"
"The field of action,"
said Battle thoughtfully, "would be New Jersey principally. Now, you want
me to break this insurrection?
"Of course!" agonized
the girl. "As soon as I found out what it really was, I hurried to escape.
But I knew I was being followed by his creatures!"
"Exactly," said Battle. "Now, what's in this for me?"
"I don't understand. You
mean?"
"Money," said Battle. "The quartermaster's getting shorthanded. Say twenty thousand?"
The girl only stared. "I
haven't any money," she finally gasped. "I thought"
"You thought I was a
dilettante?" asked Battle. "Dear lady, my terms are fifty percent
cash, remainder conditional on the success of the campaign. I'm sorry I can't
help you"
"Look out!" screamed the
girl. Battle spun around and ducked under the table as a bomb crashed through
the window of the coffee shop and exploded in his face.
"Open your eyes, damn
you!" growled a voice.
"Stephenthe profanity"
objected another voice mildly.
"Sorry, Doc. Wake, friend!
The sun is high."
Battle came to with a start and
saw a roast-beef face glowering into his. He felt for his weapons. They were
all in place. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Ah," said the second
voice gently. "Our convert has arisen. On your feet, Michael."
"My name is Battle,"
said the lieutenant. "J. C. Battle. My card."
"Henceforth you shall be
known as Michael, the Destroying Angel," said the second voice. "It's
the same name, really."
Battle looked around him. He was
in a kind of factory, dim and vacant except for himself and the two who had
spoken. They wore pure white military uniforms; one was a tough boy, obviously.
It hurt Battle to see how clumsily he carried his guns. The bulges were plainly
obvious through his jacket and under his shoulder. The other either wore his
more skillfully or wasn't heeled at all. That seemed likely, for his gentle
blue eyes carried not a trace of violence, and his rumpled, pure white hair was
scholarly and innocent.
"Will you introduce
yourselves?" asked the lieutenant calmly.
"Steve Haglund, outta
Chi," said the tough.
"Malachi Breen, manufacturer
of Pot-O-Klutch and temporal director of Sweetness and Light, the new world
revolution," said the old man.
"Ah," said. Battle, sizing them up. "What happened to Miss McSweeney?" he asked abruptly,
remembering.
"She is in good hands,"
said Breen. "Rest easy on her account, Michael. You have work to do."
"Like what?" asked the
lieutenant.
"Trigger work," said
Haglund. "Can you shoot straight?"
In answer there roared out three flat
crashes, and Battle stood with his smoking police special in his hand. As he
reloaded he said, "Get yourself a new lathe, Dr. Breen. And if you'll look
to see how close together the bullets were"
The old man puttered over to Battle's target. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "A poker chip would cover
them." His manner grew relatively brisk and businesslike. "How much
do you want for the job?" he asked. "How about a controlling factor
in the world of Sweetness and Light?"
Battle smiled slowly. "I never
accept a proposition like that," he said. "Twenty thousand is my
talking point for all services over a six-month period."
"Done," said Breen
promptly, counting out twenty bills from an antiquated wallet. Battle pocketed them without batting an eyelash. "Now," he said, "what's my
job?"
"As you may know," said
Breen, "Sweetness and Light is intended to bring into being a new world.
Everybody will be happy, and absolute freedom will be the rule and not the
exception. All carnal vices will be forbidden and peace will reign. Now, there
happens to be an enemy of this movement at large. He thinks he has, in fact, a
rival movement. It is your job to convince him that there is no way but mine.
And you are at absolute liberty to use any argument you wish. Is that
clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," said Battle. "What's his name?"
"Lenninger Underbottam,"
said Breen, grinding his teeth. "The most unprincipled faker that ever
posed as a scientist and scholar throughout the long history of the world. His
allegedly rival movement is called 'Devil Take the Hindmost.' The world
he wishes to bring into being would be one of the most revolting excessesall
compulsory, mark you! I consider it my duty to the future to blot him
out!"
His rage boiled over into a string
of expletives. Then, looking properly ashamed, he apologized. "Underbottam
affects me strangely and horribly. I believe that if I were left alone with him
I shouldI, exponent of Sweetness and Light!resort to violence. Anyway,
Lieutenant, you will find him either at his offices in the Empire State
Building where the rotter cowers under the alias of the Double-Action
Kettlesnatcher Manufacturing Corporation or in his upstate plant where he is
busy turning out not only weapons and defenses but also his ridiculous
Kettlesnatcher, a device to remove kettles from the stove in case of hurricane
or typhoon."
Battle completed his notes and
stowed away his memo book. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Where
shall I deliver the body?"
"Hello!" whispered a
voice.
"Spike!" Battle whispered back. "What are you doing here?" He jerked a thumb at the illuminated
ground glass of the door and the legend, Double-Action Kettlesnatcher
Manufacturing Corp., Lenninger Underbottam, Pres.
"They told me where to find
you."
"They?"
"Mr. Breen, of course. Who
did you think?"
"But," expostulated the
lieutenant, "I thought you hated him and his movement."
"Oh, that," said the
girl casually. "It was just a whim. Are you going to knock him off?"
"Of course. But how did you
get here?"
"Climbed one of the elevator
shafts. The night watchman never saw me. How did you make it?"
"I slugged the guard and used
a service lift. Let's go."
Battle applied a clamp to the
doorknob and wrenched it out like a turnip from muddy ground. The door swung
open as his two Colts leaped into his hands. The fat man at the ornate desk
rose with a cry of alarm and began to pump blood as Battle drilled him between
the eyes.
"Okay. That's enough,"
said a voice. The lieutenant's guns were snatched from his hands with a jerk
that left them stinging, and he gaped in alarm as he saw, standing across the
room, an exact duplicate of the bleeding corpse on the floor.
"You Battle?" asked the
duplicate, who was holding a big, elaborate sort of radio tube in his hand.
"Yes," said the
lieutenant feebly. "My card"
"Never mind that. Who's the
dame?"
"Miss McSweeney. And you,
sir, are?"
"I'm Underbottam, Chief of
Devil Take the Hindmost. You from Breen?"
"I was engaged by the doctor
for a brief period," admitted Battle. "However, our services were
terminated"
"Liar," snapped
Underbottam. "And if they weren't, they will be in a minute or two. Lamp
this!" He rattled the radio tube, and from its grid leaped a fiery
radiance that impinged momentarily on the still-bleeding thing that Battle had shot down. The thing was consumed in one awful blast of heat. "End of a
robot," said Underbottam, shaking the tube again. The flame died down, and
there was nothing left of the corpse but a little fused lump of metal.
"Now, you going to work for
me, Battle?"
"Why not?" shrugged the
lieutenant.
"Okay. Your duties are as
follows: Get Breen. I don't care how you get him, but get him soon. He posed
for twenty years as a scientist without ever being apprehended. Well, I'm going
to do some apprehending that'll make all previous apprehending look like no
apprehension at all. You with me?"
"Yes," said Battle, very much confused. "What's that thing you have?"
"Piggy-back heat ray. You
transpose the air in its path into an unstable isotope which tends to carry all
energy as heat. Then you shoot your juice, light or whatever along the isotopic
path and you burn whatever's on the receiving end. You want a few?"
"No," said Battle. "I have my gats. What else have you got for offense and defense?"
Underbottam opened a cabinet and
proudly waved an arm. "Everything," he said. "Disintegrators,
heat rays, bombs of every type. And impenetrable shields of energy, massive and
portable. What more do I need?"
"Just as I thought,"
mused the lieutenant. "You've solved half the problem. How about tactics?
Who's going to use your weapons?"
"Nothing to that,"
declaimed Underbottam airily. "I just announce that I have the perfect
social system. My army will sweep all before it. Consider: Devil Take the
Hindmost promises what every persons wantspleasure, pure and simple. Or
vicious and complex, if necessary. Pleasure will be compulsory; people will be
so happy that they won't have time to fight or oppress or any of the other
things that make the present world a caricature of a madhouse."
"What about hangovers?"
unexpectedly asked Spike McSweeney.
Underbottam grunted. "My dear
young lady," he said. "If you had a hangover, would you want to do
anything except die? It's utterly automatic. Only puritansdamn them!have time
enough on their hands to make war. You see?"
"It sounds reasonable,"
confessed the girl.
"Now, Battle," said
Underbottam. "What are your rates?"
"Twen" began the
lieutenant automatically. Then, remembering the ease with which he had made his
last twenty thousand, he paused. "Thir" he began again. "Forty
thousand," he said firmly, holding out his hand.
"Right," said
Underbottam, handing him two bills. Battle scanned them hastily and stowed them
away. "Come on," he said to Spike. "We have a job to do:'
The lieutenant courteously showed
Spike a chair. "Sit down," he said firmly. "I'm going to
unburden myself." Agitatedly Battle paced his room. "I don't know
where in hell I'm at!" he yelled frantically. "All my life I've been
a soldier. I know military science forward and backward, but I'm damned if I
can make head or tail of this bloody mess. Two scientists, each at the other's
throat, me hired by both of them to knock off the otherand incidentally, where
do you stand?" He glared at the girl.
"Me?" she asked mildly.
"I just got into this by accident. Breen manufactured me originally, but I
got out of order and gave you that fantastic story about me being a steno at
his officeI can hardly believe it was me!"
"What do you mean,
manufactured you?" demanded Battle.
"I'm a robot, Lieutenant.
Look." Calmly she took off her left arm and put it on again.
Battle collapsed into a chair.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he groaned.
"You didn't ask me," she
retorted with spirit. "And what's wrong with robots? I'm a very superior
model, by the waythe Seduction Special, designed for diplomats, army officers
(that must be why I sought you out), and legislators. Part of Sweetness and
Light. Breen put a lot of work into me himself. I'm only good for about three
years, but Breen expects the world to be his by then."
Battle sprang from his chair.
"Well, this pretty much decides me, Spike. I'm washed up. I'm through with
Devil Take the Hindmost and Sweetness and Light both. I'm going back to
Tannu-Tuva for the counterrevolution. Damn Breen, Underbottam and the rest of
them!"
"That isn't right,
Lieutenant," said the robot thoughtfully. "Undeterred, one or the
other of them is bound to succeed. And that won't be nice for you. A world without
war?"
"Awk!" grunted Battle. "You're right, Spike. Something has to be done. But not by me. That heat
rayugh!" He shuddered.
"Got any friends?" asked
Spike.
"Yes," said Battle, looking at her hard. "How did you know?"
"I just guessed" began
the robot artlessly.
"Oh no you didn't,"
gritted the lieutenant. "I was just going to mention them. Can you read
minds?"
"Yes," said the robot in
a small voice. "I was built that way. Governor Burlyfaugh! It was a
mess."
"Andand you know all about
me?" demanded Battle.
"Yes," she said. "I
know you're forty-seven and not thirty-two. I know that you were busted from
the Marines. And I know that your real name is"
"That's enough," he
said, white-faced.
"But," said the robot
softly, "I love you anyway."
"What?" sputtered the
lieutenant.
"And I know that you love me,
too, even if I amwhat I am."
Battle stared at her neat little
body and her sweet little face. "Can you be kissed?" he asked at
length.
"Of course, Lieutenant,"
she said. Then, demurely, "I told you I was a very superior model."
To expect a full meeting of the
Saber Club would be to expect too much. In the memory of the oldest living
member, Major Breughel, who had been to the Netherlands Empire what Clive and
Warren Hastings had been to the British, two thirdsnearlyhad gathered from
the far corners of the earth to observe the funeral services for a member who
had been embroiled in a gang war and shot in the back. The then mayor of New York had been reelected for that reason.
At the present meeting, called by
First Class Member Battle, about a quarter of the membership appeared.
There was Peasely, blooded in Tonkin, 1899. He had lost his left leg to the thigh with Kolchak in Siberia. Peasely was
the bombardier of the Saber Club. With his curious half-lob he could place a
Mills or potato masher or nitro bottle on a dime.
Vaughn, he of the thick Yorkshire
drawl, had the unique honor of hopping on an Axis submarine and cleaning it out
with a Lewis gun from stem to stern, then, single-handed, piloting it to
Liverpool, torpedoing a German mine layer on the way.
The little Espera had left a trail
of bloody revolution through the whole of South America; he had a weakness for
lost causes. It was worth his life to cross the Panama Canal; therefore he made
it a point to do so punctually, once a year. He never had his bullets removed.
By latest tally three of his ninety-seven pounds were lead.
"When," demanded Peasely
fretfully, "is that lug going to show up? I had an appointment with a
cabinetmaker for a new leg. Had to call it off for Battle's summons. Bloody
shamehe doesn't give a hang for my anatomy."
"Ye'll coom when 'e wish,
bate's un," drawled Vaughn unintelligibly. Peasely snarled at him.
Espera sprang to his feet.
"Miss Millicent," he said effusively.
"Don't bother to rise,
gentlemen," announced the tall, crisp woman who had entered. "As if
you would anyway. I just collected on that Fiorenza deal, Manuel," she
informed Espera. "Three gees. How do you like that?"
"I could have done a cleaner
job," said Peasely snappishly. He had cast the only blackball when this
first woman to enter the Saber Club had been voted a member. "What did you
use?"
"Lyddite," she said,
putting on a pale lipstick.
"Thot's pawky
explaw-seeve," commented Vaughn. "I'd moat risk such."
She was going to reply tartly when
Battle strode in. They greeted him with a muffled chorus of sighs and curses.
"Hi," he said briefly.
"I'd like your permission to introduce a person waiting outside. Rules do
not apply in her case forfor certain reasons. May I?"
There was a chorus of assent. He
summoned Spike, who entered. "Now," said Battle, "I'd like your
help in a certain matter of great importance to us all."
"Yon's t' keenin' tool,"
said the Yorkshireman.
"Okay, then. We have to storm
and take a plant in New Jersey. This plant is stocked with new
weaponsdangerous weaponsweapons that, worst of all, are intended to effect a
world revolution which will bring an absolute and complete peace within a
couple of years, thus depriving us of our occupations without compensation. Out
of self-defense we must take this measure. Who is with me?"
All hands shot up in approval.
"Good. Further complications are as follows: This is only one world
revolution; there's another movement which is in rivalry to it, and which will
surely dominate if the first does not. So we will have to split our
forces"
"No you won't," said the
voice of Underbottam.
"Where are you?" asked Battle, looking around the room.
"In my office, you traitor.
I'm using a wire screen in your clubroom for a receiver and loudspeaker in a
manner you couldn't possibly understand."
"I don't like that traitor
talk," said Battle evenly. "I mailed back your moneyand Breen's. Now
what was that you said?"
"We'll be waiting for you
together in Rockefeller Center. Breen and I have pooled our interests. After
we've worked our revolution we're going to flip a coin. That worm doesn't
approve of gambling, of course, but he'll make this exception."
"And if I know you,
Underbottam," said Battle heavily, "it won't be gambling. What time
in Rockefeller Center?"
"Four in the morning. Bring
your friendsnothing like a showdown. By heaven, I'm going to save the world
whether you like it or not!"
The wire screen from which the
voice had been coming suddenly fused in a flare of light and heat.
Miss Millicent broke the silence.
"Scientist!" she said in a voice heavy with scorn. Suddenly there was
a gun in her palm. "If he's human I can drill him," she declared.
"Yeah," said Battle
gloomily. "That was what I thought."
The whole length of Sixth Avenue
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, as the six crept through the
early morning darkness under the colossal shadow of the RCA building. The
vertical architecture of the Center was lost in the sky as they hugged the wall
of the Music Hall.
"When do you suppose they'll
finish it?" asked Peasely, jerking a thumb at the boarding over the Sixth
Avenue subway under construction.* (* When last I saw this area, 28 years
almost to the day after publication of Cyril's story, the boarding was there
stillor again. Ed. )
"What do you care?"
grunted Battle. "We need a scout to take a look at the plaza. How about
you, Manuel? You're small and quick."
"Right," grinned Espera.
"I could use a little more weight." He sped across the street on
silent soles, no more than a shadow in the dark. But he had been spotted, for a
pale beam of light hissed for a moment on the pavement beside him. He flattened
and gestured.
"Come onhe says,"
muttered Miss Millicent. They shot across the street and flattened against the
building. "Where are they, Manuel?" demanded Battle.
"Right there in the Plaza
beside the fountain. They have a mess of equipment. Tripods and things. A small
generator."
"Shall I try a masher?" asked
Peasely.
"Do," said Miss
Millicent. "Nothing would be neater."
The man with the wooden leg
unshipped a bomb from his belt and bit out the pin. He held it to his ear for
just a moment to hear it sizzle. "I love the noise," he explained
apologetically to Spike. Then he flung it with a curious twist of his arm.
Crash!
Battle looked around the corner of
the building. "They haven't been touched. And that racket's going to draw
the authorities," he said. "They have some kind of screen, I
guess."
"Darling," whispered
Spike.
"What it is?" asked
Battle, sensing something in her tone.
"Nothing," she said, as
women will.
"Close in under heavy fire,
maybe?" suggested the little Espera.
"Yep," snapped Battle.
"Ooops! There goes a police whistle."
Pumping lead from both hips, the
six of them advanced down the steps to the Plaza, where Breen and Underbottam
were waiting behind a kind of shimmering illumination.
The six ducked behind the
waist-high stone wall of the Danish restaurant, one of the eateries which
rimmed the Plaza. Hastily, as the others kept up their fire, Vaughn set up a
machine gun.
"Doon, a' fu' leef!" he
ordered. They dropped behind the masking stone. "Cae oot, yon
cawbies," yelled Vaughn.
His only answer was a sudden
dropping of the green curtain and a thunderbolt or something like it that
winged at him and went way over his head, smashing into the RCA building and
shattering three stories.
"Haw!" laughed Peasely.
"They can't aim! Watch this." He bit another grenade and bowled it
underhand against the curtain. The ground heaved and bucked as the crash of the
bomb sounded. In rapid succession he rolled over enough to make the
once-immaculate Plaza as broken a bit of terrain as was ever seen, bare
pipes and wires exposed underneath. Underbottam's face was distorted with rage.
The curtain dropped abruptly and
the two embattled scientists and would-be saviors of the world squirted wildly
with everything they hadrays in every color of the spectrum, thunderbolts and
lightning flashes, some uncomfortably near.
The six couldn't face up to it;
what they saw nearly blinded them. They flattened themselves to the ground and
prayed mutely in the electric clash and spatter of science unleashed.
"Darling," whispered
Spike, her head close to Battle's. "Yes?"
"Have you got a match?"
she asked tremulously. "Nodon't say a word." She took the match pack
and kissed him awkwardly and abruptly. "Stay under cover," she said.
"Don't try to follow. When my fuel tank catches it'll be pretty violent."
Suddenly she was out from behind
the shelter and plastered against one of the tumbled rocks, to leeward of the
worldsavers' armory. A timid bullet or two was coming from the Danish
restaurant.
In one long, staggering run she
made nearly seven yards, then dropped, winged by a heat ray that cauterized her
arm. Cursing, Spike held the matches in her mouth and tried to strike one with
her remaining hand. It lit, and she applied it to the match pack, dropping it
to the ground. Removing what remained of her right arm, she lit it at the
flaring pack. It blazed like a torch; her cellulose skin was highly
inflammable.
She used the arm to ignite her
body at strategic points and then, a blazing, vengeful figure of flame, hurled
herself on the two scientists in the Plaza.
From the restaurant Battle could
see, through tear-wet eyes, the features of the fly-by-night worldsavers. Then
Spike's fuel tank exploded and everything blotted out in one vivid sheet of
flame.
"Come on! The cops!"
hissed Miss Millicent. She dragged him, sobbing as he was, into the Independent
subway station that let out into the Center. Aimlessly he let her lead him onto
an express, the first of the morning.
"Miss Millicent, I loved
her," he complained.
"Why don't you join the
Foreign Legion to forget?" she suggested amiably.
"What?" he said, making
a wry face. "Again?"
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