The Rival Rigelians

She dithered. “But, my papers. My records.”

“Look, don’t be a yoke. We have no time, no time for anything.” He pointed out the window at a fast running contingent of men, headed by a black-robed Temple monk. “Here they come.”

At last she hustled to her feet. She stared out the window. “But I’m a doctor. I haven’t broken any laws.”

He looked at her glumly. “My dear, a doctor tied to a stake burns just as merrily as does any witch. Is there a back exit out of here?”

She led the way, the small gun clutched, forgotten, in her left hand. She took him out a rear entrance, into the whiteness of a hospital corridor which stretched the full length of the building.

They hurried down it, ignoring the stares of hospital personnel and patients.

Suddenly, the far end of the corridor filled with uniformed men.

“Quick,” Dean snapped. “This way!” He branched off into a side hall, she immediately after him. He was puffing. The weight he had taken on over these years as a prosperous tycoon was taking its toll.

They burst through a door and he collided with a burly sergeant of foot, half a dozen of his men bringing up the rear.

Mike Dean was no coward. His gun came up and his face twisted into a snarl.

Natalie Wieliczka grabbed his arm, dragging the gun down. She had dropped her own weapon.

“Let me go!” he snarled, trying to shake her off. The sergeant evidently had no idea his quarry was so near. He stared, for the moment, motionless.

Natalie said, “No. No, Mike. No killing. We’re caught. We can’t get away.”

More men at arms crowded into the area before them. Behind, they could hear still more coming up.

Mike Dean shrugged. The game was obviously up. Suddenly, he felt very tired. Not just physically so. He wished that he could have somehow got Natalie away, but evidently not even that was in the cards.

The sergeant gathered himself. “You are both under arrest.”

Behind him a Temple monk hurried up, his face in great excitement. “In the name of the Supreme…” he began.

“And all that jetsam,” Mike Dean muttered. At the end of the third decade, the Texcocan delegation was already seated in the Pedagogue’s lounge when Jerome Kennedy, Martin Gunther, Peter MacDonald, Fredric Buchwald and three Genoese, Baron Leonar and the Honorables Russ and Modrin appeared.

The Texcocan group consisted of Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins, and Natt Roberts to one side of him, Taller and six Texcocans on the other.

All came to their feet when the Genoese delegation appeared. Barry Watson was frowning unhappily. He said to Kennedy, “Didn’t Doctor Wieliczka come?”

It was MacDonald who answered. He said softly, “Natalie Wieliczka, along with Mike Dean and Louis Rosetti were captured. From what we understand…”

“Captured!” Watson barked. “What happened? What steps have you taken to rescue…”

MacDonald held up a chubby hand. “Evidently, they were burned as witches.”

Barry Watson sank into a chair, staring. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

Fredric Buchwald’s eyes had been going over the Texcocan delegation. “And Doctor Sanchez?”

Dick Hawkins growled. “That bitch is under confinement. House arrest, I suppose you’d call it.”

Barry Watson got control of himself. He looked up, his face hard now. “Where’s Amschel Mayer? I’ve got some important points to cover with him.”

All began to find seating for themselves, Kennedy saying to Barry Watson in a slur, “Take it easy fella. For that matter where’s Joe Chessman?”

Watson glared at the other. “You know where he is.”

“That I do, that I do,” Kennedy chuckled. “He’s purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won’t be anything left of you by the time our half century is up.” He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who’d been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. “Let’s have some refreshments here. What’ll everybody have?”

“You act as though you’ve had enough already,” Watson bit out. He was a far cry from the youthful seeming, lanky and easy going man who had landed on Texcoco thirty years before.

Jerry Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious, Both the native Texcocans and those of Genoa eyed each other curiously; both held their peace. Their difference in costume, one group military, the other obviously businessmen, was striking.

Kennedy said slyly, “I see we’ve been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you’d know more of our affairs.”

“Not all our agents,” Watson barked. “Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?”