The Vulcan Disaster

“No matter, I say.” The tone was decisive, final. “The point is that Carter was seeking the item the agent Corbin — the girl’s lover — had just sold to Meyer. It now appears that you, or members of your organization — no, I think you yourself, on second thought — killed Meyer and took the item. This Carter seems to have learned; how, I could not say. At any rate, it has led him to us here...”

“Shimon, please...”

“No; now quiet, please. You say — but how much does he know?”

“Not much,” the General said quietly. “Not much, I think. But enough. Which is of course too much. Here; if you will not turn on your car lights I will be forced to go back and turn on mine...”

“No... no. Zvy? Please? He has the advantage of us in the dark, I think. Confound it, will you, please...”

That meant I had a matter of seconds to get back behind the two cars, out of range of the lights. In the dark I’d do okay, most likely; in the light I’d be just another target. I widened the arc in which I was moving — and ran right into him.

He had something cold and sharp in one hand — something as long and as deadly as Hugo, but with more bulk. I had immediate occasion to find out about the sharp edge. It caught in my sleeve and slashed it all the way to the elbow before withdrawing.

What saved me was his silence. If he’d been trained in karate he’d likely have bellowed at me. That would have gotten the lights turned our way and somebody could have picked me off nice and easy.

I felt the blade — whatever it was — swish past my face. I didn’t bother ducking; by the time I could do so, it had already gone by. Besides, I’m a born counterpuncher. I lunged forward with Hugo and felt him land hard on bone in the middle of the man’s chest. I’d kept him fairly loose in my fist; the wallop didn’t jar my wrist. I gave with the blow and then slashed downward, slicing through the stomach muscles to a point I supposed must be just above the navel.

I could hear his quick intake of breath. It was the only sound he made.

Swiftly, I shoved Hugo upward again, under the ribs. That razor-sharp blade went right into the tough heart muscle; it was like shoving a butcher knife into a slab of raw beef kidney. His body sort of melted down before me. Still with that ghastly silence, making no sound to mark his death, except the silvery ping of his hand weapon, tinkling on the concrete at my feet.

I stooped over, favoring my ribs and picked it up. It was some sort of trident affair, with a handle for grasping, and it’d come in at about fourteen inches and maybe a pound and a half. The blade was flat and as sharp as Hugo’s. I stuck it in my belt and bent over the dead man. Luck: he was packing iron, a short-barrel .38 — poor on accuracy, but I wouldn’t be doing any test-match shooting. I had to get close enough to do something about Phuong, and I made up my mind that I wasn’t leaving there until I’d settled that little matter.

Suddenly the Jag’s lights went on. Almost immediately afterward, the Rolls followed suit. I was very glad I’d backed away behind them. The lights were pointing off where I’d started, when I’d first given them the slip. I moved back, back into the darkness...

The Jag’s engine roared to life. I could hear “Meyer” talking: “Stay by the car. Zvy and I will circle in the Jaguar. Our lights will pick him out. Stay down. He may...”

“Stop” the General said. Zvy, at the wheel, braked. The lights lay full on the dead body of the Oriental, sprawled in a dark puddle; he’d shed a surprising amount of blood from those surface wounds before the heart stopped pumping. “That’s Tamura. I...” The General stepped into view. It was his first mistake, and very nearly his last. I took a nice crouched-over two-handed bead on him with the .38 and shot him twice in the body.

I saw both bullets hit; he was close enough to his own car lights for that. The first slug caught him in the shoulder and spun him all the way around; that shoulder joint would never be much good for anything again. He was tough, though, and stayed on his feet long enough for me to gut-shoot him. My second shot blew him to his knees; from there he crumpled slowly to the ground.

“Zvy!” the bogus Mr. Meyer said. “Now!”

The Jag made for me as I ran, bent over, holding my ribs, for the big Rolls. He’d have gotten me, too, if it hadn’t been for the oil slick he hit in the middle of the big warehouse. It spun his wheels; he hit a skid. By the time Zvy had regained control I’d dived into place behind the big fender of the Silver Cloud. As they went past, I pumped two shots into their side windows. I didn’t think I’d hit anyone.

There was a small sound beside me. The General, in mortal pain, was trying to say something. I bent over... and let Shimon have time to get the big doors open and let the Jag out of the warehouse. They sped away, tires screeching.