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hardplaz pipe, wooden clubs, and hunks of metal.
That produced echoing bongs and bangs.
The metal man, oblivious, continued on his slow way along the street.
"I'm only here to help you hooligans," he said in his deep,
rumbling voice.
"We don't trust you, Stats!"
"You work for them."
Dan stopped, watching the fracas and trying to figure out what was
going on.
Stats told the group, "All you whelps have to do is answer a few simple
questions."
"Get back to your own zone."
"Skarf yourself, Stats."
A long, thin, black girl with orange hair took a swing at the robot
with a rusty iron rod. She hit him square in his metal face.
"If you won't answer questions," explained the got patiently,
"there'll be no dole for you."
Just then the tip of a sharp blade poked into Dan's back.
"It'd be best, love, if you just come along quiet," suggested a
whispering voice. Arthur Bairnhouse's desk was made of real wood and
was at least two centuries old. It was piled high with folders, sheets
of fax paper memos, clippings, photos. The plump detective was sitting
behind it in a real wood chair. "One of our operatives," he was
telling Jake, "just talked to a young woman named Jillian Kearny. She
goes to school in Barsetshire and knows your son. She admits to having
talked to him immediately prior to his having run away."
Jake asked, "Does she have any idea where Dan went?" "She passed on
some information as to the possible whereabouts of the Sands girl.
She's now very much afraid that Daniel disregarded her warnings and
came to London." From the desktop clutter Bairnhouse picked up a map
and spread it out on a small cleared area. "Take a look at this, if
you will, Cardigan. This entire circled section of our city is a
gang-ridden wilderness.
Along here, at the end of Victoria Street, is the bailiwick of a youth
gang that calls itself the Westminster Gang."
"They're near Westminster Abbey."
"Near the ruins of the abbey," said the plump detective. "According to
Miss Kearny, the Sands girl has a friend who's a member of this
particular gang. That friend's name in the civilized world was Mary
Elizabeth Joiner. Now she's known as Silverhand Sally."
"Jillian Kearny told Dan that Nancy went to join this friend?"
Bairnhouse nodded. "She wanted him merely to pass the information on
to the authorities--or to you. So that a search could be made for
Nancy Sands. She apparently doesn't trust the people the Sands girl is
living with, a couple named McCay. Your son, however, chose to hunt
for his missing friend himself, it seems."
"That's like him, yeah."
"And like you, Cardigan," pointed out Bairnhouse. "Let's continue with
this briefing, if you will. Here on the map you'll notice Grosvenor
Place. That's where, in the shadow of what's left of Buckingham
Palace, the Tek Kids are headquartered."
"Tek Kids?"
"Perhaps you haven't encountered them yet in America, or perhaps
they're called something else." Bairnhouse rubbed at his flat nose.
"TKs are the unfortunate offsprings of Tek-using mothers. They suffer
from the mutagenic effects that prolonged of Tek seems to have on a
certain percentage of addicts."
us'e'I think I did see a couple of reports on them," recalled Jake.
"They tend to be extremely violent, amoral, vicious, and very quick to
anger."
"Right you are. Too restless for school and virtually un treatable in
institutions," said Bairnhouse, his thick forefinger tapping on the
map. "What happens usually is that they gradually drift into the
slums, ghettos, and ruins of our big cities. They form packs, and when
they're not fighting amongst themselves, they prey on other gangs and
pull off raids on the outside world. They unfortunately differ from
other teen gangs in that a certain percentage of them have ps ionic
powers. Some are tele ks others
possess ESP powers. All of which makes TKs very dangerous, not the
sort of people for either your son or yourself to become involved
with."
Jake was studying the map. "The TKs aren't that far from the
Westminsters."
"Exactly, and to reach Silverhand Sally your son may try to cross the
TKs' sacred ground."
Jake grinned briefly. "I know, Arthur, that you're trying to
discourage me from going in alone after Dan," he told the detec i'
tive. "Your lecture, though, has the opposite effect. I can't let
Dan wander around in there alone."
"I thought that would be your position, Cardigan."
"There's no alternative, since I understand the police are reluctant to
cross over into that part of London."
"They make occasional trips," said Bairnhouse. "We might be able to
persuade them to mount a search for your son and the Sands girl."
"After considerable red tape and circumlocution." "They wouldn't
undertake the job today, let us say." "I'll do it alone."
From his desk Bairnhouse picked up a sheet of fax paper "Here's a small
list of people who can provide you information, and dire warnings in
some instances, about this part of London," he said, handing Jake the
page. "I've also included a couple of reliable contacts who live in
the gang zone
Jake said, "Thanks, Arthur."
"We'll continue to work on this in our way, of course." "Good. I'll
continue to work on it in my way."
Natalie Dent was sitting in a silvery control chair in Briefing Room 2
of the Paris offices of Newz, Inc. "Pay attention, Gomez," she urged.
"Sit up straight."
He was slumped in a lower chair at her right, more or less watching the
wall in front of them. It contained sixteen large pix monitor screens,
laid out in rows of four. "I've been drinking all this in, Nat," he
assured her. "Hoping against hope that we'd soon get to the point."
"Once a putz always a putz," obscured Sidebar. The robot cameraman was
sitting in a fat chair at the rear of the big, chill room.
"What I've showed you thus far, which you ought to have comprehended,
Gomez, is all important background material for what I'm about to
reveal," said the red-haired reporter. "Is it perhaps that you're
mooning over Mrs. Bouchon, who's not totally unattractive for a woman
of her advanced years and--"
"Madeleine hasn't advanced anywhere near as far as I have,
chiquita."
"I couldn't help noticing, and you don't have to be a topflight
investigative reporter such as I am to have spotted it, that she was
quite profusely demonstrative and affectionate when you left her at
that safe house your detective agency arranged for her."
"To a fiery Latin such as myself, Nat, a chaste peck on the forehead
isn't considered the height of physical passion. Can we get to what
you know about Michel Chasseriau?"
"What we're leading up to, Gomez, is exactly--"
"What did the guy want to impart to Madeleine Bouchon?"
"Really, Gomez. You're as grumpy as a bear with a sore nose."
"Paw."
"Beg pardon?"
"Sore paws are what, traditionally, make bears grumpy." Natalie
sighed. "Look at Screen 5," she suggested. "That's some footage ofBram
Wexler, a Britisher who heads up the Paris office of the International
Drug Control Agency." The smiling man on the monitor screen was in his
early forties, conservatively dressed, strolling down a bright
springtime Parisian boulevard completely unaware that he was being
photographed. "Wexler was Bouchon's boss, and in the course of
investigating all aspects of this story, I came across a tip that he
may have some connection with Bouchon's murder."
"Where does Chasseriau come in?"
"He's been avoiding the office since the killing, uncertain as to what
to do about the knowledge he has," answered the reporter. "Another
informant told me that Chasseriau might be willing to talk about what
he knew. That's Chasseriau on Screen 7." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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