There was a slight hesitation. I didn't look in Martell's direction.

He said, "Mr. Fredericks, I don't think I ought to leave right now."

"What the hell do you… Oh, this one? Hell, I can handle this beanpole Casanova. You saw-"

"Yeah, I saw," Martell said, and I knew he was squirming inside like a hooked angleworm. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay and supervise my fate. But it was his turn to remain in character. He tried once more, however. "My advice-"

Fredericks flushed. "Who the hell's asking your advice, punk? Take her home. And, Fenn…"

Martell's voice was very soft. "Yes, Mr. Fredericks?"

"Don't go inside the door. I heard all about you long before you got here."

"Yes, Mr. Fredericks."

He came across the room stiffly. Moira seemed to come out on her hate dream with a start. The mark of her father's hand was still red on her cheek, but her eyes were suddenly dark and remorseful as she glanced in my direction.

She'd used me to hurt the man behind the desk, without thinking of me. Now she was realizing what she'd done to me-or thought She'd done: the outcome hadn't really been changed much by her angry words. Fredericks hadn't brought me here to welcome me into the family.

I said, "Run along, kid."

"I won't leave-"

"Go on," I said, wishing she'd hurry up and get Mar-tell out of there. As long as he was around, I was in serious trouble.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I didn't mean… I just kind of flipped, I guess."

"Sure. Now go."

She started to speak again, and checked herself. Martell was waiting. She went up to him, and they left the room together. Before the door closed, I saw a man standing guard outside, the man who'd brought us down the hall.

It still wasn't good, but with Martell gone it didn't worry me too much. I'd met Fredericks; I knew where I stood with Martell; I'd learned all I could expect to learn here. It was time to stage a disengagement, as we used to say in the Army.

Fredericks was staring at me hard over the desk. He said, "So you've got guts, have you? We'll see about your guts!"

I watched him get up and walk around the table and come to me, and I couldn't help being aware of my aching ribs and throbbing jaw. These hoodlums walk so big and talk so loud.

He said, "That isn't the only thing we'll see about. We'll fix you so you'll be no more trouble to young girls."

It wasn't unexpected, it was the way his mind would work, but it didn't help establish him in my mind as a citizen to be protected and preserved. He came to me and slapped me across the face-slapped me, for God's sake! It was pitiful. It was irritating. You get tired of being the cold, impersonal, machine-like hunter of men sometimes; you think of the fun it would be to do one strictly for kicks.

My hand was in my pocket, and the little knife was in my hand. He slapped me again, and I'd had enough of Salvatore Frederici, and I grinned at him pleasantly, the little man who was dead and didn't know it. All I had to do was bring it out, flick it open, and insert it in the right place. By any standards of judgment, he'd lived quite long enough. My mind gave the signal. My hand didn't move. I couldn't do it.

I couldn't do it. I heard Mac's voice: It's a war of sorts and you can consider yourselves soldiers of sort… I couldn't do it just because I was fed up with the guy. I couldn't do it because he'd slapped Moira. I couldn't even do it because, in some way that I didn't know about yet, he was undoubtedly the man responsible for turning the ranch where my children lived into an armed camp with an atmosphere of terror.

Don't misunderstand me. He was on the list, and if I ever got a chance at him in the line of duty, I wouldn't hesitate. In fact, from now on I'd be looking for the chance. But I didn't need to kill him to get away-at least I didn't think so-and I couldn't kill him just because he'd made me lose my temper. It wasn't a sufficient reason. It wasn't what I'd been trained for. It wasn't what I was here for, to avenge injuries to my tender pride…

Chapter Thirteen

SOMETHING moved in his eyes, a kind of sudden, vague uneasiness, and he stepped quickly to the desk and hit a buzzer. An instant later the man in the hail was standing behind me. There was a little more after that, of course. Big Sal had been afraid for a moment there; and like his boy Ricky he had to regain status by kicking the dog. I had a tender abdomen and a bloody nose to add to my souvenirs when they marched me out and turned me over to the two punks, with instructions. Ricky thought those instructions were real great.

"Keep him covered," he said to Tony. "Keep the bastard covered till we get him out of town where I can work on him right."

Tony said, "Do you just give orders around here, or can you push elevator buttons, too?"

They took me downstairs again, and out across the parking lot to the car. It was broad daylight now, and had been for several hours, and I had that feeling of having lost track of the days that comes when you've gone without sleep for a while. It was hot, with the dry Nevada heat bouncing off the asphalt pavement. There were some people on the street but none in the parking area. The people who made this a busy place at night were sleeping late this morning. I didn't want any interference, so I waited until Tony had escorted me around the car before I took him.

I'd been a good boy long enough. He was nice and relaxed now, in exactly the right position. I got him by the arm and made the throw in fine style, bringing his arm down sharply across my knee at the finish. He screamed once as various anatomical items tore and snapped; then he hit the pavement with his head and was quiet. It was a little drastic and I felt a little sorry. Unlike some of them, Tony hadn't seemed to be working full time on being as big a louse as possible.

The gun had hit the pavement without going off, which was a relief. It had bounced under the car, which was all right. I didn't want it, anyway. I had other, less noisy, plans for Switchblade Ricky.

He'd been about to open the car door for us. He turned at the single, cut-off scream, and there was a comical, shocked look on his face as he realized that his partner was out of action and he was on his own. The knife came out fast, I'll hand him that. He pushed the button, and the long, thin blade clicked into place.

"All right for you, Buster," he said in his best, menacing tone. "You want it here, you can have it here, the full treatment!" He started forward.

I took my hand out of my pocket and gave the little snap of the wrist that flicks that kind of knife open if you keep it properly cleaned and oiled and know the technique. Opening it two-handed is safer and more reliable, but it doesn't impress people nearly so much. Tony's eyes widened slightly, and he stopped coming. This wasn't supposed to happen. When you pulled knives on suckers and squares, they turned pale green and backed off fearfully; they didn't come up with blades of their own.

He hesitated, saw that my cutting implement was only about half the length of his, regained confidence, and came in fast. I was tempted to play with him a bit, but it was hot, I was tired and sleepy, and when you start playing cat-and-mouse with human beings you deserve trouble and sometimes get it. I sidestepped his clumsy thrust, moved inside the knife, clamped a good hold on his arm, and made one neat surgical cut. The knife dropped from his fingers. That made two of them who'd be operating left-handed for a while, if not forever.

He backed off, holding his wrist, staring at the blood pumping from between his fingers.

I said, "You'd better get a tourniquet on that before you bleed to death."

I stepped over and put my foot on the blade of his knife and pulled up on the handle until the steel snapped.