I was getting very tired of that accent, phony or genuine. "What is it, old boy?"

"There seems to be a car coming down the canyon. Can't be sure it's headed here, of course, but nevertheless-"

"Oh, Lord!" I said reverently.

We weren't out of the woods, but at least I was beginning to see daylight through the trees ahead. I tucked the little lead cylinder back into its heroin nest, and put the lid back on the can. This gave me something to do while I figured my tactics. You don't ever want to let anyone know you haven't got the answers right at your fingertips.

Then I went over and dropped Martell's automatic on Logan's cot and went out of the cabin without giving any stupid instructions. If he was as good as he was supposed to be-which we'd seen no signs of yet-he'd think of something intelligent to do. If he couldn't think of it himself, he probably wouldn't do it right if I told him.

They came in beautifully, like ducks to the decoys. I was up above them on the hillside, behind a bush, as they bounced into range in their long, air-conditioned Cadillac. There was Fredericks and a driver, the man I'd once seen guarding the door of Fredericks' office at the hotel. They drove right up below me and got out and looked around.

"Both cars are here," I heard Fredericks say. "I wonder what the hell-"

From inside the cabin came the shrill, outraged scream of a woman. Logan had thought of something, and Beth had done it. I'd have to pin medals on both of them, later.

The driver laughed. "No wonder they were too busy to hear us coming."

Fredericks said angrily, "Damn it, they can do their womanizing on their own time! I'll teach them to keep me waiting."

I had the driver covered, figuring him to be more dangerous. Fredericks wouldn't have been doing his own shooting for years. It should have been an easy touch, but I had to go and remember Mac's words: at least a semblance of legality, to keep our brother agencies happy. I stood up behind my bush.

"Put your hands up!" I said. "You're both under arrest!"

It was a stupid damn business. There must be some good way of doing it-cops do it all the time, I hear- but obviously that wasn't it. They both dove in different directions, going for their guns.

I got the driver all right, leading him nicely, so that he lunged right into the path of the bullet. Then I swung for Fredericks, and something hit me a hard and paralyzing blow in the right side of the chest.

I tried for the gun with my left hand. There's a stunt known as the Border Shift whereby you transfer a weapon from one hand to the other-a kind of juggling trick. The only trouble is, it doesn't work too damn well when your right arm's out of commission, and when else do you need it? The last time it was actually tried in action, on the record, as far as I know, was when Luke Short, an old-time gambler and a tough one, clipped the hand of some wild-shooting drunk, who then tried the Shift, too, but he didn't make it, either. Luke shot him dead.

I felt the revolver drop, and I threw myself on top of it, still trying to find it left-handed. I didn't have much time. I could feel the gun trained on me and I wondered where this one would hi;..

There was a shot all right, and another, but no bullets came near me. I picked up the.38 and looked up. Fredericks was standing there with an odd, slack look on his face, doing nothing whatever. He dropped the gun he was holding. Then he started to fall.

I looked towards the cabin. Well, he had to be good for something, the reputation he had around that place.

It was the shoulder-holster man, the great white hunter, old Bwana Simba himself coming out of retirement, a beautiful sight. How he'd made it to the door on a shattered leg, even with Beth to help him, I didn't know. I didn't intend to ask. He'd just give me some of that stiff-upper-lip, British guff.

He was shooting very carefully, making target practice of it, body as relaxed as his wound allowed, arm extended but not locked. He put two more into The Man as he fell, with deliberate accuracy, making quite sure. He'd been in the business once, himself.

I got up. My chest didn't seem to hurt much. That would come later. I went over and checked the Duke's work, and my own. I made my way to where he still leaned in the doorway. Beth was beside him, steadying him. I looked at the two of them, and spoke to him.

"That was pretty fair country shooting, old chap," I said. "While we still have some privacy, you might let me know how much of this you want credit for, on the books."

He looked me straight in the eye. "None, if it can be arranged," he said.

I thought of various things, and said, "We could probably get you a small medal or some nice words from Uncle or something."

He glanced at Beth. "We would rather not figure in it at all, if it's possible," he said, and she nodded. He smiled faintly. "I would certainly prefer not to be remembered as the man who smuggled a certain number of pounds of heroin, not to mention that other material, across the Mexican border. If it's all the same to you, old man."

It wasn't the same to me, not quite, but the guy had saved my life-at least I thought so at the time. There were occasions during the next couple of weeks when I wasn't quite so sure.

Chapter Twenty-Jive

THE YOUNG MAN from the AEC said, "Of course, Mr. Helm, you understand all this is highly confidential."

"Oh, sure," I said. "What was in those cans, anyway? Their new pocket model atomic bomb?"

"Well," he said reluctantly, "not quite. It was… a very ingenious sabotage device consisting of radioactive wastes enclosed in a shielded container with a small bursting charge. The explosive wasn't sufficient to do much damage, but it would distribute the radioactive material over a fairly wide area, with unfortunate results to anyone who happened to be standing nearby, particularly if he didn't realize the danger and undergo decontamination immediately. We've had a few cases…"

"I know," I said. "1 read the papers."

"There have been others, less fatal, that didn't reach the papers," he said. "In many cases, with prompt action, the injury was relatively slight-the physical injury that is. But the injury to morale has been serious." He frowned. "You must understand, Mr. Helm, that people who work around nuclear reactions tend to be, well, let's say, a bit sensitive about anything pertaining to radioactivity. Just like people working around high explosives tend to jump unnecessarily at loud noises. When things start to burst that shouldn't, if you know what I mean, and when people find themselves receiving heavy contamination in places that are supposed to be relatively safe… Well, it cuts down the efficiency, to say the least. One installation, just the other day, couldn't even get the trash removed until the workers were permitted to don full protective clothing. Things like that. It was a fiendishly clever device, psychologically speaking. If they'd got enough of them.

I looked at the bright window, through which, since I was on the second floor of the hospital, I could see only the blue and cloudless Nevada sky.

"Shielded, you say," I said. "How much shielding do you get from that little bit of lead?"

He laughed. "You don't have to worry, Mr. Helm. You've been checked, very thoroughly. Although you handled one of the bombs, you apparently didn't get enough exposure to do any damage. It was only when the contents were actually splashed on someone that the situation was urgent and dangerous. However, if some gentleman down in Mexico slept with the entire supply under his bed, he might be feeling a little unwell by now. And I don't know as I'd care to shoot that heroin into my veins, even if I was addicted to the stuff. Of course, that was their difficulty. Any normally sensitive instrument would have detected the hot material through the relatively inadequate lead shield, which is why they brought it in by such roundabout channels."