The sound came again, accompanied by a little breathless whimpering noise. The arms holding me let go abruptly, and I stumbled back, grabbing a chair to keep from falling. The room was still too dark and my focus wasn't good, but I saw the big man who had almost killed me go to his knees, shielding his head with his arms, while over him hovered a slender, breathless figure in tight light pants and a fuzzy sweater.

I managed the breath I needed and stumbled forward. She had him helpless on all fours now and was systematically hacking away at his head with the butt of the gun I had given her-as if intent on hammering him right through the floor. I came up behind her and caught her arm. She whirled.

"Easy," I said. "Easy, Gail."

"Oh!" She looked down at the gun she was holding wrong-end-to and threw it on the bed. She controlled her breathing with a great effort and spoke flatly. "I thought he'd killed you. Are you all right?"

"Well, I'm not dead," I said. "Thanks."

She swayed and put out a hand to steady herself. I caught her and held her. I would like to be able to report that my only emotions at that moment were love and gratitude-and remorse for having misjudged her- but the picture wasn't that clear in my mind. My ribs ached and my back hurt and oxygen deliveries to my lungs were far behind schedule. It was hard to concentrate on the woman in my arms, but I was aware that she was trembling.

"My dear man," she breathed, "my dear, dear man! Did you know you had the power to transform a female clothes-horse into a raging tigress? I've never in my life done anything like that before." Then she stiffened against me, looking past me. "Matt!" she breathed. "Mail, look!"

I released her and turned. The big man had slumped over on his side. A shaft of light from the open door struck him squarely as he lay there, and I saw his face clearly for the first time. Blood from his lacerated scalp had run across it, but I could see it was the face of Dan Bronkovic, the ex-cop Mr. Paul Peyton, security officer, had introduced as his assistant.

I drew a long breath, feeling a little dizzy. I walked over to the other man who was lying by the foot of the bed and bent down. His face was in worse shape than Bronkovic's, but it was undoubtedly the face of Peyton himself. I don't suppose it was nice to laugh. Maybe I was just a bit hysterical.

XIX

Gail came in from the bathroom, drying her hands with a face towel. She stopped just inside the room, startled.

"Matt! What are you doing?"

I finished giving the injection to Bronkovic, who was showing signs of reviving, and went over to squirt a dose into Peyton, who might have remained passive without it-he wasn't in very good condition-but there wasn't any sense in taking chances. I got up and cleaned off the hypo with the stuff provided in the little kit we're all issued, packed everything neatly back the way it was supposed to be and tucked the kit behind the lining of my suitcase. I turned to face Gail, who was standing there looking at me shocked and accusingly.

"Look, glamor girl," I said, "this isn't TV. In real life you don't go to all the trouble of knocking people out just to have them wake up and raise hell at the critical moment. Now I can be sure they'll both sleep till morning."

"But-" She licked her lips. "But they're hurt! They need a doctor! They should be in the hospital!"

That's the trouble with amateurs; they're inconsistent. A few minutes ago she'd been trying to beat the guy's brains out, and now she was worrying about his health.

"Look-" I said as the telephone rang.

Gail glanced at me quickly. I went over to pick up the instrument as it jangled again.

"Yes?" I said.

"This is the manager," a deep female voice said. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Certainly," I said. "Why shouldn't everything be all right?"

"We've had a complaint, sir, from one of the neighboring rooms about a disturbance-"

I hesitated, wondering whether to pretend that we'd been having a drunken argument, or just looking for a lost collar button. But there's no percentage in putting on an act when you don't have to. It was time to call in the brass and let them fight it out, anyway.

I asked curtly, "What's your name?"

"What… Why, I'm Mrs. Meadows. I own this place; that is, my husband and I own it."

"Where's your husband?"

Her voice said bitterly, "Where is he always? If you find out, let me know. Or don't bother. I'm not that interested any longer."

"I see," I said. "Well, Mrs. Meadows, as a matter of fact everything is not all right, and I'd like you to get me Washington, D.C. The number is…"I gave her the number, or one of them. She hesitated. "I… There's not going to be any trouble, is there? I mean-"

"I'm trying to avoid trouble and publicity, Mrs. Meadows.',

"But how do I know… I mean, who are you?" In my next incarnation, I decided, I'd pick a world that wasn't populated by smart and suspicious women. I said, "You can listen in through your switchboard, can't you?"

"I assure you, sir," she said stiffly, "I never listen to private calls."

"Well, listen to this one," I said. "It's all right, as long as you don't gossip about what you hear. After I've finished talking to my chief in Washington, you can ask him any questions you like. Now put my call through please."

I identified myself to the girl in the Washington office in a way that let her know there was not only a witness in the room from which I was speaking, there was also an ear on the wire. She'd pass the word to Mac. A minute later I heard his voice.

"Yes?"

"This is Matt, sir," I said. The fact that I didn't use my code name was a further warning.

"Yes, Matt?" he said. The repetition of the name meant he was reading my signals loud and clear.

"Calling from Carrizozo, New Mexico," I said. "Room 14, Turquoise Motel, Mrs. Meadows, manager. Mrs. Meadows is listening and would like identification and reassurance when we've finished talking."

"Very well."

"First, you were to submit some information concerning a certain scientific gentleman, a specialist in vibrations. How was it received?"

"Not well," he said dryly. "I was informed that the matter was well in hand, and that we should mind our own business. As for the gentleman in question, he's supposed to be a good man who's been working a little too hard. That is the word for publication."

So that was the dope on Naldi. Publicly he was supposed to be showing symptoms of overwork; privately he was being watched, and it was none of our damn business.

"That brings us," I said. "to the description of two people and a vehicle that had received unexpected circulation locally. You were going to investigate, remember?"

"I remember. The investigation was fruitless." His voice was grim. "It is the same department that refused us access to its records recently. We will receive no cooperation from that quarter."

"Don't be too sure, sir," I said. "Give them a ring and tell them I've got two of their boys here and would like them hauled away. I think they'll cooperate to that extent."

There was a little pause. Mac spoke softly, far away. "Was that necessary?"

"Not at all, sir," I said. "I could easily have stood still and let them shoot me full of bullet holes. They had the; equipment and, as far as I could make out, the desire. There wasn't much time to investigate motives, and the room was dark."

"Give me an idea of the approximate extent of the damage."

"One lacerated scalp and probable concussion," I said. "Fracture unlikely but possible. One set of badly damaged ribs with probable internal injuries. Some plastic surgery may be required on this one. Both have received Injection C and are sleeping peacefully."