That handled, I went back to the real business of the day: the hit on the Countess Krak.

Heller's viewer was blank. I knew what must be hap­pening. That (bleeped) Raht was shifting the 831 Relayer from Florida to Virginia, which told me that Heller must be on his way.

The viewer of the Countess Krak was totally flared out with interference.

I sat there restively. My nerves were in pretty poor shape after the cop murder and rape. I wondered why these things were having such an effect on me. By psychology theory, there was neither limit nor personal penalty to crime unless it happened to oneself. Nothing had happened to me yet. Why was I reacting? Psychology and psychiatry surely couldn't be wrong. That was unthinkable. Man was just an animal that had no conscience or soul, just a rotten beast, in fact. So, of course it shouldn't affect me, no matter how many rotten things I did.

To take my mind off it, I began to wonder at the possibility that maybe, when he had made the hit, Torpedo might be crazy enough to just go on straight home. You could only depend upon him to kill and rape. He might get the idea cops would come and be waiting for him because of the motorcycle patrolman's death.

I went out and surveyed cars and a getaway route. Yes. There was an old car sitting there that in emergency I might use. They apparently utilized it to haul manure,

the way it looked, a sort of passenger car cut into a truck.

I made some other precautionary arrangements.

Feeling more secure, I went back to my viewers.

Krak's was still flared out.

But what was this on Heller's? An electrical disturbance? I watched intently. Yes! It was becoming a flare-out. Raht must have come up last night by commercial plane and bus. He must have Heller bugged or watched to know where he was going.

The viewer suddenly went all wavy and then came in very clear. Raht must have turned off the switch of the 831 Relayer.

I was looking at a patch of ground below the skids of a freight helicopter. There was a patch of asphalt surrounded by low trees. It made me dizzy to look down.

A ladder was unreeling below the chopper. The beat of engine and blades came through the door that Heller was holding open.

Heller looked at the sky: although clouds were still bright with sunset glow, dusk was gathering on the ground. The time was about 5:45 in the afternoon. He moved toward the pilot and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for the lift!" he yelled.

"Any time, Mr. Floyd," the pilot said.

Heller had closed the door. He edged back to the front of the cargo cable area. He lifted a small musette bag he was carrying and put the strap around his neck. He gave his black engineer gloves a tug at each cuff and looked down.

The swaying ladder dwindled away toward the square of asphalt. The helicopter dropped lower.

Heller didn't bother to put his feet on the rungs. With one hand on the cable which made up one side of the ladder, he swung into space.

Releasing and tightening his grip, he slid about five feet at a time down the ladder. It made me dizzy and feel even sicker than I already was.

He got to the bottom of the swaying ladder. The pilot dropped a few more feet. Heller simply let go and fell lightly the last two yards.

He looked up at the chopper and waved his hand. It spun away into the sky.

Heller looked around. It was dusky dark. Lights suddenly flashed on. Plastic, colored twirlers. Lines of cars around the edges of the asphalt. A big sign:

HARVEY "SMASHER" LEE'S BARGAIN CARS

FOR TRUE VIRGINIANS MONEY BACK SOMETIMES

Oh, this was good news to me. Heller must have forgotten he was wanted in that town! Or maybe he thought the FBI reports had wiped it out. Or maybe he thought he could trust the friend of the late Mary Schmeck, Harvey Lee.

And that was who came out of the sales office. Big, plumper than ever, Harvey Lee stepped into the lights, ready to say what the hell is going on dropping in by chopper. He didn't say it. He saw Heller. He stared. His flabby face went sort of white. He almost ran back into the office.

"Hello, Harvey," said Heller. "Got any cheap cars?"

That stopped Harvey Lee. Nervously he came closer. "Is... is Mary with you?"

"There's nobody with me," said Heller.

"Oh, well," said Harvey Lee. "You want a car?" He was doubtless remembering the way Mary Schmeck had

whittled him down on that Cadillac Brougham Coupe d'Elegance.

"Something cheap," said Heller, "something I can just use and throw away."

A look of cunning came into the used-car salesman's eye. He pointed to a strange-looking car: the top came up to a point like an idiot's head. It was badly beat up. "That one there. It's a freak. It's attracting too much attention. It's a French Karin. You can recognize it a mile away. Nobody wants it. It runs. You can have it cheap."

Heller glanced into it. It had a very wide front seat and a lot of room behind it.

"The French put it out," said Harvey Lee, "as their dream car. But folks around here think it's more like a nightmare. But it runs okay. It's just that it looks so odd."

"How much?" said Heller.

"How much you got?" said Harvey Lee with a cunning look.

"Three hundred dollars" said Heller.

"I'll take it," said Harvey Lee promptly. I really blinked. The French Karin might be a dog-for all French cars are-but I just couldn't imagine Harvey Lee letting go of a foreign luxury car for pennies like that. Then Lee said, "But at such a cheap price I can't throw in any registration or bill of sale. Paper work costs money."

"I only need it for a few hours," said Heller.

"Well, then I'll be glad to buy it back, so let's make it two hundred and seventy-five," said Lee, but there was a peculiar look in his eye. "No use doing the paper twice."

"All right," said Heller and handed over three one-hundred-dollar bills.

Heller got in and examined the oddly placed controls. He started up the car and ran it to the gas island. Harvey Lee filled it up and checked the oil. It needed a quart.

Counting out the forty dollars for the service, Heller said, "Now, where can I find Stonewall Biggs?"

Lee thought a moment. Then he swivelled his eyes sort of sideways. He said, "Stonewall Biggs is at the courthouse."

"Isn't this kind of late for him to be there?" said Hel­ler. "The whole town looks like the sidewalks have been rolled up."

Lee sort of floundered. Then he recovered. He said, "Well, since it burned down, he comes in evenings and tries to do some construction work. It's just a temporary shed now. So he's there all right."

Heller got the car started again after a couple tries and rolled down to Main Street, past the bus depot, and then climbed the hill to the courthouse.

There was very little left-just a gaunt, charred shell. But a temporary building had been put up behind it to house, probably, the vital functions of the county and possibly the town. The dusk was very thick and the temporary building was all dark.

Heller killed the engine, which was already suffer­ing. He got out.

Instantly, from a pile of rubble close behind him, came a loud and deadly voice. "Hands up! One false move and you'ah daid!"

Heller whirled. The only thing in view was a handgun, levelled and cocked, aimed straight at him.

Another voice from in front of the car. "It's him, all raht! Keep him covered, Joe! You'ah undah arrest fo' stealin' a cah Turn Hahvey Lee!"

I chortled in glee. Clever Harvey Lee. He must have phoned ahead and alerted these cops! Now he not only could keep the three hundred but he'd also get his car back! And what an ally for me to suddenly acquire! They'd hold Heller and it would leave the Countess Krak wide-open for Torpedo!