cabin. Better than Chuck, he thought.
He need not have worried. Johnny used his flashlight only to tie them to their seats. He sat down in their rear. "Any fuss, and you are tossed out. Okay, Chuck!"
The quiet engines started. The plane taxied and lifted. All the long way, nothing was said.
The professor listened--listened for the crackle of static and the flat voice of the Miami Marine Operator. Listened for some amiable discussion with a fishing boat which might convey to the men in the plane that one of their passengers was an impostor. It did not come.
The plane descended. The professor expected the two men to jump overboard and begin pushing. But Chuck taxied the plane or some distance. Then there came a feeling of coasting and a gentle arrestation. Hands had gripped the wings. Johnny opened the door.
The next crisis was at hand.
They were herded ashore. The handcuffs were unlocked and the weights removed.
The girl wept quietly.
It was, as far as the professor could make out, a lake, of some size, with a grassy shore and trees behind the grass. A small dock. Lanterns. The same man who had driven down to the Keys on the night before--husky, with patent-leather hair. Solo, they had called him.
They were walked along the dock, to the trees. A car stood there, a car different from the black sedan. In the lantern light he saw it was greenish. Big.
"The old bird and the girl can sit in back with Cliff," Solo said. "You two-in the trunk."
The rear compartment lid yawned. Franz climbed in. The professor followed. Solo said, "Duck." They ducked--and the lid came down.
The road was atrocious. They banged into each other. The floor came up and struck them. They slid about. A better road came, finally. They lay still, panting. The tires whirred. The car was going fast.
Another eternity passed.
The car stopped, waited, and started. Traffic began to stir and horns to blow around them. They were getting into Miami.
Finally, the smooth pavement gave way to another rough ride--very short. Once more, the car stopped.
This time, the rear compartment was opened.
There was no light. Stars overhead--treetops--underbrush. "All right, you guys.
Get up!"
Franz and the professor painfully climbed over the bumper. The girl and the old man were gone.
Solo did not bother to use his flashlight.
"Listen. You both understand English."
"Very well," Franz said. The professor grunted.
"Oke. Now, get this. You're on a street that leads to a main highway. When we leave--start moving. Separate before you get to the highway. If the cops ever pick you up-
-you don't know anything about who got you here--or how. See? Not that you know much. But one of you tell anything, and we've got an organization that can make you regret it, wherever you are." He turned, "Let's go, Cliff."
The big green car drove away. The delivery was completed. "Comfortable trip!"
Franz murmured. "Shall we go?" He laughed a little. "I am a free American citizen!
Living with my retired father, I knew you were one of the Soviet lice, the day you came in there."
"It is a poor time for that argument," the professor said. The highway appeared ahead of them. Occasional cars, busses, street lights. He was home again. And alive.
Chapter XV
Franz went out on the highway first. He had dusted off his clothing and made himself presentable. He walked to a painted lamp post and waited. The professor watched him board a bus.
He had recognized his surroundings: Brickell Avenue--about a mile from the business district.
He did not have bus fare. He had no plans. He began walking. Nobody seemed to be following. Nobody much seemed to be on the street. Christmas Night, he thought.
A police cruise car passed.
He had an impulse to yell at it.
Then what? The Station. Questioning. Delay. Doubts. More waiting for higher authority, perhaps. Christmas Night--and higher authority unwilling to leave festivities.
He was without any proof of his story. They
He need not have worried. Johnny used his flashlight only to tie them to their seats. He sat down in their rear. "Any fuss, and you are tossed out. Okay, Chuck!"
The quiet engines started. The plane taxied and lifted. All the long way, nothing was said.
The professor listened--listened for the crackle of static and the flat voice of the Miami Marine Operator. Listened for some amiable discussion with a fishing boat which might convey to the men in the plane that one of their passengers was an impostor. It did not come.
The plane descended. The professor expected the two men to jump overboard and begin pushing. But Chuck taxied the plane or some distance. Then there came a feeling of coasting and a gentle arrestation. Hands had gripped the wings. Johnny opened the door.
The next crisis was at hand.
They were herded ashore. The handcuffs were unlocked and the weights removed.
The girl wept quietly.
It was, as far as the professor could make out, a lake, of some size, with a grassy shore and trees behind the grass. A small dock. Lanterns. The same man who had driven down to the Keys on the night before--husky, with patent-leather hair. Solo, they had called him.
They were walked along the dock, to the trees. A car stood there, a car different from the black sedan. In the lantern light he saw it was greenish. Big.
"The old bird and the girl can sit in back with Cliff," Solo said. "You two-in the trunk."
The rear compartment lid yawned. Franz climbed in. The professor followed. Solo said, "Duck." They ducked--and the lid came down.
The road was atrocious. They banged into each other. The floor came up and struck them. They slid about. A better road came, finally. They lay still, panting. The tires whirred. The car was going fast.
Another eternity passed.
The car stopped, waited, and started. Traffic began to stir and horns to blow around them. They were getting into Miami.
Finally, the smooth pavement gave way to another rough ride--very short. Once more, the car stopped.
This time, the rear compartment was opened.
There was no light. Stars overhead--treetops--underbrush. "All right, you guys.
Get up!"
Franz and the professor painfully climbed over the bumper. The girl and the old man were gone.
Solo did not bother to use his flashlight.
"Listen. You both understand English."
"Very well," Franz said. The professor grunted.
"Oke. Now, get this. You're on a street that leads to a main highway. When we leave--start moving. Separate before you get to the highway. If the cops ever pick you up-
-you don't know anything about who got you here--or how. See? Not that you know much. But one of you tell anything, and we've got an organization that can make you regret it, wherever you are." He turned, "Let's go, Cliff."
The big green car drove away. The delivery was completed. "Comfortable trip!"
Franz murmured. "Shall we go?" He laughed a little. "I am a free American citizen!
Living with my retired father, I knew you were one of the Soviet lice, the day you came in there."
"It is a poor time for that argument," the professor said. The highway appeared ahead of them. Occasional cars, busses, street lights. He was home again. And alive.
Chapter XV
Franz went out on the highway first. He had dusted off his clothing and made himself presentable. He walked to a painted lamp post and waited. The professor watched him board a bus.
He had recognized his surroundings: Brickell Avenue--about a mile from the business district.
He did not have bus fare. He had no plans. He began walking. Nobody seemed to be following. Nobody much seemed to be on the street. Christmas Night, he thought.
A police cruise car passed.
He had an impulse to yell at it.
Then what? The Station. Questioning. Delay. Doubts. More waiting for higher authority, perhaps. Christmas Night--and higher authority unwilling to leave festivities.
He was without any proof of his story. They
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