thumb hard into the base of the policeman's neck, dropped him. He lifted Anne, ran to the police car, tossed her onto the seat.
"Can you drive this?"
"Yes." The engine was idling. Grayle slid into the seat and closed the door; the car spun away from the curb, fishtailed, straightened out, its headlights burning a tunnel through blackness. Anne looked sideways at Grayle.
"Are you all right? I thought he shot you—"
"I'm all right."
"He couldn't have missed! Not at that distance!"
"Watch the road," Grayle said gently. He put his hand on his side; the heavy prison shirt was ripped; under it, hot blood oozed from his torn hide. Anne's eyes went to his hand. She gasped, and the car veered. "You're hurt!"
"Don't be concerned about me, Anne. We have more immediate problems—"
A voice crackled from the car radio: "Jig one to Jig nine-two-five, where's that report, Clance? Over."
Grayle lifted the microphone dangling from a hook at the center of the dash, pressed the key.
"Jig nine-two-five to Jig one," he said, holding the mike well away from his mouth and roughening his voice. "Busy; call you later."
"Clance? What was that?" The man at the other end called twice more, then switched off abruptly.
"You didn't fool him," Anne said. "They have directional gear; they know where this car is. They're tracking us right now."
They had turned into a prosperous-looking commercial street. Neon and glare signs shone through the driving downpour. A tall Sabal palm was down across the flooded street. The wind blew fallen fronds across the pavement. There were no people in sight, few cars at the curb.
Grayle picked up the map from the seat, opened it out, studied the street map on the reverse.
"There's an airfield shown here, nearby," he said. "The police and taxi copter port."
"Yes?"
"Turn left ahead. It's about a mile."
"You did say 'Police'?"
"We need an aircraft; we have little choice—"
"Grayle, I can't fly a copter."
"Perhaps I can."
"But—you can't drive a car!"
"I'm not familiar with ground vehicles, but I have considerable experience as a pilot. Do as I ask, Anne. As you said, we have no time to waste."
Anne laughed with a touch of hysteria, swung into a cross avenue toward a towering column of lights in the distance, doing a steady forty miles an hour down the center of the wide palm-lined street. A police car passed them, screaming in the opposite direction. As they swung around the periphery of a wide plaza, a second police car passed them without slowing. The avenue ran straight between wide lawns crossed by broad walks, punctuated by illuminated fountains. Ahead, the lake was blackness. Before a low building on the left, there was movement in a courtyard. Another car emerged from a ramp and sped away. There was a lighted gate ahead. A policeman in a yellow slicker stepped from the shed to wave them through. Anne gave a gasp that was half a sob, half-laughter.
"People see what they expect to see," Grayle said. "They don't expect to see us here."
There were a dozen or more small aircraft in sight; three large fifty-passenger crosstown shuttles bearing commercial blazons, several smaller civil craft, a big police riot heli, a number of small, fast two-man machines. At the far end of the line were a pair of squat, winged VTOL craft with army markings. The headlights shone on them in turn as the car swung in a wide curve.
"Pull up there," Grayle said.
Anne pulled the car to a stop beside the first in line.
"Good-bye, Anne," Grayle started.
"You intend to leave me here to face the police alone?" Anne asked with a smile that relieved the words of accusation.
"Very well. Let's go." Grayle jumped out, glanced over the small, short-winged machine, then swung up beside the canopy; he felt over smooth metal, found a lever. The hatch opened with a soft whirring sound. As he slipped into the cockpit, Anne pulled herself up, slid gracefully into the front seat. Grayle closed the hatch,
"Can you drive this?"
"Yes." The engine was idling. Grayle slid into the seat and closed the door; the car spun away from the curb, fishtailed, straightened out, its headlights burning a tunnel through blackness. Anne looked sideways at Grayle.
"Are you all right? I thought he shot you—"
"I'm all right."
"He couldn't have missed! Not at that distance!"
"Watch the road," Grayle said gently. He put his hand on his side; the heavy prison shirt was ripped; under it, hot blood oozed from his torn hide. Anne's eyes went to his hand. She gasped, and the car veered. "You're hurt!"
"Don't be concerned about me, Anne. We have more immediate problems—"
A voice crackled from the car radio: "Jig one to Jig nine-two-five, where's that report, Clance? Over."
Grayle lifted the microphone dangling from a hook at the center of the dash, pressed the key.
"Jig nine-two-five to Jig one," he said, holding the mike well away from his mouth and roughening his voice. "Busy; call you later."
"Clance? What was that?" The man at the other end called twice more, then switched off abruptly.
"You didn't fool him," Anne said. "They have directional gear; they know where this car is. They're tracking us right now."
They had turned into a prosperous-looking commercial street. Neon and glare signs shone through the driving downpour. A tall Sabal palm was down across the flooded street. The wind blew fallen fronds across the pavement. There were no people in sight, few cars at the curb.
Grayle picked up the map from the seat, opened it out, studied the street map on the reverse.
"There's an airfield shown here, nearby," he said. "The police and taxi copter port."
"Yes?"
"Turn left ahead. It's about a mile."
"You did say 'Police'?"
"We need an aircraft; we have little choice—"
"Grayle, I can't fly a copter."
"Perhaps I can."
"But—you can't drive a car!"
"I'm not familiar with ground vehicles, but I have considerable experience as a pilot. Do as I ask, Anne. As you said, we have no time to waste."
Anne laughed with a touch of hysteria, swung into a cross avenue toward a towering column of lights in the distance, doing a steady forty miles an hour down the center of the wide palm-lined street. A police car passed them, screaming in the opposite direction. As they swung around the periphery of a wide plaza, a second police car passed them without slowing. The avenue ran straight between wide lawns crossed by broad walks, punctuated by illuminated fountains. Ahead, the lake was blackness. Before a low building on the left, there was movement in a courtyard. Another car emerged from a ramp and sped away. There was a lighted gate ahead. A policeman in a yellow slicker stepped from the shed to wave them through. Anne gave a gasp that was half a sob, half-laughter.
"People see what they expect to see," Grayle said. "They don't expect to see us here."
There were a dozen or more small aircraft in sight; three large fifty-passenger crosstown shuttles bearing commercial blazons, several smaller civil craft, a big police riot heli, a number of small, fast two-man machines. At the far end of the line were a pair of squat, winged VTOL craft with army markings. The headlights shone on them in turn as the car swung in a wide curve.
"Pull up there," Grayle said.
Anne pulled the car to a stop beside the first in line.
"Good-bye, Anne," Grayle started.
"You intend to leave me here to face the police alone?" Anne asked with a smile that relieved the words of accusation.
"Very well. Let's go." Grayle jumped out, glanced over the small, short-winged machine, then swung up beside the canopy; he felt over smooth metal, found a lever. The hatch opened with a soft whirring sound. As he slipped into the cockpit, Anne pulled herself up, slid gracefully into the front seat. Grayle closed the hatch,
Similar Books
