Tiger! Tiger! (32 page)

'Don't be too specific yet. And . . .?'

'I want to give myself up.'

`To the police?'

`For what crime?'

`Crimes.'

'Name two.'

`Robbery and rape.'

'Name two more.'

'Blackmail and murder.'

'Any other items?'

`Treason and genocide.'

`Does that exhaust your catalogue?'

`I think so. We may be able to unveil a few more when we get specific.'

`Been busy, haven't you? Either you're the Prince of Villains or insane.'

`I've been both, Mr. Sheffield,' `Why do you want to give yourself up?'

`I've come to my senses,' Foyle answered bitterly.

`I don't mean that. A criminal never surrenders while he's ahead. You're obviously ahead. What's the reason?'

`The most damnable thing that ever happened to a man. I picked up a rare disease called conscience.'

Sheffield snorted. `That can often turn fatal.'

`It is fatal. I've realized that I've been behaving like an animal'

'And now you want to purge yourself?'

`No, it isn't that simple,' Foyle said grimly. `That's why I've come to you.. . for major surgery. The man who upsets the morphology of society is a cancer. The man who gives his own decisions priority over society is a criminal. But there are chain-reactions. Purging yourself with punishment isn't enough. Everything's got to be set right. I wish to God every thing could be cured just by sending me back to Gouffre Martel or shooting me . . . .'

`Back?'

Sheffield cut in keenly.

`Shall I be specific?'

`Not yet. Go on. You sound as though you've got ethical growing pains.'

'That's it exactly.'

Foyle paced in agitation, crumpling the banknotes with nervous fingers. `This is one hell of a mess, Sheffield. There's a girl that's got to pay for a vicious, rotten crime. The fact that I love her - No, never mind that. She's a cancer that's got to be cut out . . . like me. Which means I'll have to add informing to my catalogue. The fact that I'm giving myself up too doesn't make any difference.'

'What is all this mish-mash?'

Foyle turned on Sheffield. `One of the New Year's bombs has just walked into your office, and it's saying: "Put it all right Put me together again and send me home. Put together the city I flattened and the people I shattered." That's what I want to hire you for. I don't know how most criminals feel -'

'Sensible, matter-of-fact; like good businessmen who've had bad luck,' Sheffield answered promptly. `That's the usual attitude of the professional criminal. It's obvious you're an amateur if you're a criminal at all. My dear sir, do be sensible. You come here, extravagantly accusing yourself of robbery, murder, genocide, treason, and God knows what else. D'you expect me to take you seriously?'

Bunny, Sheffield's assistant, jaunted into his private office.

`Chief' he shouted in excitement. `Something brand new's turned up - A camera-jaunte. Two gimpsters bribed a teller to photograph the interior of Terra Trust and Exchange - Ooop. Sorry. Didn't realize you had -'

Bunny broke off and stared. 'Fourmyle' he exclaimed.

`What? Who? 'Sheffield demanded.

`Don't you know him, Chief?' Bunny stammered. `That's Fourmyle of Ceres. Gully Foyle.'

More than a year ago, Regis Sheffield had been hypnotically fulminated and triggered for this moment. His body had been prepared to respond without thought, and the response was lightning. Sheffield struck Foyle in half a second; temple, throat and groin. It had been decided not to depend on weapons since none might be available.

Foyle fell. Sheffield turned on Bunny and battered him back the office. Then he spat into his palm. It had been decided not to depend on drugs since drugs might not be available. Sheffield's salivary glands had been prepared to respond with an anaphylaxis secretion to the stimulus. He open Foyle's sleeve, dug a nail deep into the hollow of his elbow and slashed. He pressed his spittle into the ragged cut and pinched the skin together.

A strange cry was torn from Foyle's lips; the tattooing showed livid on his face. Before the stunned assistant could make a move, Sheffield swung Foyle up to his shoulder and jaunted.

He arrived in the middle of the Four-Mile Circus in Old St Pat's. It was a daring but calculated move. This was the last place he would be expected to go, and the first place where he might expect to locate PyrE. He was prepared to deal with anyone he might meet in the Cathedral, but the interior of the Circus was empty.

The vacant tents ballooning up in the nave looked tattered; they had already been looted. Sheffield plunged into the first he saw. It was Fourmyle's travelling library, filled with hundreds of books and thousands of glittering novel-beads. The Jack-Jaunters were not interested in literature. Sheffield threw Foyle down on the floor. Only then did he take a gun from his pocket.

Foyle's eyelids fluttered; his eyes opened.

`You're drugged,' Sheffield said rapidly. `Don't try to jaunte. And don't move. I'm warning you. I'm prepared for anything.'

Dazedly, Foyle tried to rise. Sheffield instantly fired and seared his shoulder. Foyle was slammed back against the stone flooring. He was numbed and bewildered. There was a roaring in his ears and a poison coursing through his blood.

`I'm warning you,' Sheffield repeated. `I'm prepared for anything.

`What do you want?' Foyle whispered.

`Two things. Twenty Pounds of PyrE, and you. You most of all.'

`You lunatic! You damned maniac! I came into your office to give it up . . . hand it over..

`To the O.S.?'

'To the . . . what?'

'The Outer Satellites? Shall I spell it for you?'

'No - ..' Foyle muttered. `I might have known. The Patriot, Sheffield, an O.S. agent. I should have known. I'm a fool.'

'You're the most valuable fool in the world, Foyle. We want you even more than the PyrE. That's an unknown to us, but we know what you are.'

`What are you talking about?'

`My God! You don't know, do you? You still don't know. You haven't an inkling.'

`Of what?'

`Listen to me,' Sheffield said in a pounding voice. `I'm taking you back two years to Nomad. Understand? Back to the death of the Nomad. One of our raiders finished her off and they found you aboard the wreck. The last man alive.'

`So an O. S. ship did blast Nomad?'

`Yes. You don't remember?'

`I don't remember anything about that. I never could.'

'I'm telling you why. The raider got a clever idea. They'd turn you into a decoy . . . a sitting duck, understand? You were half-dead, but they took you aboard and patched you up. They put you into a spacesuit and cast you adrift with your micro-wave on. You were broadcasting distress signals and mumbling for help on every wave-band. The idea was, they'd lurk near by and pick up the LP. ships that came to rescue you.'

Foyle began to laugh. `I'm getting up,' he said recklessly.

`Shoot again, you son of a bitch, but I'm getting up.' He struggled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. ` So Vorga shouldn't have picked me up anyway,' Foyle laughed. `I was a decoy. Nobody should have come near me. I was a shill, a lure, death-bait . . . Isn't that the first irony. Nomad didn't have any right to be rescued in the first place. I didn't have any right to revenge.'

`You still don't understand,' Sheffield pounded. `They were nowhere near Nomad when they set you adrift. They were six hundred thousand miles from Nomad.'

`Six hundred thous-'

`Nomad was too far out of the shipping lanes. They wanted you to drift where ships would pass. They took you six hundred thousand miles sunward and set you adrift. They put you through the air-lock and backed off: Watching you drift. Your suit-lights were blinking and you were moaning for help on the micro-wave. Then you disappeared.'

`Disappeared?'

`You were gone. No more lights, no more broadcast. They came back to check. You were gone without a trace. And the next thing we learned . . . you got back aboard Nomad.'

`Impossible.'

`Man, you space-jaunted,' Sheffield said savagely. `You were patched and delirious, but you space-jaunted. You space-jaunted six hundred thousand miles through the void back to the wreck of the Nomad. You did something that's never been done before. God knows how. You don't even know yourself; but we're going to find out. I'm taking you out to the Satellites with me and we'll get that secret out of you if we have to tear it out' He took Foyle's throat in his powerful hand and hefted the gun in the other. `But first I want the PyrE. You'll produce it, Foyle. Don't think you won't.'

He lashed Foyle across the forehead with the gun. `I'll do anything to get it. Don't think I won't'

He smashed Foyle again, coldly, efficiently. `If you're looking for a purge, man, you've found it'

Bunny leaped off the public jaunte stage at Five-Points and streaked into the main entrance of Central Intelligence's New York office like a frightened rabbit. He shot past the outermost guard cordon, through the protective labyrinth, and into the inner offices. He acquired a train of excited pursuers and found himself face to face with the more seasoned guards who had calmly jaunted to positions ahead of him and were waiting.

Bunny began to shout: 'Yeovil! Yeovil! Yeovil!'

Still running, he dodged around desks, kicked over chairs, and created an incredible uproar. He continued his yelling: `Yeovil! Yeovil! Yeovil!'

Just before they were about to put him out of his misery, Y'ang-Yeovil appeared.

`What's all this?' he snapped. `I gave orders that Miss Wednesbury was to have absolute quiet'

`Yeovil!' Bunny shouted.

`Who's that?'

'Sheffield's assistant'

`What . . . Bunny?'

`Foyle!'

Bunny howled. `Gully Foyle.'

Y'ang-Yeovil covered the fifty feet between them in exactly one-point-six-six seconds. `What about Foyle?'

`Sheffield's got him,' Bunny gasped.

`Sheffield? When?'

`Half an hour ago.'

`Why didn't he bring him here?'

`Don't know . . . Got an idea . . . May be an O. S. agent . . .'

'Why didn't you come at once?'

`Sheffield jaunted with Foyle . . . Knocked him stiffer'n a mackerel and disappeared. I went looking. All over. Took a chance. Must have made fifty jauntes in twenty minutes. . .'

`Amateur!' Y'ang-Yeovil exclaimed in exasperation. `Why didn't you leave that to the pros?'

`Found 'em.'

`You found them? Where!'

'Old St Pat's. Sheffield's after the -'

But Y'ang-Yeovil had turned on his heel and was tearing back up the corridor, shouting: `Robin! Robin! Stop! Stop!'