Eschaton 1 – The Other End of Time

CHAPTER FIVE

Dan

With Starlab out of action the Dannerman Astrophysical Observatory didn't have a telescope of its own anymore; what it had was people. A lot of people. More than a hundred full-time scientific and clerical people worked there, with another twenty or thirty visiting astronomers, postdocs and slave-labor graduate students on and off the premises. That was good, for Danner-man's purposes; tradecraft said that the first thing you did in a new assignment was to let yourself be seen by as many people as possible so that they would get used to you, think of you as part of the furniture and accordingly pay no attention to you. On his first day in the new job he covered all the floors the observatory occupied, and was pleased to be generally ignored.

Most of the staff had no time to chat with a new low-ranking employee, at least until they discovered he happened to be a Dannerman. Then they became more cordial, but were still busy. If the observatory didn't have any instruments of its own, it did have shared-time arrangements with ground-based and radio telescopes in New Mexico and Hawaii and the Canary Islands, not to mention neutrino instruments in Canada and Italy and even odder observatories everywhere in the world. The scientists made their observations, and then they, and all the other specialists at Dannerman, massaged, enhanced and interpreted the data and added it to the general store of human knowledge.

Of course, Dan Dannerman wasn't qualified for any of that. If you didn't count Janice DuPage, the receptionist who doubled as payroll manager, or old Walt Lowenfeld, who ran the stockroom, Dannerman was pretty nearly the least professionally qualified human being on the payroll of the observatory. He hadn't been granted the dignity of a title, but if he had it would have been "office boy." Exploring the observatory was made easy for him, because his work took him everywhere. It included carrying things from the stockroom to the people who needed them, making coffee, killing, for Janice DuPage, a wasp that had somehow made it into the reception room, fetching doughnuts from the shop in the lobby for Harry Chesweiler, the senior planetary astronomer on the staff… taking messages, in fractured English, from the Greek friends of Christo Papathanassiou, the quantum cosmologist from the island of Cyprus… getting Cousin Pat's jewelry out of the safe for her when she was going out socially… bringing tea with a measured twenty cc of clover-blossom honey, no more and no less, for old Rosaleen Artzybachova, well past ninety and still spry but crotchety, as she pored over her instrument schematics. What he did, in short, was whatever they told him to do. "They" could be anybody, because he took orders from any of the fifteen or twenty principal astronomers and physicists and computer nerds and mathematicians who made up the major science staff of the observatory, and from any of their assistants as well. But he especially took orders from Cousin Pat Adcock, because she was the one who ran it all.

Cousin Pat wasn't a bad boss, as bosses went. She wasn't really a good boss, either, though. She seemed to have little patience and no interest in whether any of her employees might have lives of their own. She snapped her orders out-not only to her low-man-on-the-totem-pole cousin but even to people like Pete Schneyman, the mathematician-astrophysicist who, it was said, was high on the list for some future Nobel laurel (and had been everybody's logical best bet for becoming the next director until Pat Adcock came along) and to old, honored Rosaleen Artzybachova. Maybe part of the reason for the impatience, Dannerman thought, was that everybody knew that the only reason Cousin Pat was the director was Uncle Cubby's money. But she seemed tense and preoccupied most of the time. Janice DuPage whispered that Pat hadn't always been like that and probably one reason was that, having gone through two husbands, she didn't currently have even a steady boyfriend. "Maybe so," Dannerman told the receptionist. "But she was a bossy little kid, too."

He didn't believe that was the explanation, anyway. There had to be something else, something most probably to do with the Starlab; or else what was he doing there?

What he was doing there, of course, was following Colonel Hilda Morrisey's orders. As ordered, he kept his eyes and ears open, and if he didn't find much that interested her in his nightly reports it wasn't for lack of trying. It wasn't because the people he worked with weren't willing to talk, either. They were a sociable lot-particularly with somebody who, however lowly his present status, was a definite relative of their great benefactor. "But all they want to talk about is their jobs, Colonel," he complained to her on the coded line. "Dr. Schneyman kept me after work for an hour talking about stuff like something he called isospin and how proton-rich nuclei were created in novae and neutron stars."

"Screw that stuff, Danno. That's not what you're there for. What about the gamma-ray item?"

"Nobody brought it up, so I didn't either. You told me-"

"I know what I told you. Have you at least made contact with Mick Jarvas and the Chink astronaut?"

"I haven't seen Commander Lin yet at all. He's been out of the office; they say he's in Houston, doing something about getting ready for the repair flight."

"I've got one other name for you. Christo Papa-Papathana-"

"The Greek fellow, right. From Cyprus."

"Well, there's a file on him, only I haven't accessed it yet. It's been crazy here." She hesitated, then said, "The thing is, they found the President's press secretary, only he was dead."

Dannerman was scandalized. "Dead? Gripes, Hilda! That was supposed to be a strictly commercial snatch!"

"So something went sour. The word isn't out yet; the President's going to announce it at a news conference in the morning. Meanwhile, everything's pretty screwed up, so it'll be a while before I can get more. And keep after Jarvas."

"He isn't exactly a sociable type."

"Make him sociable, Danno. Didn't I tell you this assignment is priority? Do I have to teach you all over again how to do your job? And, look, see if you can get into some of the technical part of the work there. You're not going to find much out while you're running the coffee machine."

Dannerman followed orders as best he could. He didn't achieve much with Cousin Pat's bodyguard, though he tried getting Jarvas to go with him for lunch or a beer. He got a frosty turndown. Jarvas didn't socialize outside the office. At lunchtime he went out only with Dr. Pat Adcock, and on the rare occasions when she lunched on sandwiches in her office he preferred to go out and eat alone.

Dannerman did better with the other instruction. It occurred to him that the databanks for astrophysics were reached in just about the same ways as the ones for critical studies on American playwrights. When he pointed out to Pat Adcock that he could be more use in research than fixing squeaky drawers, she reluctantly agreed to allow him to do an occasional literature search.

That was useful. It gave him a good reason to talk shop with his coworkers, and, when Harry Chesweiler found out he spoke good German and at least halting French, the planetary astronomer was delighted. "Hell, boy," he boomed, his mouth full of a bagel, "you can do something for me right now. Pat's been after me to check out some little CLO she's interested in-"

"A what?"

"A CLO. A comet-like object. I don't know why she's getting interested in it now-it came through a couple years ago- hut it does have some unusual characteristics. She wants to know its orbital elements for some reason, and I've got all this Ganymede stuff to work up. We don't have any data for the sectors and times she's interested in, so you'll need to check some of the other observatories. Use my screen if you want to; I'd like to get out early for lunch, anyway."

The good part of checking up on the CLO was that it was more interesting than making coffee, and it didn't really require any knowledge of astronomy. With the information Chesweiler left for him Dan Dannerman began calling up other observatories to beg for copies of any plates they might have.

The main sources, Chesweiler had explained, were out of the country: the German Max-Planck Institut fur Extraterristrische Physik, which had both an optical and a gamma-ray observatory still more or less functioning in orbit-gamma rays!-and Cerro Toledo in South America, which had one that observed in the extreme ultraviolet. The woman at Cerro Toledo refused his attempts at French-he knew no more of her own language than the taxi-driver Spanish any American needed-but had good enough English to make clear that, while she was perfectly willing to transmit the plates he asked for, she wanted to be paid; Dannerman took a chance and agreed to the price she asked.

The man at Max-Planck was a cheerful youngster named Gerd Hausewitz. He was considerably more cooperative, especially because Dannerman's German was what he'd acquired in his four years in the Democratische Neuereich. Hausewitz was about to go home for the day, he mentioned-it was nearly six o'clock in Europe-but he promised to get the plates, and Dannerman, feeling cheerful, went back to replacing the wilting flowers on the desk of Janice DuPage.

Talking German again had reminded him of the good times in Europe-of the parts of those times that were good, anyway: the cakes with mountains of schlag on the ring boulevards of Vienna, the beer in Frankfurt, the girl named Use who had invited him into her bed and then into the secret society called the Mad King Ludwig. It was the Mads he had been working on, but Use was a definitely valuable fringe benefit. Undoubtedly she was a terrorist, and almost certainly she had been involved in the group that had tried to spread cholera in the drinking water of the UN in New York, but she was also about the most beautiful woman he'd ever shared a mattress with.

Dannerman took a short lunch hour, and when he came back it was Janice DuPage, the receptionist, who checked his carry gun for him.

"How come?" he asked.

"Checking weapons is my job when Mick's out body guarding Pat Adcock."

"Huh. What does she need a bodyguard for, anyway?"

Janice looked at him unbelievingly. "Daniel, what galaxy do you come from? Pat's a good-looking woman. She needs some kind of muscle to protect her from rapists and kidnappers and general scum-not counting sometimes she likes to wear some pretty high-priced rocks when she goes out. Why do you carry a gun?"

He shrugged. "Everybody does."

"And everybody knows why."

He persisted, "So why does she hire a retired kick-boxer who never won,\ fight that wasn't fixed?"

"Ask him yourself. And some Kraut's been calling you, it's in your voicemail."

Gerd Hausewitz was as good as his word, but before he transmitted the plates he wanted to talk to Dannerman again. "Anything wrong?" Dannerman asked.

I lie broad face on the screen looked troubled. "Just that it's a hinny thing, Dr. Dannerman. You said you were looking for a comet-like object, both in EUV and our gammas? But comets do not radiate in such frequencies."

"I guess that's what makes it only comet-like, " Dannerman said equably.

"To be sure, yes. But my superiors were interested that you should ask, and interested also in your Starlab satellite. We understand there is to be a flight to repair it, is that correct?"

Dannerman's expression didn't change, but he was suddenly more interested. "Yes?"

"That would be splendid, naturally. It is a fine instrument. However, we have found nothing in the literature to describe the plans for repair. Could you perhaps send us a copy of the mission plan, if it is not too much trouble?"

"I'll have to ask the boss."

"Of course. But please do. We would greatly appreciate. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Dannerman hesitated, then took the plunge. "Your gamma-ray observer-"

"Yes?"

"I was just wondering, have there been any unusual gamma observations lately? In the last couple of years, that is?"

The German looked puzzled. "Unusual? There are of course the bursters, but those occur all the time. Nothing unusual, however. Why do you ask?"

Dannerman backtracked swiftly. "It was just something someone said. It's not important. Anyway, thanks for the plates.

After Dannerman passed the plates on to Harry Chesweiler, the German's question stuck in his mind. He wished he knew a little more about astronomy. Did this CLO have anything to do with Starlab? Did the fact that it wasn't a normal comet mean anything? Why was the man from Max-Planck asking about the satellite in the first place?

Colonel Hilda would want the answer to that, too, so Dannerman got into conversations on the subject as much as he could manage. He didn't get much. No one seemed to have access to the Starlab flight plan; Dr. Adcock was handling that directly with Commander Jimmy Peng-tsu Lin. No one really knew just what had happened to Starlab, not even Dr. Artzybachova, though she gave him a frosty look when he asked.

At the end of working hours, when all the employees were lining up at Janice DuPage's desk to collect their day's pay before inflation knocked another two or three per cent off it, he dawdled to ask more questions, with little more success. It wasn't that the people in line with him were unwilling to talk, but what they wanted to talk about was their own special programs-black holes, galaxy counts, red-giant stars, red-shift measurements.

When Dannerman got the conversation onto the prospective repair mission for Starlab they were happy to discuss that, too, or at least to discuss what a newly functioning Starlab would mean to their hunt for organic molecules in interstellar gas clouds, or for the "missing mass" that seemed to concern some of them. Whatever that was. By the time the line carried Dannerman to Janice DuPage's desk he decided he didn't even know what questions to ask until he got more information from Colonel Hilda.

Then, as he was handing his cash card over to Janice DuPage for his pay, she said, "Oh, there you are, Dan. Dr. Adcock wants to talk to you before you leave."

And when he got to his cousin's office she glared at him. "What's this I'm hearing about you? Why are you asking for the Starlab flight plan?"

He wasn't surprised that she asked the question; he had no doubt that Pat Adcock kept an ear to everything that went on in the observatory. "I wasn't asking for myself, Pat. I got some data for Dr. Chesweiler from the Max-Planck people, and they were the ones who wanted to know. I thought it would be, you know, professional courtesy to give it to them."

"Professional courtesy isn't your department. You aren't a professional here, and it's none of their damn business. You don't pass out any information to anyone outside the observatory without my personal approval. Ever. Do you understand that? And, another thing, Janice tells me that you've made a payment commitment to Cerro Toledo for their data; we'll have to pay it, but you ought to know you don't have any authority to do that, either. Dan, this just isn't satisfactory. I don't want to have to warn you again, but- Hold it a minute."

Her screen was buzzing. Dannerman couldn't see the face on it, but he recognized Harry Chesweiler's voice. It sounded excited. "I've got your orbital elements for the CLO, and they're damn funny. There's definite deceleration, and-"

"Wait, Harry," she ordered, turning back to her cousin. "That's all, Dan. You can go. Just be more careful in die future."

He shared the elevator going down with two of the scientists, arguing over what the search for WIMPs really signified. They seemed close to coming to blows, so he interrupted. "What's a WIMP?"

They paused to stare at him. "Weakly interactive massive particle," the postdoc who'd been talking to him about the missing mass said.

"Oh, thanks. And, say, long as I've got you, there's something else I've been wondering about. If there's a comet that radiates in gamma and EUV, and it is slowing down as it comes toward the Sun, what does that mean?"

The other man laughed. "Means it isn't a comet, that's all. Maybe it's one of your fucking WIMPs, Will."

"Jesus," the postdoc said, "what are you telling him that for? You know it couldn't be a WIMP. Maybe some old spacecraft?"

"You know of any old spacecraft that would be coming in toward the Sun, Will?"

"So it's probably just a screwed-up observation. Anyway," the man said, getting back to his own subject, "believe me, WIMPs are definitely out there, and they make the difference; they're why the universe isn't going to expand indefinitely."

Dannerman gave up. He was glad enough when they came to the ground floor and he could get out. This debate about whether the universe would continually expand, or rebound to a point again, was sort of interesting, but not, as far as he could see, in any way relevant to any of the questions he was working on.

And, as far as he could know, it wasn't, of course. Because, of course, at that point Dan Dannerman had still never heard of the eschaton.

That night there was a call waiting from the lawyer, Dixler, begging him to have lunch with him the next day. That was a puzzle. Dannerman could think of no reason the lawyer would want to talk to him, and even fewer reasons why he would want to spend an hour with the man. But when he had reported in to Colonel Hilda she said, "Do it. See what he wants."

"It sounds like a waste of time to me."

"So? We're the ones who're paying for your time, if we want you to waste it then you do it. Maybe he knows what your cousin is spending her money on."

"What's that about her money?"

"She's liquidating assets, and it isn't just to pay off her lawyers. I'd like to know why. Something else, Danno. You didn't mention the query from Max-Planck about Starlab in your report."

He stared at her. "Oh, Christ, you've put a tap on the observatory lines."

"No tap is allowed without a court order, you know that, and we can't apply for one without taking the chance that she'll find out about it," the colonel lectured him. "Of course we put a tap on their lines. I don't like this questioning by the Krauts, though. What do you suppose their interest is?"

"You could ask the Bay-Kahs," he suggested.

"No, I couldn't, even if everybody wasn't going ape about the press secretary. But I did get some data for you, like on that old lady, Rosaleen-uh-"

" Artzybachova."

"Sure. I think you ought to cultivate her. She's an instrument specialist; it says in her file that she helped design the original Starlab project. Is Starlab what she's working on there now?"

"I don't know what she's working on. She always blanks her screen before she lets me bring her tea in."

"You need to get into their system, Danno. Your cousin's keeping secrets, and that's where she's keeping them, I bet."

"Are you telling me you can't break her code?"

"It's a closed circuit. Get in. And, listen, Danno, I've been checking your file and you haven't been on the range for nearly two weeks."

"I'll fit it in."

"Damn right you'll fit it in. You want to keep your skills up. Martial arts, too, Dan, because you know what occurs to me? It occurs to me you'd make a pretty good bodyguard for your cousin."

He protested, "Mick Jarvas already has that job." "Maybe something can be arranged; I'll work on it. Any questions, outside of the usual one?"

"You mean the usual one that asks you what this is all about?" She sighed. "Yes, that's the usual one, all right, and the usual answer is still no."

That was it. She wasn't going to tell until somebody higher up authorized it. That didn't surprise Dannerman; but what did surprise him was that, when he finally did get a clue, it came from that old fart of a family lawyer, Jerome Dixler.

The place the lawyer had chosen for lunch was a small private club way downtown on Gramercy Park. The place appeared to have a theatrical history. When Dannerman checked his twenty-shot and carryphone at the cloakroom-the gun was no surprise, but he was a little astonished that the club did not allow phones to ring in their dining room-he was informed that Mr. Dixler hadn't arrived yet. He spent ten minutes in the lounge, studying full-length oil paintings of famous members, all actors of a century or more ago whose names were familiar to him only from long-ago courses at Harvard. When the lawyer showed up he was out of breath.

"Real apologies, Dan," he panted. "The traffic gets worse every day and that driver of mine- Well, I did make it. Here, let's get to our table and order something to drink."

Dannerman was mildly flattered, more intrigued, by the fact that Dixler had put himself out to try to be on time. Still, he didn't get to business right away, whatever his business was going to turn out to be. While the waiter was bringing cocktails the lawyer went over every item on the menu, discussing the provenance of the basic foods that went into it and the way the club's chef prepared it. Dannerman knew he was meant to feel courted. Clearly Dixler had taken him to a pretty expensive place, although Dannerman's own menu was bereft of prices for anything. He wondered just what it was that the lawyer wanted from him that justified this kind of entertainment.

Dixler was in no hurry to get to it. As soon as the orders had been placed he said brightly, "Well, then, Dan. How're you getting along with dear little Pat?"

"Well enough. I don't see much of her in the office."

Dixler clucked. "That's a pity. You know Cuthbert always hoped you two kids would get together someday."

"Him too."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Someone else said the same thing, just the other night, but I don't think it's going to happen. For one thing, Pat never got in touch with me after Uncle Cubby died."

Dixler gave him a wounded look. "You never called me, either, Dan. I hope you're not holding a grudge about that problem with your inheritance."

"There wasn't any problem. There just wasn't any inheritance by the time it got to me. You explained it all when I got back from Europe. As executor you liquidated the estate."

"Had to, Dan. It's the law. I'm sorry it worked out the way it did, but I put the whole bequest into government bonds the way I was supposed to; it's not my fault inflation was so bad there wasn't much there when you got home. If you'd kept in touch while you were in Europe-"

"Yes, everybody's in agreement about me, aren't they? Pat told me I should have kept in touch, too. Well, I'm not blaming anybody." Dannerman wasn't, either, not really; there wasn't any point since there wasn't anything that could be done about it now. He changed the subject. "Anyway, it didn't work all that well for Pat, either, did it? I hear she's having her own money troubles."

Dixler looked startled. "How'd you hear that?" Dannerman shrugged. "Well, I suppose offices gossip. It's true enough. I don't think I'm violating lawyer-client confidentiality if I say that divorcing two husbands cost her a lot."

"Ah," Dannerman said, nodding. "I guess you handled the divorces for her."

The lawyer winced. "Really, Dan, that's unkind. I did the best I could for her. No attorney can do more than his client lets him, and she-well, she didn't provide me with the best cases, you know. That's about all I can say with propriety. Wouldn't say that much, you know, if you weren't family." He worked on his salad in silence for a moment, then came to the point. "Let me take you into my confidence, Dan. I guess you wondered why I asked you to come down here."

"I suppose it's because the club is sort of historic, and the food's good," Dannerman offered politely.

"Historic, sure; they say John Wilkes Booth used to eat in this very room. If you like history. I don't; and there's good food in plenty of places that are a lot more convenient. There's only one reason I keep my membership in this place and that's because nobody I know ever comes here. It's private. What I wanted to talk to you about is confidential, and in a way it does have to do with Pat's financial situation. You see-" He hesitated, then put his fork down and got it out. "There are some funny rumors going around about what your cousin's up to. I mean this repair mission on that Starlab orbiter. It's not just that the observatory wants its telescopes working again. People seem to think there's more to it. In fact, some people say there's some kind of technology in Starlab that isn't supposed to be there. The kind that might be worth a lot of money to whoever got his hands on it."

Dannerman kept his expression blank, but his level of interest suddenly elevated. "How can that be? Starlab's just an old astronomical satellite."

The lawyer shrugged. "Whether the rumor is true or not, it appears that your cousin thinks it is. She's spending pretty heavily out of what's left of her personal fortune to get what she calls the repair mission going."

That was a good deal more puzzling than enlightening. "Why does she have to spend her own money? You read me Uncle Cubby's will. Unless I heard wrong, it seems to me he left the observatory pretty well financed."

Dixler shook his head. "She has to account to the board for anything she spends out of the endowment. If she wants that mission to fly she's got a lot of off-the-books expenses to deal with. I wouldn't call them bribes, exactly. But not exactly legitimate, either, if you know what I mean. She doesn't want to have to explain them to the board, so she's been dipping into her capital to pay them out of her own pocket. She's been buying uncut diamonds, too."

For the first time Dannerman was startled. "Uncut diamonds!"

The lawyer shrugged. "For what purpose I do not know. She certainly doesn't plan to wear them, and she's got better inflation hedges than diamonds already." He shook his head. "Dan, I don't have to tell you, that's not like her. So she must have some pretty powerful reason-and there are these rumors."

"What do the rumors say, exactly?"

The lawyer said shrewdly, "That's what I'm asking you to find out. You work there; you should be able to get the facts on it."

Dannerman quelled a sudden impulse to laugh in the man's face. "You're not asking me to be a spy, are you?"

"Oh, no! Nothing like that! I wouldn't ask you to pry into your cousin's affairs. All I want you to do is keep your ears open… and, of course, give me a call when you find anything out."

"So you can figure out some way to cut yourself in on the profits-if there are any?"

Dixler flushed, but he controlled his temper. "My reasons," he said, "aren't actually any of your business. If you want to take a guess about them, you're welcome, but I don't choose to discuss the subject."

"Let me think about it," Dannerman said. The lawyer waved graceful permission with one hand, and began to talk about what a fine man Cuthbert Dannerman had been and how charming Dan and his cousin had been as children. Dannerman listened but didn't need to say much; Dixler was conducting the conversation by himself. Only when the meal was finished and they were getting their checked belongings at the cloakroom did the lawyer say:

"What about it, Dan?"

Dannerman was listening to a message that had come with his carryphone and gun. He looked up. "What?"

Dixler lowered his voice. "I said, will you do what I'm asking for me? I can make it worth your while, Dan."

"How worth my while?" Dixler shrugged and was mute. "Well, I'll do what I can," Dannerman said ambiguously. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run. Looks like I've got an appointment I hadn't expected."

"Fine," said Dixler. "I'll be waiting to hear from you."

As Dixler got into his limousine Dannerman waited for the doorman to produce a cab. He was thinking hard, but not about the lawyer's offer. He was listening again to the message that had been on his phone. What it said was:

"Dr. Adcock will be returning to the observatory some time after two-thirty. You should be waiting at the street entrance before she gets there."

There wasn't any signature, but there didn't need to be: the message had been addressed to him as "Danno."

He made it by two-thirty, but with only moments to spare; but it didn't seem he had needed to hurry. The sidewalk outside the building was as crowded as always, but there was no sign of his cousin. Not at two-thirty, not at two-forty, not at almost three.

Dannerman leaned against the side of the building between two storefronts to keep his back covered; he had no doubt there were pickpockets among the horde of pedestrians. There was a policeman moving methodically down the block, making the sidewalk vendors pack up their wares and move on. He gave Dannerman a searching look, as he did the four or five other idlers who were standing around, doing their best to look as though they were waiting for someone. Some probably were. One at least wasn't, because as soon as the cop was ten meters away the man strolled over to Dannerman. Out of the side of his mouth, not looking at him, he muttered, "Smoke? Get high? Want to have a good time?"

"Get lost," Dannerman said. He looked at his watch. He had stretched his lunch hour a good deal longer than Cousin Pat would approve; if it happened she had come back a little earlier than expected, and was up in her office wondering where he was-She wasn't. He saw a taxi roll up before the building entrance, and Pat Adcock and her bodyguard got out.

Dannerman wondered just what he was supposed to do, but not for long. Two of the idlers had moved quickly toward the curb. As the cab was pulling away one of them jumped Mick Jarvas from behind, the two of them falling to the ground; Dannerman heard a sickening crunch that sounded like a bone breaking. The other grabbed his cousin, snatched her necklace, knocked her down too and began to run-straight at Dan Dannerman.

Dannerman's reflexes were fast. "Hai!" he shouted, and stopped the man with a full body block. The mugger squawked, and then lost his voice as Dannerman spun him around and got an arm around his throat. The other mugger got up from where he had left Jarvas writhing on the sidewalk and started over to him; then, as Dannerman turned to face him, releasing the man he had captured, the two turned and ran, disappearing into the crowd.

As Dannerman helped his cousin to her feet and handed back her necklace she looked at him with shaky wonder. "Well, thanks, Dan," she gasped. "You're pretty handy in a street fight, aren't you? And you even got my beads back."

"Just glad I was here, Pat," he said modestly.

"So am I." She turned to the policeman who was trotting toward them at last, sweaty in his body armor and looking annoyed. It was only when she had finished reprimanding the officer for not being present when needed and ordering him to call in for an ambulance for groaning Mick Jarvas that Cousin Pat finally remembered to revert to type. "One thing, though, Dan. I'm glad you happened to be here, of course. But you do know, don't you, that you're supposed to be back from lunch no later than two. And it's a pity you let those muggers get away."

He didn't answer that. He especially didn't tell her the reason, because he didn't want to mention that while he had the "mugger" in a choke hold the man had gasped aggrievedly, "Come on, Danno! Don't be so fucking rough!"