The Wrecking Crew

Chapter Eleven

WHEN I left her, nothing had been said about our seeing the sights together, or even meeting for dinner. Perhaps she'd been waiting for me to do the asking, but I hadn't. For one thing, coming to a new place, I always like to wander around alone, equipped with nothing but one camera and a standard lens, to get the feel of the location, before I break out the whole elaborate four-camera, nine-lens outfit and get to work. This wasn't primarily a picturetaking jaunt, of course, and my photographic disguise didn't seem to be fooling many people, but I'd been given the part and I intended to play it out. Besides, I kind of like taking pictures.

I had another reason for playing it cool where the girl was concerned. I wanted to see what would happen if I continued to maintain a pose of polite disinterest. If she was what she claimed to be, she'd presumably be relieved not to have to fight off my wolfish advances-although I don't suppose any woman really likes to be ignored. If she was something else, however, she might take certain obvious steps toward insuring my co-operation and lulling my suspicions..

Despite its location ninety miles above the Arctic Circle, Kiruna turned out to be no frontier mining camp, but a solid community of brick and stone. I explored and photographed until the light began to fade and turn yellow with evening; then I had dinner in a place that served excellent food but no hard liquor, certainly no American whiskey or cocktails.

They did have beer, however, and I learned that Nordic beer comes in three grades of potency. The lowest grade is apparently a kind of beer-flavored soft drink that can safely be fed to babies; the highest is, to hear them tell it, loaded with atom juice. It sounded worth investigating, but when I asked for it I was regretfully informed that the place couldn't supply it, since their license didn't extend to such violent stuff.

I had to settle for Grade Two, known as ordinary pilsener. Afterward, following directions previously given me at the hotel, I located the residence of a man named Kjellstrom, and rented a little black Volvo, the newest of three he had parked at the side of the house. The company might be providing a car in the morning, but I like to have transportation of my own available.

Driving away, I found myself in temporary possession of a fairly gutless little heap, far different in performance from the souped-up jobs of the same name we've been getting in the States. But it had the same nice, ugly, uncompromising lines. I understand they've gone and ruined it now, and come out with a new model looking like every other car on the road. The uninspired performance was good enough for me, under the circumstances. The gear shift didn't bother me-I keep an old pickup truck at home for back-country exploring that also has a good solid stick growing out of the floor boards-but the left-handed traffic took some getting used to, particularly with darkness coming on.

Driving slowly and cautiously, I spent half an hour locating an address on a street called Torpvдgen where, according to the poop sent me by the efficient outfit in Stockholm that was arranging my hunting, I should be able to find a competent guide to take me bird-shooting. When I got there, nobody was home.

I went back to the car, turned it around, and started in the direction that seemed most likely to lead to the hotel. I was feeling pretty good, on the whole. I'd had a pleasant afternoon with my camera, and I like getting acquainted with a new type of car, and learning to drive in a new place, even a place where everybody insists on driving on the wrong side of the street. I'd relaxed; the thought of intrigue and conspiracy hadn't crossed my mind for a couple of hours. This happy feeling lasted exactly two blocks farther. Then I became aware of headlights following me. At the same time, I realized that I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and was heading out of town.

The transition from civilization to arctic wilderness was almost instantaneous. The road turned from pavement to gravel. The last city lights died behind us. There were low, scrubby trees on both sides of the road, and I remembered the endless forests I'd seen from the plane. I stepped the accelerator down and got only a feeble response from the scant forty horsepower under the hood. Whatever was be-hind me had much greater reserves to call upon; it was coming up fast. At the last moment, I stood the little car on its nose, hitting the brake hard and sliding far down in the seat to give support to my head and neck in case of a rear-end collision.

There was considerable screeching and sliding from the two cars involved. I caught a glimpse of a tremendous vehicle slewing past-anyway, it looked big from where I sat in my toy Volvo. When my lights hit it, I realized it was nothing but an ordinary American Ford, the model in which somebody went taillight crazy. This was the time for me to swing my little bus around and head back for town and lights and safety, before the other guy could get his longer wheelbase reversed on that narrow road.

Being full of courage and pilsener, I climbed out and went after him instead. It wasn't quite as reckless as it sounds; in fact it was necessary. I was still, I figured, in a position where the most dangerous thing was to be smart: the dumber I looked, the safer I was. The Ford had pulled up at the side of the road ahead. Its enormous taiffights cast a wicked red glow far into the trees on either hand. A man got out and came toward me, carrying something long and slender. For a moment I thought he was armed with a rifle; then I saw that it was a cane.

"Murderer!" he said. "Murderer!"

He took the cane in both hands, twisted, and pulled. There was a strange, whispering, metallic sound, and a long blade came free, slender and needle sharp, edged with red from the great, glowing lights behind him..