Single Combat

his tiny chemlamp. He placed it on the seat of the 'cycle, illuminating the elevator's interior and nearly causing cardiac arrest to the beefy Chabrier who crowded into the near corner, barefooted. Quantrill shoved hard, his head down against the fan skirt, and he moved forward with the vehicle. At virtually the same instant he saw a bare foot covered with black curly hair and a sodium-yellow sun that burst inside his head with a soundless flash.

CHAPTER 53

When Quantrill's eyes finally focused, they traded solemn regard with the sad dark eyes of Marengo Chabrier. 'I regret this, mon ami,' sighed the Frenchman, 'but you will appreciate my position.'

His position was commanding at the moment. He sat on the edge of a chair and toyed with an ornate stiletto. Quantrill felt the bite of wire against his wrists and ankles; saw that he lay on a bed in a room that did its best to personalize concrete walls. He remembered setting the last detonator, manhandling the hovercycle, seeing a naked foot. 'You're Chabrier.' A nod. 'How'd you get me out of the lab?'

'You are not a large man. I carried you here.'

'Where?'

A shrug, a wave toward potted plants. 'As you see — to my apartment, such as it is.'

'How long ago?'

'Perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps more.' In tones that carried a dark whimsy Chabrier added, 'You will understand if I ask the questions?'

Twenty minutes. It might've been worse; it might still get a damn' sight worse if he was kept wire-wrapped in this hole much longer. Or had the Frenchman removed the detonators? 'I can't very well stop you,' he said, trying to smile around a pounding headache.

'Why did M'sieur Mills send you?' Chabrier asked lightly, lazily, as if he had no doubt who'd sent the intruder.

Quantrill used time-consuming dodges; long breaths, slow speech, pauses, to give him time to think. If Chabrier thought Mills had sent him, the detonators had probably gone undiscovered. It didn't seem possible to Quantrill that Mills might send in a saboteur against his own operation. 'Mills is a certifiable nut,' said Quantrill, hoping it would pass for an answer.

'You underestimate our employer. I do not.'

'Sure you do. You can't even figure out why the little gob of snot might go in for vandalism against you.'

Chabrier hesitated. Any agent of Boren Mills should know better than to revile him, or even to discuss his mission, when recorders might be taking it all in. 'It is not too late for a priority call to Ogden. What will happen to you if I call M'sieur Mills now and inform him how easily I nullified you?'

'You and I will both disappear without a trace — because you didn't nullify me. It's later than you think.

You have a voice stress analyzer here, Chabrier? If you do, get it. Then you'll know that what I do tell you is the truth, no matter how much you'd like to disbelieve it.'

Chabrier stroked his lower lip, remained seated and rearranged some opinions. 'Petty vandalism would be madness, or the tactic of one who wishes to impede production. Does the subtle Mills wish to make it appear that one of my staff is malingering, or insane?'

'My guess is, he'll wish you to disappear—and you will. Me, too — after he's had me taken apart.'

Chabrier refitted pieces of his puzzle; tried a new piece. 'Then why did he provide you with an escape vehicle?'

'That was my own idea.'

'You are aware of the particle-beam weapons surrounding this place?'

A nod. 'And I can deal with 'em.'

'I do not think you are in the employ of Mills at all,' Chabrier blurted. 'I think I have caught a saboteur.'

Quantrill caught the relief in his captor's face. This poor bastard was more frightened of Mills than of outright sabotage! 'Let's assume you're right, Chabrier. And if you're right, you got to me too late because I was outward bound when you nailed me. Let's assume I've stacked enough explosives in your basement to blow us all to hell and gone, with motion sensors on the detonators.' Like fleas, small lies can prosper on the back of a large truth. 'I know you haven't found the stuff, because we're still here in one piece.'

'The desiccant,' Chabrier raged, leaping to his feet. Holding his head as if to create a helmet, he glared down at his prisoner. 'It will detonate when anyone approaches it?'

'That's part of it. There's more — but I think better on my feet. You've got my sidearm. I've got your ticket past the P-beams out there in the desert. What'll it be: out of here on a hovercycle with me, or in little bitty pieces in a few minutes?'

As he attacked the twisted wire at Quantrill's wrists, Chabrier chattered, 'Cretin! There are mice in the loading bay. One of them could trip a motion sensor at any moment. Imbecile! I hope you are more careful in getting us out of here.' The heavyset Frenchman stood back, holding the automatic. Quantrill removed the wire from his ankles, stood up, rubbed his wrists, flexed his arms. Then he turned his back on Chabrier, a languid casual move followed by a backward step at blinding speed, pulling Chabrier's gun arm forward while right hip and thigh swung in and upward against the heavier man in a classic harai-goshi. That move and the cross-arm lock that followed on the bed were essentially simple ploys, but devastating when used in sequence by a man who could flip a coin and catch it between thumb and forefinger.

Chabrier found his right elbow locked at full extension in the other man's crotch, his wrist gripped remorselessly. By arching, Quantrill could easily shatter the elbow. He proved it with a slight arch, then relieved the unbearable bending force. 'That's for catching me like a first-timer, Chabrier. Never hold a handgun on a man when he can see it's on safety. Now give me the piece, and I'll give you your elbow.'

Chabrier let the weapon go, saw the younger man flick a tiny lever under the receiver, lay still until he was alone on the bed. His face registered fatalism as he rubbed the aching elbow. 'Now at least I shall know your intent,' he grumbled. 'Am I to be shot, or left to be crushed?'

'Get up, you poor bastard; even the cargomaster on that delta knows how bad you want out of here. I said I'd haul your freight, and I will if I can. How many guards do we pass between here and open ground?'

'None.' Chabrier rolled to his feet, took one step toward the next room; said, 'I must bring my medication, mon vieux, or life will not be worth living.'

'Go ahead, take your time but don't forget your mice. If you're trying to sucker me again, Chabrier, you won't live to see this place go up.'

Chabrier stood motionless for five seconds, nodding to himself. Then he tugged on socks, thick-soled shoes, and his only windbreaker, ignoring several suits of foreign cut and a very oriental-looking brocaded robe. Quantrill followed his every move with suspicion and, noting the Frenchman's economy of movement, with approval. If not for his sluggish reflexes, he thought, Chabrier might have made a superb agent. Then Chabrier paused; released a charming smile. 'If you are not entirely devoid of mercy, mon ami, you will allow me to warn my staff.'

'Then call me Mr. Devoid* Risk getting boxed? Not a chance.'

Chabrier shook his head and muttered, scooping up his stash of drugs, stuffing them into his zipped jacket and grabbing a pair of fine leather gloves. He tried again while trotting from corridor to elevator:

'One develops friendships, even with prisoners. Will you permit me to alert them when we reach the surface?' Negative headshake as Chabrier, using his control module, began to normalize the functions of the building.

Quantrill snatched the thing away.

'For the love of God, let me get us out of here!' Chabrier imagined the few mice multiplied into swarming thousands, nosing into invisible capacitance fields, tripping a detonator, — and snatching at the module in frustration.

Quantrill slapped the hand away, then offered the module. 'Just remember this thing is full of curare slugs,