microphone of a radio transmitter. Now digital signals were relayed by satellite to a computer in London. There the message was decoded and sent to its proper destination by fiber optical transmission.
When he finished, he laid the electronic unit on the table and stood up to stretch. His muscles were stiff and his back sore. The bane of advancing age. He reached into his suitcase and pulled out the bottle of Canadian Club he had purchased after arriving at the Rimouski airport.
The Canadians called it whiskey, but to his British taste it seemed little different from American bourbon. It struck him as primitive to drink it warm-only the Scots preferred to down their liquor that way-but then, decrepit tugboats lacked such modern conveniences as ice makers He sat down in a chair and lit one of his specially o ordered cigarettes. At least something remained of the past. All he lacked was a warm companion. It was times like these, when he was alone with a bottle and reflecting on his life, that he regretted not having remarried.
His reverie was interrupted when the little device on the table gave off a muted beep. Then a fine slip of paper, no more than a quarter of an inch in width, began to issue from one end. A marvel of advanced technology; it never failed to amuse him.
He donned a pair of reading glasses, another curse of the creeping years, and began studying the diminutive wording on the paper. The full text consumed nearly half a meter. At the end he removed his glasses, switched off the transmitter receiver and replaced it in his pocket. 'The latest news from jolly old England?' Shaw looked up to find Foss Gly standing in the doorway.
Gly made no move to enter. He just stared at Shaw from under questioning eyebrows and the expression in the eyes was that of a jackal sniffing the air.
'Merely an acknowledgment of my report on what you observed,' replied Shaw casually. He began idly wrapping the message strip around his index finger in a roll.
Gly had changed from his thermal exposure suit into dungarees and a heavy turtleneck sweater. 'I've still got the shivers. Mind if I help myself to a shot of your booze?'
'Be my guest.'
Gly emptied half a water glass of the Canadian Club in two swallows. He reminded Shaw of an immense trained bear he'd once seen gulping a bucket of ale.
Gly expelled a long sigh. 'Makes me feel almost human again.
'By my reckoning,' said Shaw conversationally, 'your decompression stage was five minutes on the down side. Are you feeling any ill effects?'
Gly made as if to pour himself another drink. 'A slight tingling sensation, nothing more-' In a lightning movement his hand shot across the table and clutched Shaw's wrist in a steel grip. 'That message wouldn't happen to concern liir-, liuw would it, dad?'
Shaw tensed as the nails dug into him. He flattened his feet on the floor, planning to thrust his body backward out of the chair. But Gly anticipated his thoughts.
'No tricks, dad, or I'll snap your bone.'
Shaw sagged. Not from fear. From anger at being caught at a disadvantage.
'You overrate yourself, Inspector Gly. Why should the British secret service bother itself about you?'
'A thousand apologies,' Gly sneered, maintaining the pressure. 'I'm the suspicious type. Liars make me edgy.'
'A crude accusation from a crude mind,' said Shaw, coming back on balance. 'I'd expect little else, considering the source.'
Gly's lips twisted. 'Clever words, Superspy. Suppose you tell me you didn't contact your boss in London and receive an acknowledgment over two hours ago.'
'And if I say you're mistaken?'
'No good. I had a little chat with Doc Coli in the galley. Is your memory so rotten you've forgotten he helped you compose your report on that little gizmo? Or that you added a postscript after Coli left. A request for a rundown on Foss Gly. You know it, I know it. The reply is there in your hand.'
The trapdoor had sprung and Shaw had fallen through. He cursed his transparency. He had little doubt that the ugly man across the table would murder if given the slightest opportunity. His only hope was to stall and throw Gly off his stride. He tried a long shot.
'Mr. Villon mentioned in passing that you might prove unstable. I should have taken him at his word.'
The angry wideniing of the eyes told Shaw he had struck a nerve. He continued to turn the screw. 'I believe he even used the term 'psycho.' '
The reaction was not what he expected. Not what he expected at all.
Instead of cold wrath, Gly's expression was suddenly transformed to one of enlightenment. He released Shaw's wrist and sat back. 'So the double-talking scum stabbed me in the back,' Gly muttered. 'I might have guessed he'd eventually wise up to my scheme.' He paused and looked at Shaw curiously. 'I get the story now. Why I was always sent to do the underwater dirty work. Somewhere along the line you were to see to it I was conveniently drowned by an unfortunate accident.'
Shaw was at a loss. None of this was going in the direction he intended. He flat out didn't know what Gly was talking about. He had no option but to string along. Very carefully he removed the message from his finger with his free hand and flipped it on the table in front of Gly and studied his eyes. There was a fractional glance downward, no more than a second. But it was enough.
'What puzzles me is why you're risking your life for a government and a man who wants you dead.'
'Maybe I like the company benefits.'
'Wit doesn't become you, Mr. Bogus Inspector Gly.'
'How much did Villon tell you about me?'
'He didn't elaborate,' said Shaw, mashing out his cigarette in an ashtray and noting that Gly's eyes followed the movement. 'He only suggested that I would be doing Canada a favor by removing you. Frankly, I wasn't keen to play the role of a hired assassin, especially without knowing why you deserved to die.'
'What changed your mind?'
'You did.' Shaw had Gly's interest at a peak, but he still had no idea where it was taking him. 'I began to study you. Your French-Canadian tongue is letter perfect. But your English: now there hangs another tale. Not the accent, mind you, but the terminology. Words like 'booze' and 'gizmo,' expressions such as 'What's the scam?' Pure Americanese. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked London to run a check on you. The answer is there on the table. You do deserve to die, Mr. Gly. No man deserves it more.'
Gly's face turned menacing and his grinning teeth glistened yellow under the cabin light. 'Do you think you're man enough to take me, dad?'
Shaw clutched the edge of the table with his hands and wondered how Gly intended to kill him. Gly would have to use a gun with a silencer or perhaps a knife. A loud report would bring Coli and the crew of the tug rushing into the cabin. Gly sat with his arms crossed casually in front of him. He looked relaxed, too relaxed.
'I don't have to bother. Mr. Villon had a change of heart. He's decided to turn you over to the Mounties.'
Shaw had taken a wrong turn. He could read the mistake on Gly's face.
'Nice try, dad, but you blew it. Villon can't afford to keep me alive. I could put him behind bars until the next ice age.'
'Just testing the water,' said Shaw with feigned indifference. 'The report is on Villon, not you.' He nodded at the tabletop. 'Read it yourself.' Gly's eyes flicked downward.
Shaw threw every ounce of his strength against the table in a twisting motion and rammed the corner edge into the sweater just above the beltline.
A sharp grunt was the only reaction. Gly absorbed the momentum and scarcely recoiled. It would have knocked any other man across the room in agony. He clamped a great ham of a fist around a table leg and effortlessly lifted the heavy oak fixture to the ceiling.
Shaw was stunned. The thing must have weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.
Gly slowly lowered the table, and set it aside as easily as a child laying a doll in a baby carriage and, rose to his feet. Shaw picked up his chair and brought it down in a violent arc, but Gly simply grabbed it in midair, wrenched it away and placed it neatly under the table.
There was no anger, no savage glare in Gly's eyes as they stared unblinkingly into Shaw's only three feet away.
'I have a gun,' said Shaw, fighting to keep his voice controlled.
