Part 7 (1/2)

They shouldn't take a white man's job and they shouldn't be allowed to marry white people. It deteriorates the race, like.”

Crowley was really becoming wound up now. Wound up and expansive.

”There's a lot of things I'd change, see. Take freedom of speech and press and like that. Sure I believe in that, I'm one hundred per cent American. But you can't allow people to talk against the government.

Freedom of speech is O.K., but you can't let a guy jump up in the middle of a theater and yell fire.”

”Why not?” Ross growled. ”Freedom of speech is more important than a few movie houses full of people. Besides, if one man is allowed to jump up and yell fire, then somebody else can yell out 'You're a liar, there is no fire.'”

”You're not funny,” Crowley said ominously.

”I wasn't trying to be,” Ross muttered, and then blurred into sudden action. He shot to his feet, and then, arms extended, dashed toward the source of the voice. He hit the chair without slowing, grappled crazily.

”I've got him!” He wrestled awkwardly, fantastically, seemingly in an insane tumbling without opponent.

Patricia was on her feet. She grasped an antique bronze candle-holder and darted toward the now fallen chair and to where Ross was wrestling desperately on the floor. Crowley was attempting to shout, but was largely smothered.

Patricia held the candlestick at the ready, trying to find an opening, trying to locate the invisible Crowley's head.

Frederick Braun staggered to his own feet, bewildered, shaking.

A voice from the door said flatly, ”O.K., that's it.” Then, sharper, ”I said cut it out. You all right, Mr. Crowley?”

It was Larry. His thin black automatic was held almost negligently in his right hand. He ran his eyes up and down Patricia, taking in the candlestick weapon. His ordinarily empty face registered a flicker of amused approval.

Patricia gasped, ”Oh, no,” dropped her bludgeon and sank into a chair, her head in her hands.

Ross, his face in dismay, came slowly to his feet. The redhead stared at the gunman, momentarily considering further attack. Larry, ignoring both Braun and Patricia, swung the gun to cover him exclusively. ”I wouldn't,” he said emptily.

Of a sudden, Ross' head jerked backward. His nose flattened, crus.h.i.+ngly, and then spurted blood. He reeled back, his head flinging this way and that, bruises and cuts appeared magically.

Crowley's voice raged, ”You asked for it, wise guy. How do you like these apples?”

The saturnine Larry chuckled sourly. ”Hey, take it easy, chief. You'll kill the guy.”

Ross had crumpled to the floor. There were still sounds of blows.

Crowley raged, ”You're lucky I'm not wearing shoes, I'd break every rib in your body!”

Patricia was staring in hopeless horror. She said sharply, ”Don, remember you need Ross! You need all of us! Without all of us there can be no more serum.”

The blows stopped.

”There will be no more serum anyway,” Braun said shakily. The thin little man still stood before his chair having moved not at all since the action began.

Crowley's heavy breathing could be heard but he managed a snarl. ”That's what you think, Doc.”

Braun said, ”By Caesar, I absolutely refuse to....”

Crowley interrupted ominously. ”You know, Doc, that's where this particular common man has it all over you eggheads. You spend so much time reading, you don't take in the action shows on TV. Now what you're thinking is that even if we were going to twist your arm a little, you'd stick to your guns. But suppose, like, it was Pat we was working on, while you had to sit and watch.”

The elderly man's brave front collapsed and his thin shoulders slumped.