The telephone at the Cassell residence began to ring. At the front door, Scott Markman gave up waiting for an answer to his knock and let himself in with the key given him by Cassiopia. Hoping that the call was from her, he raced down the hallway to the Professor's study.
"Hello?"
There was no reply.
"Hello?"
A hoarse-sounding, monotone voice responded. "Mr. Markman, this is the TEL 100D, part number 7639620, serial number 000001. I require input."
"Okay, this is a joke...right?"
Silence.
"Come on, who is this--really?"
Again silence.
"This is the TEL 100D, part number 7639620, serial number 000001."
"What? Where are you calling from?"
"Mr. Markman, my present location is, latitude twenty-eight degrees, nineteen minutes, zero-zero seconds, longitude eighty-one degrees, thirty-nine minutes, zero-five seconds."
"Is Cassiopia or Professor Cassell with you?"
"Negative."
Markman paused and stared blankly at the receiver in his hand. Every time I get mixed up with these people something completely absurd happens, he thought. Now I'm standing in a house in central Florida that has a basement and a converted bomb shelter, and I'm talking to a robot on the telephone. These people can't be from this planet.
"Well, what are you doing out of the house alone?"
"Mr. Markman, I require transportation."
"Where are you?"
"My present location is, latitude twenty-eight degrees, nineteen minutes, zero-zero seconds, longitude eighty-one degrees, thirty-nine minutes, zero-five seconds."
"I don't know where that is! Isn't there something recognizable around there, a building or something?"
"Ted's Place."
"What the heck are you doing anyway? How'd you get there? Oh never mind, I'm on my way, I'll find the place."
"Acknowledged."
Satisfied it had fulfilled the necessary communication requirements, Tel backed out of the cramped phone booth and resumed its journey. As it disappeared around the first forest-lined corner, the alcohol-refreshed patron from the bar reemerged with several friends, hoping they could confirm the bizarre sight he thought he had seen. When no monster was to be found, his friends began to laugh and make debasing comments, but the celebration quickly became subdued when one of them pointed out weeds hanging from the free swinging handset in the muddied booth.
Using Cassiopia’s laptop, Markman found the location of Ted’s Place and managed to pick up the wayward robot on the road well before reaching the bar. Somehow the persistent machine had managed to coast along the remote country highway without encountering any local traffic. With great effort and numerous seat adjustments, he managed to squeeze the robot's hulk into the front seat of his Mustang, though it required that one arm and shoulder hang out the open window. After piecing together the fractured story of Tel's abduction, he located the remains of the brown and white van and took down the plate number. There was no sign of the Spungin brothers.
Back at the Professor's home, neither Cassiopia nor her father had returned. Tel, having thoroughly soiled the car and strewn pieces of slimy green weed in the Professor's hallway, went to its favorite spot in the study, while Markman anonymously called in an accident report on the Spungin's van. He deliberately said nothing of the break-in or theft at the Cassell home. He knew well how the Professor valued his privacy. Without waiting for their return, he secured the broken back door and locked the house much more properly. A few important things had to be accomplished before accepting the case of the Sensesuit murders, one of which was including Cassiopia in the decision. The other requirement was a very necessary rendezvous with an old friend.
Sergeant Dan Parish squirmed into the most comfortable position he could manage in the driver's seat of his unmarked police car. In the seat next to him, rookie officer Steve Peterson, having recovered for the most part from Chief Wandell's discipline, stared out the window. Flickering amber street lights were just coming on.
"So why are we here, Sergeant?"
"We're meetin' an old friend, Mr. Peterson, somebody I owe a favor to."
"Anyone I know?"
"Markman."
"Oh yeah? What's the deal?"
"Now you never mind, you hear? This is between him and me. You don't know nothin', got it?"
"Yep," replied Peterson.
Parrish paused to gawk at an unsuspecting lady of the evening who had crossed the street to rendezvous with a stopped car. She stood leaning over the open driver's window, her black laced stockings not quite reaching up to her wet black miniskirt. A wide, black belt joined it to a sheer red-pink see-through blouse. Confidential negotiations were taking place.
"So what's the favor for, do I get to know that?" asked Peterson.
"Old war wounds, my boy, old war wounds."
"You guys served in the military together or something?"
Parrish snorted a laugh. "No way man, I'm talkin' about the seven-eleven wars."
"What?"
The overweight Sergeant shifted restlessly in his seat. He cast a warning glance at his inexperienced partner, but quickly abandoned it and smiled.
"Ah, I guess I can tell you that one. Ain't no secret. A few years back Markman was with me as a ride-along, an auxiliary. We had just finished a long stakeout for nothin', on the west side. It was late. I pulled into an all-nighter so I could get a pack a' cigarettes. Can't smoke 'em now you know, damn doctors. We were off duty; I had all my gear off and all. So half-asleep I go ramblin' into this store and walk in on two guys with guns robbin' the place. Before I know it one of 'em puts me against the wall with a nine millimeter at my chest, while the other's holding a Smith and Wesson to the cashier's head. The cashier's so damn scared he can't get the register open."
"Then Markman, who don't know none a' this, decides he wants a freakin’ ice cream or somethin' and comes bustin' in on the whole thing, so they put him up against the wall with me. There we are, no guns, no nothin', 'cept Markman's still got his vest on under his shirt cause they was required for all ride-alongs."
"So the cashier's cryin' like a baby, stuffin' money into their sack. It ain't much, stupid robbin' a convenience store and all. About that time the thug whose robbin' the poor kid pulls the hammer back on the Smith and Wesson. I mean, he's gonna kill the kid right there and then. Me and Markman are pinned, can't go left or right 'cause we're between two freezer units. I'm figurin' it's all over. If they're gonna do the kid, they're sure as hell gonna do us, right?"
"All of a sudden out of nowhere Markman slaps the gun right out of the guy's hand who's holdin' us, so fast I didn't even see it happen. I mean it was a blur, the thug never saw it comin', neither. In the same move, Markman rams the heel of his palm up into the guy's face and drives the guy's nose up into his head. He goes down hard."
"So now we're lookin' straight out at the other dude still holdin' onto the cashier, but he's got his Smith and Wesson leveled at me and I got no place to go.”
"So what does Markman do? The crazy bastard steps in front of me and takes three shots in the vest. By that time, I'm on the floor scramblin' for the other guy's nine-millimeter, right?"
"Well let me tell you, boy, I ain't never been a sharpshooter. Down at the range, when I got my glasses, I can hit the silhouette good enough to get by, but nothin' special, you understand. So there I am, prone on the floor of the convenience store with a strange nine millimeter in my hand and no glasses. I click off three shots as fast as I can pull the trigger, see?"
Parrish paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief he had drawn from his back pocket, as though just remembering the story was an ordeal.
"Man, I still can't believe it. The first shot hits the guy dead center in the chest, the second straight through the throat and the third right below the nose. It was the best shootin' I've ever done in my life."
Peterson stared blankly. "And you guys are both still around
to talk about it?"
"Yeah, so they take Markman away on a stretcher half-conscious, mumblin' Chinese, while me and the cashier stand around not believin' we're still alive. Later I asked Markman what the hell he was thinkin'. You know what he said? He said he knew what I'd do; like he knew I'd go for the other gun and take out the second gunman, right? He's one lucky son-of-a-bitch that Markman. Had three big welts on his chest that wept for a month."
Just as Parrish finished his story, a familiar black Mustang crept forward out of the darkness and stopped a short distance in front of them. Parrish opened his door and looked threateningly at his young partner. "You wait here right? Remember, none of this ever happened."
Parrish got out of the car and crossed over to the waiting Mustang. He paused to look around and then climbed in the passenger side and shut the door.
"So how's tricks, old buddy? Ain't seen you around lately. You got somethin' goin?"
Markman draped his hands over the steering wheel and smiled at his friend. "Thanks for showing, Dan. Nothing I should talk about."
"Say no more, I already figured it. I brought you the present you asked for, not exactly what you wanted." With that Parrish pulled something wrapped in a piece of oily, brown rag from beneath his black police windbreaker. He unwrapped it carefully in his lap.
"The serial numbers' been ground off, so it's an orphan like you wanted. Couldn't get a Berretta, but it's a Glock. 'Bout the same size. They're kinda' ugly, but they have this mean little habit of hittin' the target every damned time. I think you'll like it."
Markman took the dark metal handgun from the Sergeant. He popped out the clip, checked it and locked it back in place. The safety was on. He leaned over and placed it carefully under the car seat.
"I appreciate it, Dan. What I'm working on, you're about the only person I trust. I wanted something no one in the world knows about."
Parrish looked away out the passenger window in time to see the tiptoeing hooker climb into her client's car. "Glad to do it, Scott. Let me tell you it wasn't easy. They had the disposal cage at headquarters real secure. They don't kid around these days with confiscated weapons. There were more Uzi’s down there than handguns. World's goin' crazy, I think."
"Only the best for the drug dealers, I guess," replied Markman with a nod.
"Well, hey, that's not all. I got you somethin' else too." Parrish pushed up from the seat and groped around in his right-hand pants pocket. He pulled out something that looked like a small stuffed toy and handed it over with a grin.
"It's a Cobra nine-millimeter derringer. It'll give you two real meaningful shots. Better watch it though, nine millimeter is a lot of lead for that little gun. It's gotta have a real kick to it. See the foam jacket it's in? You keep it in your pants pocket and even if you get patted down there's a good chance it won't get picked up. Pretty good, eh?"
Markman pulled open the white foam cushion and stared down at the small, well-made, nickel-plated derringer. It was designed to fire in the case. One hole for the trigger finger, another at the tip of the dual barrels. He shook his head in surprise and approval. "You're a true blue, Dan. I owe you one."
"Not really, partner. They're gonna take the firein' pins outa' these repo'd guns and sink 'em on a barge at the end of the month anyway. It's a yearly ritual; you were just in time. Besides, I wouldn't want nothin' happenin' to you, whatever you're into, right?"
"I'll be okay."
"Famous last words, partner. If you need me for anything, you just say the word. Got it?"
"Got it."
Markman drove back to the Cassell place. Cassiopia’s car was nowhere in sight. A call to her cell phone yielded only the message service. The Professor's car was parked in the driveway, but there was still no answer at the door. Feeling slightly guilty, he let himself in once more and was looking into the kitchen when the door to the basement lab opened, and the Professor emerged, unaware that he had still another visitor.
"Professor Cassell."
"Ahhhh...," the old gray-haired man let out a loud scream and looked up at Markman with one hand over his heart. When he realized who it was, his shoulders let down in relief, and he began to shake his head. "Mr. Markman, you must not surprise me that way. Is this a plot between you and my daughter to be rid of me once and for all or something?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you. I was looking for Cassiopia. Is she downstairs, by any chance?"
The old man suddenly looked guilty, and the tone of his voice became defensive. "No, ah, nothing's downstairs. Just cleaning up, that's all. Nothing that would interest anyone down there. My daughter left about a half hour ago; I'm not sure where she was going."
"Professor, someone tried to run off with Tel this afternoon. Did you know that?"
"The 100D? Someone tried to steal it? Isn't it in the study?"
"It is now. Do you have any idea who would do that?"
"What? Someone tried to steal Tel? ...No, I have no idea who would attempt such a thing. How do you know? What happened?"
"I found it on the road outside of town. From what I could get out of the thing, it must have been some real small time operators. There was no sign of them anywhere. I did not report it. I thought you would prefer it that way."
"Why, yes, though I'm shocked. I never quite expected this. I suppose I should have. Oh my, I'll have to be more careful. It should be kept downstairs, out of sight."
"Professor, maybe you can talk to it and get more information than I was able to. Maybe we can look into this later when I have time."
"Yes, yes, of course, I'll find out everything I can. How unsettling this is. I should have checked on it when I came in."
"And Professor, I need to talk to Cassiopia, right away. Do you have any idea at all where I might find her?"
"I'm sorry, Scott, in all the confusion I did not ask. She dropped me at the door. I really have no idea."
"Well, would you give her a message for me if you see her before I do? Tell her I'll get in touch with her as soon as I can. I'm not sure where I'll be working. I'll call."
With final assurances from the unsettled Professor, Markman left, annoyed that he had failed to discuss his situation with Cassiopia. He had an uneasy feeling that there would probably not be time left to do so.
His fears were confirmed a short time later when he found a plain brown envelope on the passenger seat of the locked Mustang. There were two items in it, one a plane ticket to New York, and the other a handwritten note.
Mr. Markman, time has become critical. You must be in N.Y. by 10:00 A.M. tomorrow to attend a firearms convention at the Queens Convention Center. --Rogers.