Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

Pascoe said with fervent gratitude, “Andy, how have I managed without you all this time? I felt there was something about O’Meara when I talked to him. Mr. Druson, I need to get back to the Village straightaway.”

Druson was looking as if his side’s twenty-point lead had been clawed back in the fourth quarter and now in the dying seconds of the game he was watching the opposition shaping to kick a field goal.

“Come on, you guys!” he mocked, trying for time-out. “I like baloney, but this is ridiculous! Let’s just look at the facts here...”

“The only fact that need concern you, Colonel, is that we are getting into that pod and that during the flight there will be no talking with your base other than essential technical exchanges. I’m sure you understand me.”

Pascoe’s tone was courteous, his voice quiet. But it was the quietness of deep space, which can boil a man’s blood in millisecs if he challenges it unprotected.

Druson clearly believed he had that protection, for now he substituted belligerence for mockery.

“Now listen here. No limey cop gives me orders anywhere and especially not round the moon. Christ almighty, it’s taken you guys half a century to get here in this junk heap. We’ve been living here for more than—”

Pascoe cut across him like Zorro’s sword through a candle.

“Colonel Druson, you are presently on Federation territory and I would be quite within my rights to arrest you and fly the pod back myself with you under restraint. Oh yes, I could do it, believe me. Nor would my powers diminish on the moon’s surface, which is by UN accord international territory where my authority is at least equal with that of your own commander, who, incidentally, has received instructions from your president to extend me all facilities and full cooperation. I hardly think you want to be at the centre of a diplomatic incident which would wipe a mere accidental death right off our television screens. Do you!”

Now for the first time Dalziel admitted to himself how far beyond him Pascoe had gone. He’d always known that the sky was the limit for the lad, but somehow, somewhere, a step had been taken that he’d not noticed, a small step which had taken his protégé into territory where not even the mightiest of leaps could have taken Dalziel.

Druson too was taken by surprise, but like Dalziel he was a pragmatist.

“Okay, okay, Commissioner,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not taking on the UN, believe me.”

“Thank you,” said Pascoe. “Andy, perhaps you’d stay here till another pod fetches you. It would be a bit crowded for the three of us, I think.”

He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes flickered to Silvia Rabal and his finger touched his lips. The message was clear. Dalziel was to make sure the Spaniard made no contact with the village.

Dalziel had seen no particular evidence of the kind of group loyalty that might have her radioing a warning, but Pascoe was right to be cautious. All the same, Dalziel felt a little disgruntled that having done all the nose-work, he wasn’t going to be in at the kill.

Still, as Druson had just acknowledged, it was no use kicking against a brick wall. Best to lean back against it and enjoy the sun on your face.

He watched the pod detach itself from Europa, then he turned to Silvia Rabal, who was relaxing against a bulkhead with her legs tucked up beneath her, looking more like an exotic bird than ever.

“Right, luv,” he said, beaming broadly. “Now what can an old vulture like me and a bright little cockatoo like you do to pass the time? With a bit of luck, mebbe we’ll get an electrical storm, eh?”

It was the youngster who’d brought the whisky who piloted Dalziel back to the Village. He called Dalziel “pops” a couple of times, but the fat man was not in the mood to respond and most of the journey passed in silence.

The first person he saw as he climbed from the pod was Druson, whose face told him all.

“Seems the Shamrock folded like a zed-bed,” said the colonel. “Full admission, signed, sealed, and delivered. Just the way you called it, Andy.”

“Oh aye? You might look more pleased,” said Dalziel.

“You too,” said Druson, regarding him shrewdly. “Time for a snort?”

“Best not,” said Dalziel, to his own surprise as much as the American’s. “I’ll need to find out what the lad’s planning.”

Druson smiled and said, “Last I saw of your lad, he was talking to the two congressmen and the air force general he’d just dumped off the next shuttle. I never heard a guy sound so polite as he says Up yours, fella! So it looks like it’s goodbye time, Andy. And I guess I’d better chuck in a congratulations. You two are a real class act. Though I’m still not sure if it’s Laurel and Hardy or Svengali and Trilby.”

“Is that a compliment?” wondered Dalziel. “It’s about time you buggers learnt to speak plain English. Cheers anyway, Ed. And thanks for the scotch.”

They shook hands and Dalziel returned to his quarters. Pascoe was already there with his suitcase open on the bed.

“That was quick,” said Dalziel.

“It was like I said, Andy. He was longing to get it off his chest, but it seemed daft to confess when he didn’t have to. All it needed was the realization that we had firm evidence. That was down almost entirely to you, Andy. You were brilliant! Fancy a job in the Justice Department?”

“No, thanks,” said Dalziel. “Good beer doesn’t travel. So all’s well, eh? No aggro at the summit after all.”

“The Irish will feel a mite embarrassed but they’re used to that,” said Pascoe. “Main thing is, poor Lemarque’s unfortunate death won’t affect the outcome. It’ll be down to honest political debate.”

“Oh aye? What was that thing they taught us about in grammar lessons, when two things are put together that don’t make proper sense? Like freezing fire. Or southern beer.”

“An oxymoron, you mean.”

“Aye, yon’s the bugger. Well, honest political debate sounds like one of them to me. And all them as claims they engage in it, I reckon they’re oxy-bloody-morons too!”

Pascoe laughed and said, “You don’t change, Andy. Thank God! Come on. Don’t hang about. I’m going to have a quick shower. All this frantic activity’s made me sweat. You get yourself packed. We’re on our way home in half an hour!”

They rose from the moon in a smooth accelerating orbit. As they slipped round for the second time, beneath them they glimpsed the heavy squat bulk of Europa, like some beautifully preserved steam engine on display outside a modem jet station.

Then their flight path straightened out and they sped like a silver arrow towards the gold of Earth.

Dalziel raised himself on his couch. O’Meara was lying to his left, his eyes closed, his breath shallow, a childlike relaxation smoothing the crinkled face.

“Looks as innocent as a newborn baby, doesn’t he?” said Pascoe, who occupied the couch to Dalziel’s right.

“Aye, he does,” said Dalziel. “Mebbe that’s because he is.”

“I’m sorry?”

Dalziel turned to face the younger man and said in an exaggerated whisper, “Safe to talk now, is it?”

Pascoe thought of looking puzzled, changed his mind, grinned, and said, “Quite safe. Clever of you to spot it.”

“They brought me Glenmorangie,” said Dalziel. “I’d not mentioned any brand till we got to our rooms and I complained that Druson had forgotten. I checked it out again at lunch. Druson was listening all right. And you knew, but decided not to warn me.”

Pascoe didn’t deny it.