Эрл Гарднер - The Human Zero. The Science Fiction Stories of Erle Stanley Gardner

Click jumped in the back of the car.

One of the men raised an automatic. The girl was frantically beating the other man with a barrage of puny-fisted blows that served only to tire her.

Click lunged for the automatic, missed, heard the spat of powder, swung, missed, stopped a blow on the jaw, swung again. This time his fist thudded home. The man staggered back. The girl wrenched herself free, vaulted the car, and sprinted.

Click heard a curse from the driver’s seat.

Instinctively he ducked, twisting his head as he did so. The dust-covered figure of the driver, one leg crooked over the back of the seat, held a wrench aloft. The wrench descended, and then nauseating darkness engulfed Click.

There was the sensation of falling endless miles. Hot dust stung his nostrils. He could hear the sound of profanity, repeated with mechanical regularity, an utter lack of tone expression.

The roar of a speeding motor, a sickening smell of gasoline, and the car was gone, leaving behind it a swirling cloud of dust. Click realized some one was bending over him.

He struggled, sat up, spat, and tried to speak. The dust gritted in his teeth, clogged his nose.

“Thanks,” said a feminine voice.

“Don’t mention it,” muttered Click with an attempt at humor.

The girl muttered a single explosive word. It sounded remarkably like “damn.”

“Yea?” prompted Click.

“We’ve got to get in the brush. They thought I’d kept on running. They’ll be back as soon as they can turn the car. Can you walk?”

Click rolled to hands and knees, straightened, and gave a wobbly grin.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Down the road came the roar of a motor, the clash of shifting gears.

“They’re coming!”

She half dragged him into the brush.

From the other direction could be heard the sound of an approaching motor. Then the touring car ripped into motion.

“Another car scared ’em off. Sit still.”

The girl’s voice was calm, confident, given in the manner of one who is accustomed to command. Abruptly Click became conscious that she was beautiful.

“Don’t say a word. They’re slowing to look at the wrecks. Keep quiet!”

Brakes squeaked upon dry drums. The sound of excited voices came to his ears. “How could it have happened? — nobody hurt — roadster must have gone out of control — better take the numbers — couldn’t have been long ago—”

Click watched the girl’s face.

She was sitting, as alert as a crouching lion, peering through the screen of the brush. Her lips, slightly parted, were full but nicely shaped. Her eyes a deep violet, nose small, slightly upturned. There was about her something indefinable, the aura of one who is accustomed to take care of herself, who is playing with big events.

“Can I look?” asked Click.

She shook her head without even lowering her eyes to his face.

“Lie still. They’re going. Now, quick. They’ve gone!”

Click rolled over, found that his strength was returning rapidly, got to his feet.

The violet eyes regarded his sleeve.

“You’re hit?”

He looked at the red-stained cloth.

“Guess so.”

She pulled up his coat sleeve.

“Humph, just a flesh wound, but it’s got to be bound.”

Click said nothing. Somehow he resented that tone of minimizing disinterest.

“Think you can walk to the house? It’s not a quarter of a mile.”

“The Wagner place?”

“Yes. I’m Professor Wagner’s daughter. You know him?”

“Just met him. I was sent out from Centerberry to interview him for the Bugle.”

She paused, regarded him with appraising eyes.

“Do you know, I think I could hate you most cordially. Reporters are snoopers who pry into other people’s business. But I can’t let you bleed to death. I’ve got to take you inside, so come on.”

“And in reply to your cordial hospitality,” snapped Kendall, “permit me to remind you that I’m a reporter, on official business, and that I’m going to publish any information I can get.”

“That’s to be expected — of a reporter!” And then she laughed. “Do you know, we’re not behaving in the conventional manner? I should be thanking you for having saved my life; and I really should have developed a sprained ankle or something so you could have carried me to the house. Come on, let’s forget that you’re a reporter and act human. After all, it’s not your fault.”

As a reply trembled on his lips, Click stopped dead in his tracks, his unbelieving eyes staring at the upper portion of a shed which showed over the top of the board fence.

That shed disintegrated into scattering lumber. A pointed dome of glittering metal thrust itself above the ripping roof, hesitated for a moment, then shot into the air.

The glittering dome became the tip of a huge beehive affair, made of some highly polished metal. And that great beehive drifted placidly through the tumbling ruins of the wrecked shed, ascended some forty feet in the air, and hung there, poised, shimmering like some gigantic soap bubble.

For a space of swift seconds it remained suspended, then dropped swiftly, paused, drifted, and jolted to earth. Only the upper portion remained showing.

The girl made a few swift, running steps, then paused, turned.

“Oh, I hate you!” she flared.

“Hate me?” asked Click, dazed.

“Yes, hate you! You did have to come right at this time! He’s solved it. I tell you he’s got the thing he’s been working for; and I’ve got to take you in there! That’s what I get for being a woman. If I’d been a man I’d have been better prepared for those thugs. But no, I had to play the part of the poor, helpless damsel in distress; and you had to come along as the rescuing hero, and had to get shot so you require attention; and I’ve got to take you inside.”

Click Kendall drew himself up. A sudden ringing was in his ears. She seemed rather far away, surrounded by a dark border of flickering darkness.

“I assure you you won’t need to... to... I can... look out—”

He noticed that the violet eyes widened in alarm.

“Don’t faint, don’t faint!”

And then her arms were around his neck.

“Please, Mister Man, don’t faint. Oh, I’m sorry! I was rotten selfish. But you can’t understand. Please hold up until we get to the gate. Try. Fight. It’s life and death, more than life and death.”

And Click, hating himself for the momentary weakness, wishing that he hadn’t been hurt so he could have raised his hat in a very dignified gesture and walked wordlessly away, was forced to lean upon her and fight to keep his consciousness.

The entire world seemed suddenly a sort of Alice in Wonderland place, where strange beehives floated around in the afternoon skies; where beautiful girls supported him with firm, muscular arms, begged him not to faint, laughed, sobbed, praised his spirit, and then grunted maledictions at an unkind fate that had thrown a helpless man on their hands.

His feet worked mechanically up and down. But they seemed to cling to the earth with each step. And there was no feeling of contact. It was as though he floated, yet was bogged down in a sticky marsh.

He saw the outlines of the board fence before him, heard the roar of a motor car behind him. Fancied there was the rattle of shots, and fainted.

A thin, reedy voice was piping meaningless figures and formulae. At first the sounds meant nothing to Click Kendall except a source of irritation. Then he gathered that these sounds had meaning, that they were words. The words seemed to formulate in his brain, independent of the sound, yet connected in some way with the reedy voice. He tried to open his eyes, but was too weary.