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«No,» Foyle brushed the pornography aside. «I'm looking for Angelo Poggi.»
Y'ang-Yeovil signaled microscopically. His crew on the stairs began photographing and recording the interview without ceasing its pimping and whoring. The Secret Speech of the Intelligence Tong of the I
«Signore?» Y'ang-Yeovil wheezed.
«Angelo Poggi?»
«Si, signore. I am Angelo Poggi.»
«Chef's assistant off the 'Vorga'?» Expecting the same start of terror manifested by Forrest and Orel, which he at last understood, Foyle shot out a hand and grabbed Y'ang-Yeovil's elbow. «Yes?»
«Si, signore,» Y'ang-Yeovil replied tranquilly. «How can I serve your worship?»
«Maybe this one can come through,» Foyle murmured to Robin. «He's not scared. Maybe he knows a way around the Block. I want information from you, Poggi.»
«Of what nature, signore, and at what price?»
«I want to buy all you've got. Anything you've got. Name your price.»
«But signore! I am a man full of years and experience. I am not to be bought in wholesale lots. I must be paid item by item. Make your selection and I will name the price. What do you want?»
«You were aboard 'Vorga' on September i6, 2436?»
«The cost of that item is ~r 10.»
Foyle smiled mirthlessly and paid.
«I was, signore.»
«I want to know about a ship you passed out near the asteroid belt. The wreck of the 'Nomad.' You passed her on September 16. 'Nomad' signaled for help and 'Vorga' passed her by. Who gave that order?»
«Ah, signore!»
«Who gave you that order, and why?»
«Why do you ask, signore?»
«Never mind why I ask. Name the price and talk.»
«I must know why a question is asked before I answer, signore.» Y'ang-Yeovil smiled greasily. «And I will pay for my caution by cutting the price. Why are you interested in 'Vorga' and 'Nomad' and this shocking abandonment in space? Were you, perhaps, the unfortunate who was so cruelly treated?»
«He's not Italian! His accent's perfect, but the speech pattern's all wrong. No Italian would frame sentences like that.»
Foyle stiffened in alarm. Y'ang-Yeovil's eyes, sharpened to detect and deduce from minutiae, caught the change in attitude. He realized at once that he had slipped somehow. He signaled to his crew urgently.
A white-hot brawl broke out on the Spanish Stairs. In an instant, Foyle and Robin were caught up in a screaming, struggling mob. The crews of the Intelligence Tong were past masters of this OP-I maneuver, designed to outwit a jaunting world. Their split-second timing could knock any man off balance and strip him for identification. Their success was based on the simple fact that between unexpected assault and defensive response there must always be a recognition lag. Within the space of that lag, the Intelligence Tong guaranteed to prevent any man from saving himself.
In three-fifths of a second Foyle was battered, kneed, hammered across the forehead, dropped to the steps and spread-eagled. The mask was plucked from his face, portions of his clothes torn away, and he was ripe and helpless for the rape of the identification cameras. Then, for the first time in the history of the tong, their schedule was interrupted.
A man appeared, straddling Foyle's body. . . a huge man with a hideously tattooed face and clothes that smoked and flamed. The apparition was so appalling that the crew stopped dead and stared. A howl went up from the crowd on the Stairs at the dreadful spectacle.
«The Burning Man! Look! The Burning Man!»
«But that's Foyle,» Y'ang-Yeovil whispered.
For perhaps a quarter of a minute the apparition stood, silent, burning, staring with blind eyes. Then it disappeared. The man spread-eagled on the ground disappeared too. He turned into a lightning blur of action that whipped through the crew, locating and destroying cameras, recorders, all identification apparatus. Then the blur seized the girl in the Renaissance gown and vanished.
The Spanish Stairs came to life again, painfully, as though struggling out of a nightmare. The bewildered Intelligence crew clustered around Y'ang-Yeovil.
«What in God's name was that, Yeo?»
«I think it was our man. Gully Foyle. You saw that tattooed face.»
«And the burning clothes!»
«Looked like a witch at the stake.»
«But if that burning man was Foyle, who in hell were we wasting our time on?»
«I don't know. Does the Commando Brigade have an Intelligence service they haven't bothered to mention to us?»
«Why the Commandos, Yeo?»
«You saw the way he accelerated, didn't you? He destroyed every record we made.»
«I still can't believe my eyes.»
«Oh, you can believe what you didn't see, all right. That was top secret Commando technique. They take their men apart and rewire and regear them. I'll have to check with Mars HQ and find out whether Commando Brigade's ru
«Does the army tell the navy?»
«They'll tell Intelligence,» Y'ang-Yeovil said angrily. «This case is critical enough without jurisdictional hassles. And another thing: there was no need to manhandle that girl in the maneuver. It was undisciplined and u
«If she's been regeared too, it'll be real interesting, Yeo,» a bland voice, markedly devoid of implication, said. «Boy Meets Commando.»
Y'ang-Yeovil flushed. «All right,» he blurted. «I'm transparent.»
«Just repetitious, Yea. All your romances start the same way. 'There's no need to manhandle that girl. . .' And then-Dolly Quaker, Jean Webster, Gwy
«No names, please!» a shocked voice interrupted. «Does Romeo tell Juliet?»
«You're all going on latrine assignment tomorrow,» Y'ang-Yeovil said.
«I'm damned if I'll stand for this salacious insubordination. No, not tomorrow; but as soon as this case is closed.» His hawk face darkened. «My God, what a mess! Will you ever forget Foyle standing there like a burning brand? But where is he? What's he up to? What's it all mean?»
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRESTEIGN OF PRESTEIGN'S MANSION in Central Park was ablaze for the New Year. Charming antique electric bulks with zigzag filaments and pointed tips shed yellow light. The jaunte-proof maze had been removed and the great door was open for the special occasion. The interior of the house was protected from the gaze of the crowd outside by a jeweled screen just inside the door.
The sightseers buzzed and exclaimed as the famous and near-famous of clan and sept arrived by car, by coach, by litter, by every form of luxurious transportation. Presteign of Presteign himself stood before the door, iron gray, handsome, smiling his basilisk smile, and welcomed society to his open house. Hardly had a celebrity stepped through the door and disappeared behind the screen when another, even more famous, came clattering up in a vehicle even more fabulous.
The Colas arrived in a band wagon. The Esso family (six sons, three daughters) was magnificent in a glass-topped Greyhound bus. But Greyhound arrived (in an Edison electric runabout) hard on their heels and there was much laughter and chaffing at the door. But when Edison of Westinghouse dismounted from his Esso-fueled gasoline buggy, completing the circle, the laughter on the steps turned into a roar.
Just as the crowd of guests turned to enter Presteign's home, a distant commotion attracted their attention. It was a rumble, a fierce chatter of pneumatic punches, and an outrageous metallic bellowing. It approached rapidly. The outer fringe of sightseers opened a broad lane. A heavy truck rumbled down the lane. Six men were tumbling baulks of timber out the back of the truck. Following them came a crew of twenty arranging the baulks neatly in rows.