THE GETAWAY

"And then, senor?"

"Then?"

"You will continue to provide for him?"

"Why, uh-" Doc slowed down a little. "Well, yes, of course. I suppose so. I mean-uh. -

"You would be required to, senor. As long as you were able to provide for yourself. It would be so pointless otherwise. So cruel. Inhuman, as you said a moment ago."

Gangloni began to shudder violently. He could not talk, but he could hear; like the man in the nightmare, he knew what was going on. Doc made a feeble attempt to free himself, and the skeleton arms tightened around him.

"He is a good friend, eh? You owe him much." The carabinero was sympathy personified. "I can understand. In this one, I would say, there is an i

Doc abruptly broke free of Gangloni. He backed away on the cobblestones; grimacing, mumbling apologetically.

"I–I'll have to come back later. I-you know. Make some arrangements first. T-talk with my wife. Sure it'll be all right, b-but-but you know. How women are,I mean. I–I-_Pat! Don 't look at me like that! Don 't_…"

He turned and began to run.

On the suddenly chill breeze the carabinero's voice followed him.

"_Hasta la vista, senor_. Until we meet again."

You tell yourself it is a bad dream. You tell yourself you have died-you, not the others-and have waked up in hell. But you know better. You know better. There is an end to dreams, and there is no end to this. And when people die they are dead-as who should know better than you?

El Rey does only what he has to. His criminal sanctuary is a big improvement over most. He does not kill you for your loot. He gives you value for your money. He runs a first-class place, and he could not do so if you were allowed to be miserly. Nor can he permit you to linger on when your money is gone. There would be no room for newcomers if he did; and allowed to accumulate, you and your kind would soon take over. You would be in his place, and he would be in yours up on that cobblestoned street with its sparkling whitewashed buildings. And he knows this. He and his native subjects know it. It explains their delight in irony, in symbolism; in constantly holding a mirror up to you so that you must see yourself as you are, and as they see you.

No, it is impossible to deceive yourself. The kingdom is there, maps and officialdom to the contrary. It is there, call it what you like. All things considered, it is probably the best place of its kind. And its bad features, such as they are, derive not from El Rey but his guests.

He will not cheat you. He will not kill you. He ca

In El Rey's dominion there is one night of the year- the night of the a

Very distinguished in white tie and tails, Doc McCoy stood on the promenade border of the great ballroom; beaming out over the swirling assemblage of dancers, bowing to this couple, smiling at that one, courteously inclining his head toward another. Perfectly groomed, his temples touched with gray, he was the very picture of a gentleman at ease, of well-bred charm. But he had seldom been less at ease, or more thoroughly miserable.

His physical discomfort-his numbed feet and aching back-was largely attributed to the wives of El Rey's two chief justices. Neither of the ladies was over five feet tall, yet their combined weight was considerably more than a quarter of a ton. And they were as near to being inexhaustible as anyone Doc had ever met. He had danced with them by turns, murmuring exquisite apologies as they walked giggling on his feet, whispering compliments as his back screamed at the constant bending. Oh, he had buttered up the ladies, but good; for they were known to be ogres in private, and virtually the masters of their henpecked husbands. Then, while he was silently congratulating himself, he had seen Carol dance by in the arms of the chief of police. And he knew that his agonized efforts had been wasted. The chief of police against the chief justices; if there was any advantage, it was on Carol's side. She might suffer for it, perhaps, if he became one of the dominion's suicides or accident victims. But that would do him no good whatsoever.

It was now more than an hour since he had seen either her or the chief of police, and his anxiety was growing. He would have to think very fast, or this might well be the last grand ball he would ever attend.

He made a final survey of the ballroom. Then turning, apparently unseeing as a fat feminine hand waved to him across the throng; he strolled slowly down the palm-bordered promenade. And for some reason his mind went back to that long-ago day in Kansas; to the picnic grounds where he and Carol had gone after leaving the train.

"… _need to get acquainted again, Doc. Wejustabout have to!_"

Doc smiled wryly to himself. Get acquainted? Oh no, they didn't need to. What had actually troubled them was that they knew each other too well. They lived by taking what they wanted. By getting rid of anyone who got in their way or ceased to be useful to them. It was a fixed pattern with them; it was them. And in the event of a showdown, they would show no more mercy toward each other than they had toward so many others…

Wrapped in thought, Doc sauntered down the promenade, absently glancing through the doorways of the i

Probably raided the icebox after he finished her off, Doc thought. And he chuckled silently at the picture that came into his mind.

He came to a small billiard room; started on past it. Then he paused abruptly, straightened his shoulders, and went through the doorway.

Dr. Max Vonderscheid was at the one pool table. His dwarfed hunchbacked body was dressed in rusty black, the tails of the ill-fitting suit almost touching the floor. And his gray leonine head rose only a few inches above the table. But still he appeared austerely handsome and dignified; and he sent the pool balls caroming about the green with almost magical accuracy.

He pocketed the last two with a difficult doublebank shot. Doc applauded lightly, and Vonderscheid set the cue on the floor butt down, and leaned on it looking at him. "Yes, Herr McCoy? I may be of service to you?"

His speech was almost unaccented; Doc had observed that it almost always was except when he was around El Rey. He and El Rey were seemingly on very good terms, the latter making extraordinary concessions to the doctor with regard to rent and other expenses. Still, Vonderscheid had to have some kind of income, and he couldn't have much of a practice here.