CHAPTER 9

Slippery Sam Pepper

Thrash peered up at Hunt and Jan from the contest table and frowned. “Problem, boys?” he called up to them.

“No, sir,” Hunt said and gave him the best grin he could manage.

“It’s Andrew Gordon,” Jan whispered to Hunt excitedly.

“Who?” Thrash asked as climbed the steps toward them.

Hunt had no doubt that Jan was right. It was Andrew Gordon, who in a few years would open a flying school that would eventually become System Guard Academy. Hunt would recognize Gordon anywhere. The Academy text recordings and historical records were full of photographs of him.

“I thought I knew him,” Hunt told Thrash, “but I was wrong.” He gave Gordon another box of Sugar Slammers and asked him to move along.

Thrash frowned as the kid descended the stairs. Like almost everyone else, he stopped at the contest table, filled out a card, and dropped it into the helmet.

“I hope I win,” he said to no one in particular.

“I hope so too, son,” Thrash said. Customers were once again pouring from the forward hatch and edging their way around Thrash.

Suddenly, several men separated themselves from the snaking line of customers on the open cement apron and began firing pistols into the air. Members of the crowd screamed and run around like insects in a disturbed anthill. Thrash’s security men ran forward with their own weapons to cut out the armed men, herding them away from the customers.

Thrash dashed down the stairs, shouting orders, trying to get the situation under control. He wasn’t armed, which made his attempt more difficult. At the contest table he grabbed the space helmet full of cards. Hunt couldn’t guess why he would do that right now.

While Thrash’s security men forced the attackers into a tighter and tighter bunch, adults swooped up children or grabbed the hands of the persons they’d come in with and ran for the exit. Many of the customers were crying.

“It looks as if Thrash’s people need some help,” Hunt cried. Jan rapidly followed him down the stairs and out into the emptying area around the ship.

A large man in a natty gray suit marched quickly toward Christopher Thrash with murder in his eye. He had narrow shoulders and a body the shape of an enormous tear drop, but that didn’t prevent him from looking dangerous, especially with a pistol in one hand.

“I’ll take that helmet,” the large man said.

“How are you doing, Sam?” Thrash asked, as if they were friends meeting on the street.

Both Thrash and Sam snapped their heads around when one of the attackers fired his pistol in Hunt’s direction; a bright outline flared around Hunt, instantly slowing the bullet, and it dropped to the pavement. Hunt fired back with the weapon in the cuff of his uniform shirt, striking the attacker with a shaft of purple light that seemed as solid as a harpoon. As he fell to the ground, he evaporated.

Though most of the customers were gone by now, Hunt and Jan kept moving and shooting at any attackers who had managed to avoid Thrash’s security force.

A platoon of men in blue uniforms ran in through the gate. The uniforms looked something like the outfits worn by the guards who had been stalking Hunt and Jan the night before. More security men? The local police?

Once inside the big open area before the Magellan, they stopped and glanced around in confusion. Hunt and Jan fired more purple light harpoons and a dozen or so men in the blue uniforms moved toward the attackers. The rest of the policemen made a second ring around the corralled attackers and Thrash’s security men.

The policemen did not fire at Hunt and Jan, so Hunt and Jan did not fire at them. They allowed themselves to be surrounded. One of the older policemen—if that’s what they were—kept a close eye on Hunt and Jan while his colleagues patted them down for weapons.

“You can’t do this to us,” Jan protested.

“Take it easy, fellah,” the older policemen advised. “Once we get you downtown you’ll have a chance to tell your story.”

“That ought to be interesting,” Hunt said softly to Jan, who did not seem reassured.

“Well?” the senior policeman demanded of his underlings when they stopped searching Hunt and Jan.

“Nothing,” one of the clean-cut and efficient young policemen said.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’”

“No weapon of any kind,” he said. “Nothing that looks like a weapon, anyway.”

Before the senior policeman could ask another question, Sam turned away from Thrash, apparently having no more interest in either him or the helmet. Instead, he waved at the Magellan, or perhaps to someone still aboard. Seconds later, a blast of fire erupted from the tail of the ship. Frantic voices hollered from inside, and Hunt and Jan hurried to help get the customers off the ship before something else happened. The last of them barely made it out before the ship scooted forward on its skids and gathered speed as it tilted off the flatbed and across the concrete. Hunt and Jan could not help watching as it crashed into the machine that had pulled the flatbed through traffic. The ship exploded, sending a fireball into the air, and making a boom so loud it echoed off mountains that were miles away.

Hunt glanced around and saw that Sam and his army were gone. The policemen were just noticing this too, and they ran for the gate in a mob. But they were too late. Somewhere out in the parking field the engines of many automobiles growled. The automobiles roared out of the big lot and forced their way into the traffic flow. The senior policeman ordered two automobiles full of his young associates to go after them.

“And don’t come back alone,” he called as the automobiles, sirens shrieking, followed the cars of the attackers.

Thrash marched with determination around the open cement apron, still clutching the space helmet full of cards. He ordered his own security men to see to the needs of the few guests who remained—some sitting on the ground, some on the green benches; some were crying, but most just stared at nothing, obviously still in shock from experiencing an attraction no one, not even Thrash, had expected to encounter that day.

Thrash approached Hunt and Jan, standing with a group of policemen. “Why are you holding these men, officer?” Thrash asked.

“Didn’t you see the weapons they were firing?” one of the younger policemen asked. “Gosh, it was something.”

“It’s true,” the first policeman said. “They have a lot of explaining to do. And maybe you do too. We didn’t find anything on them.”

“I can explain. I’m Christopher Thrash. I own this place.”

“What do you know about those ray gun things?”

“Oh, that,” Thrash waved a hand, as if the futuristic weapons were nothing. “I can explain that right now. We fire weapons like that all the time on our television show. It’s what we call a special effect. You didn’t find any weapons on them because they weren’t carrying any.”

“You mean these gentlemen are part of the show?”

“Sure. That’s right. Firing those ray guns is part of their job here at the park. These fellows work for me. Why else would they be wearing those uniforms?”

“And do those fellows they shot at also work for you?”

A good question. Hunt couldn’t wait to hear Thrash’s answer.

“The ones who disappeared work for me.”

“Oh? Tell me more.”

“The disappearing is all done with stage magic. While you were distracted by the ray guns, they tore off their outer shirts and became part of the crowd. The others, the ones who managed to escape, work for Slippery Sam.”

A good answer, Hunt thought, though entirely a fabrication. Anyone hit by the blast of a ray gun disappeared. So far none of the policemen had noticed.

“You mean Slippery Sam Pepper?” the policeman exclaimed.

“The same,” Thrash admitted. “He and his gang attacked the park because he doesn’t want me to succeed. He and I have always had a sort of personal feud.”

The gray-haired policeman shrugged, and then gave the order not to bother about Hunt and Jan. “Let’s go, boys,” he called out. “Those men I sent after Sam Pepper’s people are going to need some help.”

Many members of the senior officer’s force still seemed confused, but they hurried out after him and soon all the policemen were gone.

Thrash smiled as he watched them go. “I wish them luck, but they don’t call him Slippery Sam for nothing.”