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14

SMEDLEY AWOKE WITH A START. THAT TIME HE HAD REALLY BEEN asleep. The car was doing its coughing and stuttering again. He peered out the window and saw buildings, darkened shops. The blackened street-lights threw tiny puddles of brightness; here and there another vehicle showed or a chink of window high up.

"Where are we?"

"Greenwich," Alice said.

London! They must be safe now!

The car choked, slowed, and then picked up again.

"Does anyone know anything about the workings of these infernal contraptions?" Ginger demanded.

Alice and Exeter said, "No," simultaneously.

"A little," Smedley said. "Have we any tools on board?"

"No," said Ginger.

"Is it short of petrol?"

"No."

That settled that, then. Nothing to be done.

London never slept, but it was pretty drowsy out in the suburbs at this time in the morning. There were no traffic policemen at the intersections, but usually Ginger had the right-of-way. He was driving quite slowly. The old boy must be completely exhausted.

Smedley's leg throbbed. So did his missing hand. Perhaps in time he would discover that this was a sign of rain or thunder or something.

Exeter had refused to talk any more, claiming he was hoarse. He had demanded to know more about the war, about what this Lawrence character was up to in Palestine, about zeppelins and poison gas, and what sort of allies the Italians and Japanese were. Alice had talked for a while. Smedley had stayed out of it, and started nodding off.

"Somebody talk!" Ginger said. "I'm getting sleepy."

Smedley roused himself. "So that's what you've been doing these last three years? Fighting with spears?"

Exeter sighed. "Not all of it, no. But some. I knew there had been an out-of-valley campaign about twenty years ago. As soon as we left Krobi-dirkin's temple, I went off to talk to the fathers at their clubhouse. The whites, we called them, because Visek's—doesn't matter. That evening I brought a couple of them to the barracks and got them to tell us about it. I said I'd had an inspiration in the temple. Everyone assumed it was a message from the god, which was perfectly true.

"They told us how the Joalians had made them march in rows, and I suggested we practice that. There was a lot of grumbling, but I could always get my way when I wanted, being a stranger. A couple of days later the queen's envoy arrived in Sonalby. He went to the senior warriors and eventually they summoned us. We marched up in a phalanx and their eyes just about popped out of their heads."

Alice chuckled, although it sounded forced. "So you were elected general?"

"Of course. My group all voted for me, and we outnumbered the seniors. Half of them were married and didn't count—married men stay home as defensive reserves. We roped in a few of the big ones from the cadet class. In a day or two we set off for Nag, about a hundred of us."

The car coughed, coughed, coughed. It faded to a stop, then suddenly lurched forward. Everyone breathed again.

"Keep talking!" Alice said.

"Lordie! I'm sure you don't want to hear all that. Nag is a fair-sized city by Vales standards. Not like Joal or Tharg, of course, about the size of Suss. We'd call it a modest market town. That was where I met the heir apparent, Prince Goldfish."

"You are making that up!"

"No. Cross my heart! Well, it was pronounced more like 'Golbfish,' but I always thought of him as Goldfish. He was the queen's oldest son and his name was Golbfish Hordeleader. He was in his late twenties, I suppose, and one of the tallest, biggest men in Nagland. He was rich, had three gorgeous concubines, and he was heir to the throne. What more can a man want?"

"To play the mouth organ?" Smedley said grumpily.

"I told you you wouldn't want to hear all this."

"Yes, we do!" Alice said. "What about Goldfish?"

"And he was absolutely miserable! To start with, he was big, but he was shaped like a pear. Also—"

The car coughed and slowed, the motor silent.

Ginger guided it into the curb, and it came to a halt right by a streetlight. It hissed and clinked.

Alice said, "Hell's bells!"

Ginger had slumped over the wheel. After a moment he turned around. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"It may just have overheated," Smedley said. "Let's give it a few minutes and then try cranking it." If he had some tools he might be able to do something, or at least show Exeter how to do something . . . but he hadn't.

A lorry went rumbling by.

"We're not supposed to park here," Alice said, her voice brittle. "And I don't imagine the buses are running yet. Care to explain all that blood on your coat, Edward? Or your trousers, Julian?"

"Or why I am wearing pajamas," Edward said. "The old crate's done very well."

"But not well enough!" Now there was no hiding the overtones of panic in her voice.

"How about a taxicab?"

"At this time of night? Away out here? Explain the bloodstains?"

"Just a thought."

"Telephone the Royal Automobile Club," Smedley suggested.

"Don't be stupid! We have no papers!"

They sat in brooding silence for a while.

Failure was a bitter taste in Smedley's throat. So near and yet so far! The sun would be up soon, and they must look a hopeless bunch of guys. You could get away with a lot in London, but marching around covered in blood was not one. Without his folly, the others would have had a good chance, even yet. All his fault.

Lorries rumbled by in both directions. There were no pedestrians in sight, but the capital awoke early. Covent Garden would be stirring by now, and Billingsgate.

Smedley stiffened. He must be imagining things. That wasn't just traffic he was hearing. It must be! Or was he starting to have delusions in addition to all his other madness?

"What's that noise?" Exeter said.

"Oh no!" Alice said. "Look!"

A policeman had just passed under the next streetlight. He was heading their way with the solid, unhurried tread of the bobby on his beat.

"I don't have my license!" Ginger wailed.

"I don't have anything at all," Exeter growled. "Will he take me for a deserter?"

"Julian," Alice said wildly, "you're on convalescent leave, and we're taking you to my home in—"

"I don't have my hospital discharge yet and why at four in the morning and Exeter has no papers at all and the blood—"

There was no innocent explanation! No one answered. They all just stared helplessly as their nemesis approached relentlessly along the pavement. With his helmet on, he looked about eight feet tall. He would have to stoop to see in the window.

He did.

"Morning, Officer!" Ginger said in his best Cambridge drawl.

Pause. "Good morning, sir."

"The jolly old engine's overheated, you see. Just giving it a moment to calm down, and then we'll be on our way."

Pause. "Will you tell me the purpose of your journey this morning, sir?" The copper glanced at the three passengers in the back. He did not shine his light on them, not yet.

Ginger said, "Er . . . "

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Framed