“We will forget the matter of the tax files for the moment. If it is not taxes-why are the police so eager to capture you?”

“They are blaming me for the recent robberies-when in fact I am here to investigate them as I told you.”

“Then you are, in fact-being framed?”

“Got that in one,” Bolivar said. “And it is a frame big enough to include me as well. I was manager of the first bank that was robbed. The police claimed that it was an inside job and arrested me. With some help I managed to escape.”

Puissanto pondered that for a while, then reached a reluctant decision. “If you both are innocent, then it is my duty as a good citizen—and a tax inspector-to aid you in escaping from the law. I have already investigated the police forces of this planet and they are most corrupt. Completely controlled by the tax-evading industrialists. Let me give you a name and a phone number.” He found a stylo, which vanished from sight in his massive fist, and wrote the information down, passed it over. “Paka is an associate of mine who will be able to help you. Call this number and identify yourself by—”

There was a sudden hammering on the door and loud voices.

“Open up in there! This is the police.”

“Go away. Me sleep.” Puissanto looked around the room, saw the window. “Quickly!” he whispered.

Bolivar put his Megalith Man head back on and we hurried after the strongman. He opened the window, then reached out and seized two of the iron bars. He didn’t even grunt as he bent them wide.

“Out,” he said, then shouted-right in my ear which almost took my head off. “Wake Puissanto up—he kill!”

If this didn’t stop the police-it at least slowed them down while we climbed out of the window. He bent the bars back into shape behind us, then went to open the door. We left.

And were soaked in seconds. At least I was. Bolivar was of course nice and comfy in his pseudoflesh disguise. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the rain poured down. Which was all for the best since we made an interesting and surely memorable pair. Me in my formal attire, he in his repulsive guise. The few people we passed had their heads down as they hurried to shelter. We hurried as well, eager to put some distance between ourselves and our pursuers. Turning one last corner I saw the lights of a restaurant beckoning ahead.

“There,” I said. “Safe haven in the storm.”

“Are you sure? Poison Pete’s Red Hot Take Away-Or Eat Here If You Dare. Doesn’t sound that attractive.”

“Then don’t eat. All we want to do is use the phone. Let’s go.”

Perhaps Bolivar was right, I thought as the door closed behind us. The place was grubby, the two tables nicked and scratched, the drunk clutching the bottle in the corner completely unconscious. When I breathed in the sweet perfume of food I coughed. My lungs hurt.

“Welcome, hungry strangers in the night. Poison Pete say eat and drink-food so hot your feet will shrink.”

Wonderful. Poison Pete—was a robot with long mustachios and a frayed blanket slung over one shoulder. The creature was also wearing an immense hat with a wide brim. Representing, no doubt, some culture now lost in the depths of time.

“What you gringos want to eat? Cactus-spine soup? Chile con serape picante?”

“We want to use your phone.”

“You eat here, cabrones, you use the phone here.” Well programmed it was to screw the last credit out of the customers.

“All right-two orders of what you said.” I looked at the pictured foaming mugs on the wall. “And two beers.”

Now the robot restaurateur sprang into action. Slapped two overflowing mugs of beer down in front of us, filled two bowls with a lethal-looking lumpy green concoction and slid them across the counter. Then produced a portable phone which it dropped into the food.

“Thirty-five credits, real good price,” it said.

I doubted that greatly. While Bolivar paid I dug the phone out of the food and dialed Paka. My fingers burned where I had wiped off the cruddy comestibles. Someone picked up the phone.

“Puissanto said I should call this number.”

“If you’re Marvell, I got a call from Puissanto about you. ”

“That’s good news.”

“He said it’s bad news. But he also said to pick you up. Where you at? ”

I told him and he found Poison Pete’s in the directory. Meanwhile Bolivar-ahh, the impetuosity of youth! – had made the mistake of tasting the food. He now laid his head on the counter while I poured the mugs of beer into his mouth. The beer steamed. He had almost recovered when a rodentlooking man came in. His nose was pointed and his bristling mustache twitched as he looked around.

“You Marvell?” he asked, poking the drunk with his shoe; his yellow and ratlike teeth slipped in and out when he spoke.

“Over here,” I said.

He looked me up and down-then recoiled when he saw Bolivar’s repellent guise.

“We are from the same circus as Puissanto,” I explained. “All good friends. Do you have transportation?”

“I got a kangaroodle. Puissanto said to take you to his office.”

“I never knew that he had an office. Are you sure? Has this anything to do with GIT?”

“Quiet!” He looked around, but neither the drunk nor the robot restaurateur had taken notice of my remark. “Word must not get out about his tax investigations. Of course he’s got an office. It’s a secret of course, because no one is supposed to know he’s here. I’m the bookkeeper. You ready?”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

When we went out I looked suspiciously at his machine: I had seen its like on the opening night of the circus. The passenger cabin of the kangaroodle was suspended between two immense, piston-actuated legs. We climbed the ladder mounted on the vehicle’s nearest leg.

“Belt up,” Paka said. “This thing really moves. Surveyors use them in rough country.” He reached out and turned on the engine just as the police car braked to a stop beside us; a powerful searchlight bathed us with light. Bolivar and I scrunched down out of sight.

“Get out of there!” a growly official voice said. “And keep your hands out where I can see them.”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Paka squealed.

“Just get down from that thing—now.”

“Do that and you are a dead man,” I said with as much menace in my voice as I could summon up. I ground my knuckle into his side and he squeaked. “This is a gun with a hair trigger-and it is about to go off-if we don’t leave this very instant.” He stomped on the accelerator.

With a single bound the kangaroodle hurled itself into the air. Springs and pistons absorbed the shock of landing then it was off again on another immense leap. It was comfortable enough when we were in the air, but my chin hit my collarbone each time we struck the ground. Behind us the police cruiser roared into life and came after us, siren screaming. Our transport of delight was good in heavy traffic; leaping over any vehicles in its way. But its speed on the open road could not match that of a wheeled vehicle. As the traffic lightened the police began to catch up. We were bounding through an industrial area now. With factories on both sides of the road. At . the next junction buildings changed to fencing and I pointed with my free hand.

“Over that fence jump now!”

“I can’t! We’ll die-I can’t see what’s there.”

“You’ll die when this gun goes off-jump!”

Squeaking with fear he twisted the controller hard. When we landed our machine pivoted neatly on one foot, ninety degrees, then flew into the air.

And landed in a ploughed field. We bounded on gracefully, leaving the police far behind.

“You wouldn’t have shot me, would you?” Paka asked.

“Of course not—particularly since I don’t have a gun.”

He muttered rodentine curses under his breath as he drove. Or rather bounced. We eventually came to a farm road that led us back to the paved roads, and our bounding progress was smoother after this. Paka seemed to know the country well because we proceeded through side streets and back alleys, until we reached an industrial site of workshops and small businesses. We jolted to a stop next to Udongo’s Financial Services. The engine stopped and we sighed down as the pistons relaxed. Paka unlocked the door and led us inside.