She fired again, and hit the can. "You do not think it can be the police?"

"It doesn't seem likely," I said. "There'd be no reason for them to keep us on ice like this. If the cops had something on us, they'd just move in and cart us off to jail. I think it's Herrera's bunch. The girl must have arranged to meet someone last night. When she didn't show, they set the wheels in motion."

"Yes," she said, "you may be right. But how did they find us?"

I waited for her to shoot, and said, "I told them." She glanced at me quickly, surprised, and I said: "Me and my big mouth. I told Herrera at the party that I'd be heading down along the Pecos in the morning. She must have reported in before she came to the studio. When they missed her, they must have decided to try an intercept, gambling that I'd stick to my original route in order to make everything look natural and normal. They had plenty of time to get ahead of us while we were messing around back in the hills-anyway, the truck is no hot rod. All they had to do was watch the one highway and pick us up as we went by." Tina fired again. I went on: "They know you're alive now. Therefore, even if they haven't found her, they must be almost certain Herrera's dead. Therefore they'll be assigning another operative to Amos Darrel."

Tina said, "And still you say we should be casual?"

"Yes," I said. "Because they don't know we know it, yet. They think we think we've got them fooled, so far, if you follow me. They think we think Amos is safe, for the time being. Which means that, rather than instituting a crash program, they'll probably let the new guy, whoever he may be, take a little time and set up the job right. Which gives Mac or whoever a little better chance of spotting him and taking him out of the play-as long as we keep these characters happy by shooting at tin cans and making love and in general acting like a couple of unsuspecting kids on a picnic."

Tina's next shot missed the can, as she glanced at me. "You mean you think they were watching…"

"It seems likely."

She laughed, but her face was slightly pink. "Why, the dirty Tom Peepers!" After a little, she said, "But I must report. I must speak with Mac."

"Sure," I said. "They'll expect you to. After all, you've got to tell him that the body's safely buried, and that we've made a clean getaway, slick as a whistle. We'll stop for lunch pretty soon and let them see you put in the call. No harm in that, just as long as we take it easy and carefree."

She nodded, steadied the slim-barreled pistol, and emptied the rest of the clip rapid-fire. I could see the bullets striking in and around the can; she was no genius, either. We'd neither of us become famous for snuffing out candles at ten paces or shooting cigarettes out of people's mouths. I took back the gun, reloaded it, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her, saying, "We might as well give Mr. Peeper his money's worth."

"He's a dirty old goat," she said. "But let us give him his money's worth, by all means, chйri."

She moved abruptly, and I found myself, pushed and tripped at the same time, going over backwards. I landed in a sitting postion almost hard enough to crack my pelvis.

"What the hell-"

"You great bully!" she cried, laughing at me. "You were so big and brave last night, catching me off guard when I was all dressed up and couldn't fight back. Kick my behind up behind my ears, will you?"

Her foot shot out. I tried to grab for it, but it was only a feint. She did some kind of a quick doubleshuffle and, catching me on hands and knees-reaching, off balance-she put a foot in my rear and sent me forward on my face. Then she was running upstream, laughing. I picked myself up and charged after her. She was in better condition, but I had the longer legs and I was used to the altitude. She couldn't stay ahead of me. She tried to dodge, but the banks of the wash were steeper up here, and I caught her by an ankle as she scrambled for the top, and brought her back down in a little avalanche of loose dirt.

She twisted free, found her feet, and, as I closed with her incautiously, tried a wicked little chop to the neck that would have paralyzed me if I hadn't remembered the proper parry. She danced back out of reach.

"Slow!" she panted. "Just a great softy! I bet you do not even remember this one!"

Then we were working our way through the old handto-hand combat-and-mayhem routines, half seriously, holding back only enough so there would be no real damage if a blow should slip through. She was fast and in practice, and she had some new ones I'd never encountered. Finally she clipped me across the bridge of the nose hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, but she didn't get out again quite fast enough. I caught her, tied her up, threw her down, and pinned her. We were both gasping for breath in the thin desert air. I held her down until she stopped wiggling. Then I kissed her thoroughly; and when I was through, she lay there and laughed at me.

"Well, Liebchen?" she murmured. "What about Mr. Peeper and his money's worth?"

"You go to hell, you damn nymphomaniac," I said, grinning.

"Old," she jeered, still lying there. "Old and fat and slow. Helm the human vegetable. Help me up, turnip."

I held out my hand to her, ready for a trick, and set my weight against hers as she tried to pull me off balance. I used her own effort to turn her around, and smacked her hard across the dusty seat of her jeans.

"Now behave yourself, Passion Flower," I said.

She laughed, and we buttoned ourselves up, tucked ourselves in, and brushed each other off. Then we walked back down the wash together. I felt oddly happy, with the guilty kind of happiness of a kid playing hooky from school. I'd been a good boy for years, my attendance record had been perfect, my deportment had been excellent, but it was all shot to hell now, and I didn't care. I was through being a model citizen. I was myself again.

IN front of the restaurant, I put the truck into a slot next to a small, blue foreign sedan that I recognized, from the sticker on the back, the Texas plates, and other peculiarities, as the one I'd already passed on the road. It was a Morris. I'd read somewhere that they'd jacked up the horsepower from twenty-seven to a sizzling thirty-eight, but it still wasn't exactly what the sports-car boys like to call a bomb; you wouldn't have to worry about tearing up the pavement with the frantic acceleration when you let in the clutch. Glancing inside, I saw that the damn little heap, not much bigger than a perambulator, had a ducky little miniature airconditioning unit mounted under the dash. Well, that's Texas for you.

"It's a Morris," I said to Tina as I opened the truck door for her. "Remember the one we managed to promote in London, quite illegally, that I was always having to get out my Boy Scout knife on and dismantle that ridiculous electric fuel pump they must have got direct from the Tinker-Toy people."

"I remember," she said. "I was very impressed by your cleverness."

"You were supposed to be," I said. I gestured towards the public phone booth at the corner of the building. "Go ahead and do your stuff where everybody can see you. I'll wait for you inside. Got a dime?"

''Yes."

"Do you need more, or will Mac let you reverse the charges?" I grinned. "This peacetime operation must be the nuts. I can remember a few times in Germany when I'd have loved to pick up a phone and ask the boss what the hell to do next. Where do you get hold of him these days? Does he still have that hole in the wall just off 12th Street in Washington?"

I was just talking casually as we walked toward the building, to make us look bright and carefree. I didn't mean a thing by the questions, but Tina glanced at me sharply, and hesitated a long moment before she said in a half-embarrassed way: "I'm sorry, chйri. You know I can't give you information like that. I mean, you're not really… I mean, you've been outside a long time."