Heller got the girl straightened out and back in the car once more.

“Next tahm you come by,” said the gawky country boy, “stop off and I’ll show you how to tune the engine.”

Heller really thanked him and when they drove away, there was the boy by the pump, waving. Heller blew the horn twice and they were on their way to Washington.

And Washington, I groaned to myself, was just about the most over-policed city in the world!

I wondered if I should start writing a will. I had several things: the gold coming, the hospital kickback due and Utanc. Trouble was, I’d nobody to leave them to.

I never felt more alone and prey to the winds of fate than I did as I watched the road through Heller’s eyes to Washington.

Following the complex signs, Heller negotiated the various confusions the traffic departments of that area planned in order to prevent Americans from ever getting to their seat of government. He refused invitations to use State Highway 236, to go over to U.S. 66, to take State 123 and wind up in the Potomac River. He ignored directions to take U.S. 495 — which is really U.S. 95 and bypasses Washington entirely. He even defeated the conspiracy to confuse the public on U.S. 29 to believe they were on U.S. 50. He steadfastly rolled along on U.S. 29, even untangled the parkways alongside the Potomac River without winding up at the Pentagon — as most unsuspecting public do — and presently was rolling over the Memorial Bridge. A masterpiece of navigation that he shouldn’t be doing any part of!

The Potomac River was a beautiful blue. The bridge a beautiful white. The Lincoln Memorial at its end, an impressive piece of Greek architecture glowing white in the afternoon sun.

And Heller had trouble. Mary was flailing about to a point where it was almost impossible to drive. She was bending over with cramps. She was letting out small screams. She was striking out with her arms. And she was saying over and over, “Oh, God, my heart!” alternated with “Oh, Jesus, I’ve got to have a fix!” And neither prayer was getting any attention whatever from the deities of that planet.

Heller was watching her and trying to hold her down more than he was watching traffic. The giddy and foolhardy spin of cars and trucks around the Memorial circle may not disturb the calm majesty of Lincoln’s huge statue inside, but it is designed to shatter less immortal nerves.

It was evidently plain to him that the combination of Mary and the traffic was a lot too much to cope with just now. He spotted a turnoff into the park which lies to the southeast of the Lincoln Memorial itself.

It is a very beautiful park: an unfrequented road and a pleasant pedestrian walk stretch out beside the Potomac River, separated from it by a wide expanse of lawn. It is one of the most quiet and lovely spots in Washington. The only trouble with it is the CIA uses it to try out their agent recruits in hidden sleuthing!

I freaked! Heller was stopping! I mourned my fate to be handling somebody without the slightest training in espionage. He should have known that Voltar agents have orders never to go near that park!

He had seen the drinking fountains which are paced every few hundred feet along the walk. He had probably sensed the false peace imparted by the beautiful willow-like trees between the path and water’s edge. He may have been attracted by the abundance of parking places. It must have been a hot day in Washington but the lawns were deserted here.

He stopped. Mary was in a momentary coma. He got out and went to the drinking fountain. He had an empty paper coffee cup. He managed to figure out how you turned on the fountain and rinsed and filled the cup.

At the car, he said, “Maybe drinking some water would help.” And, indeed, he was right. Withdrawal brings on heavy dehydration. He wouldn’t know that but he could probably tell from her dry and swollen lips.

She managed to drink a little bit of the water. Then suddenly she turned sideways, got her feet on the ground and, still sitting on the car seat, began to vomit.

He held her head, speaking in a low, concerned voice, trying to soothe her.

In his peripheral vision I saw the side and saddle of a horse moving up the road.

Heller looked up. A mounted National Parks policeman went about fifty feet back of the car, stopped and turned his horse around. He sat there looking at Heller and the car.

I thought, well, Gris, you should have made out your will because here we go! Heller has had it!

The park policeman was fishing a hand radio out. He began to speak into it.

I hastily turned up the gain. “…I know I’m supposed to use numbers to report.” Someone on the other end, his traffic controller, must be giving him a hard time.

Mary was trying to vomit some more but didn’t have anything to throw up.

The park policeman was saying, “But there ain’t any code number for a bullet hole in a license plate!… All right! All right! So it’s 201, suspicious car!”

Mary couldn’t sit there anymore. Heller opened the back door and pushed some baggage around. Then he got Mary and moved her to the back seat.

“…Yeah,” the mounted cop was saying. “Kid and a woman in it. No, I don’t know who was driving. I didn’t see them until after they’d parked… No, hell! I’m not going to… I’m ALONE here! I’m just Park Police, not James Bond! They could be a CIA plant or something… No! Shots would scare my horse… Well, send the God (bleeped) squad car then!”

I prayed Heller would get the Hells out of there. But he was bathing her forehead with bits of cool water on his redstar engineer’s cloth. I was so agitated I didn’t even write it down as a possible Code break.

In no time at all, a D.C. squad car slinked up near the horse. Two D.C. cops got out and talked in whispers to the mounted patrolman. I could barely pick it up. All I caught was “…those are Virginia plates so phone them in for a check.”

One of the cops was on his radio. Then the two of them, wide apart, walked toward the Cadillac.

Twenty feet away, the nearest cop drew his gun. “You, there! Freeze!”

Heller stood up straight. I prayed, no, no, Heller. Don’t do something crazy! At that range they can kill you! And I don’t have the platen!

The nearest cop was motioning with his gun. “All right, kid, move over there and lie down on the grass, belly to ground.”

Heller moved to the spot and lay down. He kept his head turned toward the cop.

“All right,” said the cop. “Where’s your driver’s license?”

There was a scream from the car. Mary had come to with sudden energy. “It’s in my purse! That kid is just a hitchhiker. This is my car!” It was nearly too much for her. She sank back panting, holding her chest.

I realized now she was not a true psychologist. The whole purpose of the subject is to throw suspicion and responsibility on others either to get them in trouble or to protect yourself — which amounts to the same thing. But even though it was a violation of psychology behavior rules, I gratefully accepted the help.

The first cop detoured over toward the car and dug around to find her purse. He found it and looked at her license.

“Oh, God,” moaned Mary. “Please, please get me a fix!”

The effect was electric. “A hop head!” said the first cop. He made a signal to the other cop to cover Heller and then began yanking the suitcases out of the car. He was going to look for dope!

He opened the sports carry-all, rummaged in it and then threw it aside. He grabbed one of Heller’s cases, unstrapped it and flopped the back up.

“That’s the kid’s baggage,” moaned Mary.

The cop reached in. He said, “Ouch, God (bleep) it!” He pried a multihooked bass plug off his hand and sucked his finger. Gingerly, then, he held up an old fishing reel and stirred at the mess of line. He said, “Cameras and fishing gear. Jesus Christ, kid, you sure do an awful job of packing. You could ruin some of this stuff.” He slammed the case closed.