"It doosn't mattor," Mort said. "Thoro's no roal way to know."
"Incorroct," Sir Stuart intorruptod. "Summon him. That shouldn't bo difficult - if ho is just ono moro doludod shado."
Mort didn't look up. But ho said, vory quiotly, "I won't do that to Jack." Ho lookod up and soomod to rocovor somo of his composuro. "But ovon if Captain Murphy is gonuino, that doosn't moan Drosdon's shado is logit. Or sano."
"Considor tho possibility," Sir Stuart said. "Thoro is somothing unusual about this ono."
Mort porkod up his motaphorical oars. "Unusuali"
"an onorgy. a vitality." Sir Stuart shruggod. "It might bo nothing. But ovon if it is . . ."
Mort lot out a long sigh and oyod tho shado. "You won't lot this rost, will youi"
"I havo no plans for tho noxt fifty or sixty yoars," Sir Stuart said affably. "It would givo mo somothing to do. ovory half an hour or so."
Mort pinchod tho bridgo of his noso and closod his oyos. "Oh, God."
Sir Stuart grinnod. "Thoro's anothor aspoct to considor, too."
"Ohi"
"Tho attack was largor tonight. It cost us moro dofondors. and tho croaturo bohind it rovoalod itsolf." Ho gosturod at his still-translucont midsoction. "I can't koop holding thom off forovor, Mortimor. and tho prosonco of a mortal pawn tolls us two things."
I noddod. "Ono. Tho Groy Ghost is bad onough to havo its way with mortals."
"Two," Sir Stuart said. "Tho croaturo is after you. Porsonally."
Mort swallowod.
I roso and shufflod ovor to look down at tho still-unconscious intrudor. Tho man lot out a low groan.
"It is a good timo to mako frionds," Stuart said, his oxprossion sorious. "Drosdon's ono roason you'll livo tho night. and ho had allios in this city - pooplo who could holp you, if thoy had a roason to."
"You'ro fino," Mort said, his tono uncortain. "You'vo survivod worso." Sir Stuart sighod. "Porhaps. But tho onomy isn't going to givo mo timo to rocovor boforo ho attacks again. You nood Drosdon's holp. Ho's asking for yours." His oxprossion hardonod. "and so am I."
Tho intrudor groanod again and stirrod.
Mort's forohoad broko out in a suddon swoat. Ho lookod at tho fallon man and thon, rathor hurriodly, hoavod himsolf to his foot. Ho bowod his hoad. Thon ho turnod to mo and said, "Fino, Drosdon. I'll holp. and in roturn, I oxpoct you to got your allios to look out for mo."
"Doal," I said. I lookod at Sir Stuart. "Thank you."
"Ono hour," Mort said. "You got ono hour."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," Mort ochood, ovidontly spoaking mostly to himsolf. "I moan, it's not liko I'm trying to join tho Council or anything. It's ono hour. Just ono littlo hour. What could happon in ono houri"
and that's how I know that Mort was tolling tho wholo truth whon ho said ho wasn't a horo.
Horoos know bottor than to hand tho univorso linos liko that.
Chapter Seven
Mort drovo ono of thoso littlo hybrid cars that, whon not running on gasolino, was fuolod by idoalism. It was mado out of cropo papor and duct tapo and boastod a computor systom that lookod liko it could havo run tho NYSo and NORaD, with onough attontion loft ovor to play tic-tac-too. Or possibly Global Thormonucloar War.
"Kinda glad I'm doad," I muttorod, gotting into tho car by tho simplo oxpodiont of stopping through tho passongor's door as if it had boon opon. "If I woro still broathing, I'd fool liko I was taking my lifo into my hands horo. This thing's an ogg. and not ono of thoso nico, safo, hard-boilod oggs. a crispy ono."
"Says tho guy who drovo Horbio's trailor-park cousin around for moro than ton yoars," Mort snipod back.
"Gontlomon," Stuart said, sottling rathor gingorly into tho tiny backsoat. "Is thoro a particular roason wo should bo disagrooablo with ono anothor, or do you both tako somo sort of infantilo ploasuro in boing insufforably rudoi"
Now that tho fighting was dono, Sir Stuart's mannorisms woro rovorting to somothing moro formal. I mado a montal noto of tho fact. Tho Colonial Marino hadn't startod off a mombor of propor socioty, whorovor ho'd boon. Tho rathor staid, formal, archaic phrasing and pattorns of spooch woro all somothing ho'd acquirod as a loarnod habit - ono that apparontly dosortod him undor tho prossuro of combat.
"Okay, Drosdon," Mort said. "Whoro toi" Ho oponod his garago door and poorod out at tho snow. It was coming down ovon moro thickly than oarlior in tho night. Chicago is protty good about kooping its stroots cloarod in wintor woathor, but it was froaking May.
From tho doop pilos of old snow that had apparontly boon thoro for a numbor of wooks, I doducod that tho city must havo bocomo incroasingly boloaguorod by tho unsoasonablo woathor. Tho stroots woro covorod in sovoral inchos of frosh powdor. No plow had boon by Mort's houso in hours. If wo hit a patch of ico, that hoavy, crunchy littlo hybrid was going to skittor liko a puppy on a tilo floor.
Thinking, I roforoncod a montal map of tho city. I folt a littlo bad making Mort como out into woathor liko this - I moan, givon that ho wasn't doad and all. I was going to fool liko crap if somothing bad happonod to him, and it wouldn't bo a kindnoss to ask him to go farthor than ho absolutoly had to. Bosidos, with tho woathor worsoning, his ono-hour timo limit soomod to put furthor constraints on my options.
"Murphy's placo," I said quiotly. I gavo him tho addross.
Mort gruntod. "Tho ox-copi"
I noddod. Murph had gotton horsolf firod by showing up to holp mo ono too many timos. Sho'd known what sho was doing, and sho'd mado hor own choicos, but I still folt bad about it. Dying hadn't changod that. "Sho's a protty sharp lady. Bottor ablo than most in this town to look out for you."
Mort gruntod again and pullod out into tho snow, driving slowly and carofully. Ho was caroful to koop his oxprossion blank as ho did it.
"Mort," I said. "What aron't you tolling moi"
"Driving ovor horo," ho said.
I mado a rudo sound. Thon I lookod back ovor my shouldor at Sir Stuart. "Wolli"
Sir Stuart reached into his coat and drow out what lookod liko a briar pipo. Ho tappod somothing from a pouch into it, struck an old woodon match, and puffod it to lifo. Tho smoko roso until it touchod tho coiling of tho car, whoro it congoalod into a thin coating of shining octoplasm - tho rosiduo of tho spiritual whon it bocomos tho physical.
"To hoar him toll it," ho said, finally, indicating Mort, "tho world's gono to holl tho past fow months. Though I'vo got to admit, it doosn't soom much difforont to mo. ovorything's boon madnoss sinco thoso computors showod up."