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detect and deduce from minutiae, caught the change in attitude. He
realized at once that he had slipped somehow. He signaled to his crew
urgently.
A white-hot brawl broke out on the Spanish Stairs. In an
instant, Foyle and Robin were caught up in a screaming, struggling
mob. The crews of the Intelligence Tong were past masters of this OP-
I maneuver, designed to outwit a jaunting world. Their split-second
timing could knock any man off balance and strip him for
identification. Their success was based on the simple fact that
between unexpected assault and defensive response there must
always be a recognition lag. Within the space of that lag, the
Intelligence Tong guaranteed to prevent any man from saving
himself.
In three-fifths of a second Foyle was battered, kneed,
hammered across the forehead, dropped to the steps and spread-
eagled. The mask was plucked from his face, portions of his clothes
torn away, and he was ripe and helpless
for the rape of the identification cameras. Then, for the first time
in the history of the tong, their schedule was interrupted.
A man appeared, straddling Foyle's body. . . a huge man with a
hideously tattooed face and clothes that smoked and flamed. The
apparition was so appalling that the crew stopped dead and stared. A
howl went up from the crowd on the Stairs at the dreadful spectacle.
"The Burning Man! Look! The Burning Man!"
"But that's Foyle," Y'ang-Yeovil whispered.
For perhaps a quarter of a minute the apparition stood, silent,
burning, staring with blind eyes. Then it disappeared. The man
spread-eagled on the ground disappeared too. He turned into a
lightning blur of action that whipped through the crew, locating and -
destroying cameras, recorders, all identification apparatus. Then the
blur seized the girl in the Renaissance gown and vanished.
The Spanish Stairs came to life again, painfully, as though
struggling out of a nightmare. The bewildered Intelligence crew
clustered around Y'ang-Yeovil.
"What in God's name was that, Yeo?"
"I think it was our man. Gully Foyle. You saw that tattooed
face."
"And the burning clothes!"
"Looked like a witch at the stake."
"But if that burning man was Foyle, who in hell were we wasting
our time on?"
"I don't know. Does the Commando Brigade have an
Intelligence service they haven't bothered to mention to us?"
"Why the Commandos, Yeo?"
"You saw the way he accelerated, didn't you? He destroyed
every record we made."
"I still can't believe my eyes."
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"Oh, you can believe what you didn't see, all right. That was top
secret Commando technique. They take their men apart and rewire
and regear them. I'll have to check with Mars HQ and find out
whether Commando Brigade's running a parallel investigation."
"Does the army tell the navy?"
"They'll tell Intelligence," Y'ang-Yeovil said angrily. "This case is
critical enough without jurisdictional hassles. And another thing:
there was no need to manhandle that girl in the maneuver. It was
undisciplined and unnecessary." Y'ang-Yeovil paused, for once
unaware of the significant glances passing around him. "I must find
out who she is," he added dreamily.
"If she's been regeared too, it'll be real interesting, Yeo," a bland
voice, markedly devoid of implication, said. "Boy Meets Commando."
Y'ang-Yeovil flushed. "All right," he blurted. "I'm transparent."
"Just repetitious, Yea. All your romances start the same way.
'There's no need to manhandle that girl. . .' And then-Dolly Quaker,
Jean Webster, Gwynn Roget, Marion-"
"No names, please!" a shocked voice interrupted. "Does Romeo
tell Juliet?"
"You're all going on latrine assignment tomorrow," Y'ang-
Yeovil said.
"I'm damned if I'll stand for this salacious insubordination. No,
not tomorrow; but as soon as this case is closed." His hawk face
darkened. "My God, what a mess! Will you ever forget Foyle standing
there like a burning brand? But where is he? What's he up to? What's
it all mean?"
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRESTEIGN OF PRESTEIGN'S MANSION in Central Park was
ablaze for the New Year. Charming antique electric bulks with zigzag
filaments and pointed tips shed yellow light. The jaunte-proof maze
had been removed and the great door was open for the special
occasion. The interior of the house was protected from the gaze of the
crowd outside by a jeweled screen just inside the door.
The sightseers buzzed and exclaimed as the famous and near-
famous of clan and sept arrived by car, by coach, by litter, by every
form of luxurious transportation. Presteign of Presteign himself
stood before the door, iron gray, handsome, smiling his basilisk
smile, and welcomed society to his open house. Hardly had a celebrity
stepped through the door and disappeared behind the screen when
another, even more famous, came clattering up in a vehicle even more
fabulous.
The Colas arrived in a band wagon. The Esso family (six sons,
three daughters) was magnificent in a glass-topped Greyhound bus.
But Greyhound arrived (in an Edison electric runabout) hard on their
heels and there was much laughter and chaffing at the door. But when
Edison of Westinghouse dismounted from his Esso-fueled gasoline
buggy, completing the circle, the laughter on the steps turned into a
roar.
Just as the crowd of guests turned to enter Presteign's home, a
distant commotion attracted their attention. It was a rumble, a fierce
chatter of pneumatic punches, and an outrageous metallic bellowing.
It approached rapidly. The outer fringe of sightseers opened a broad
lane. A heavy truck rumbled down the lane. Six men were tumbling
baulks of timber out the back of the truck. Following them came a
crew of twenty arranging the baulks neatly in rows.
Presteign and his guests watched with amazement. A giant
machine, bellowing and pounding, approached, crawling over the
ties. Behind it were deposited parallel rails of welded steel. Crews
with sledges and pneumatic punches spiked the rails to the timber
ties. The track was laid to Presteign's door in a sweeping arc and then
curved away. The bellowing engine and crews disappeared into the
darkness.
"Good God!" Presteign was distinctly heard to say. Guests
poured out of the house to watch.
A shrill whistle sounded in the distance. Down the track came a
man on a white horse, carrying a large red flag. Behind him panted a
steam locomotive drawing a single observation car. The train stopped
before Presteign's door. A conductor swung down from the car
followed by a Pullman porter. The porter arranged steps. A lady and
gentleman in evening clothes descended.
"Shan't be long," the gentleman told the conductor. "Come back
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