"But what about you?"
"Never mind me. Good-bye." And the turban-cloth was hauled back with a faint hiss through the bars of Guja's window.
Osborn reasoned that he had better keep his pants on in order to have a pocket in which to carry the gun. He was donning them when there were excited shouts from outside, and the sound of men running. Osborn could not make out the words, and presently the hubbub died away without his being enlightened.
But the next morning Guja Singh appeared without his turban, and looking more gaunt and hopeless than ever.
"He tried to hang himself by that head-scarf of his," explained Harmodio Dualler. "We had to dope him to put him to sleep." The critter-king shook his head. "I thought I knew how to handle men, but with a so unreasonable one as this one ...Ts, ts. I'm glad you are a reasonable one, Mr. Osborn. Now we will go in the communication room; everything is set up."
The room in question had a television booth at one side. Swank, or love of gadgets, thought Osborn; in the United States few private telephone-subscribers cared to have their expense quadrupled "for the doubtful privilege of being able to see the faces of persons with whom they were arranging bridge-dates or arguing about a grocery-bill.
But there was the contraption, and Osborn knew that there was one in Charley Kenny's office as well. They did come in handy in transactions where the identity of one of the speakers was open to question. This perhaps explained Dualler's use of a set, since he was engaged in a business that was illegal according to the laws of the Federation if not the laws of the Estados Unidos de Mejico.
Dualler explained in detail what Osborn was to tell his assistant, and they sat chummily on the bench in front of ike. The ubiquitous Jesus-Maria lounged against the far wall of the room with a gun in plain sight.
The call was put through; Kenny's round face snapped into focus on the screen.
"Homer!" cried Kenny. "Where in God's name are you?"
Dualler murmured: "Tell him—"
The critter-king broke off as he observed that the hard object which had suddenly been dug into his ribs was the small pistol which Osborn had received from the Sikh.
"Just a minute, boss," said Osborn. He gave his head an infinitesimal jerk toward the unsuspecting Jesus-Maria, and told Dualler: "Send him out—and tell him to send Guja Singh in here."
Dualler smiled. "Do I have to search—" Osborn jabbed him with the muzzle, and the Mexican stopped his sentence and gave the required order.
Homer Osborn's muscles quivered tautly, and he could feel that Dualler's were tightening, too; the slightest relaxation on his part, and either Dualler would be shot or would attack him roaring an alarm.
"Boss," he told the visiscrcen, "this is important. First, can you arrange to switch this call to the house of a Hindu politician named Arjan Singh in Delhi?".
Kenny's jowls quivered and his voice rose to a squeak. "Are you nuts. Homer? Think of the expense, and it's the middle of the night in India ..."
"I know. Can you?"
"I—I suppose so, if it's a life-and-death matter."
"It is." Osborn raised his right hand to bring the gun momentarily into the view of the ike. "Any minute now Senor Dualler and I will be trying to kill each other."
Kenny's eyes popped, but he buzzed his switchboard operator and told her what to do. While they waited for the connection, Osborn told Kenny what had happened. He finished: "Now that you know where I am and everything, boss, I think Senor Dualler understands that he can't bump me off the way he was planning to."
"He was going to murder one of my researchers?" exploded Kenny, "Why, you fat yellow slob, you—"
The department head had not yet run out of expletives when Guja Singh entered, and almost immediately afterward Kenny's operator announced that the call to Delhi was through.
Dualler was still silently smiling, though in a dark and dangerous manner. The screen winked, and in place of Kenny appeared a bald, brown, hooknosed man in a dimly-lit booth.
"Whozh calling me from Texas thish time of night?" yawned the newcomer.
Osborn, still keeping an eye on Dualler, asked: "That your old man, Guja?"
"Guja!" cried the image, suddenly wide awake; it rattled a string of questions in Hindustani.
"Easy, mister," said Osborn. "Guja, how many votes does your father control in the Assembly?"
"Three."
"Let's sec—three from thirty-seven is thirty-four; that'll do it. Fine. You, Dualler, move over this way. Guja, you take Dualler's place." Osborn slid off the end of the bench to remove himself and his gun from the field of the ike. He lowered his voice to a murmur to Dualler, "You tell Mr. Arjan Singh that you'll bump off his son if he doesn't switch those votes in favor of repeal tomorrow. Get it?"
Dualler did so. Arjan Singh's eyes popped; he cried an agonized question at Guja. After some Hindustani dialogue, Arjan Singh announced in a voice of brave despair: "If it is God's will that my son shall die, he shall die. He will not betray the family honor."
"Then tell him," Osborn ordered Dualler sotto voce, "that when he arrived here you got him drunk so he ate a steak, and you've got a movie record of it, and will publish it if the votes aren't changed. That for the family honor!"
This threat finally broke down father and son. "I'll do it," said Arjan Singh; "but how do I know you will go through with your part?"
"Why shouldn't I?" smiled Dualler. "It is nothing to me if this one eats a whole steer at one sitting."
"But what is your object? This is a strange piece of black—"
Osborn reached over and pushed the switch; the screen went blank.
Harmodio Dualler turned a puzzled face up to Osborn.
He said softly: "I don't understand, my friend. The other, yes, but not this—unless it is to cause that anti-vaccicide law to be repealed—that is it!"
"Yep," said Osborn. "Now—"
"So," interrupted Dualler, "we rancheros will no longer enjoy our position, eh? Those obscenities in Mexico City will not be afraid of us, and they will steal our ranches to divide among the peons, as they did under Cardenas? The critter-business of Mexico will again be destroyed? Very well, you have ruined me, Mr. Osborn, but you won't live to—" And Dualler hurled himself on Homer.
For a big man, he moved with rattlesnake speed; one hand caught Osborn's right wrist and twisted it violently before Osborn had the presence of mind to shoot. The other caught Osborn's neck in a vise.
"Guja! Catch!" cried Osborn, wriggling in this grizzly-bear hug. He flipped the pistol toward the Sikh, who caught it, stuck the muzzle into Dualler's ribs, and fired three times, the sharp crack muffled by the critter-king's clothing.
Harmodio Dualler slumped to the floor, dead.
Then there was a knock on the door, and Jesus-Maria's anxious voice; "Is all well with thee, boss?"
"Lock it," said Osborn, and he began searching furiously about the room for inflammables.
Guja Singh shot the bolt home, whereat there were louder knocks and loud demands for admittance.
"Mr. Osborn," said Guja Singh, "how will you get those films out of the safe?"
"Think this place will burn?"
"Why, with all those oak beams, yes. I see!" The patrolman fell to work building the bonfire. Osborn lit the pile of crumpled papers at the base, and a tremendous bang on the door announced that the gang were trying to batter their way in.
The fire crackled and roared upward; the heat and smoke became nauseating.
Osborn told Guja Singh: "You pick up Dualler and make as if you were carrying him out from an accident. Lucky those bullet-holes didn't bleed much."
Guja Singh heaved the massive body over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Then Osborn threw the bolt, to confront a lot of amazed Mexicans with guns in their hands.