He drank. The liquor scorched his throat and started quickly on his brain. He belched and wiped tears from his eyes. Finally he managed to whisper, “I’d appreciate a sort of hint as to what this is all about.”
Red’s freckled nose wrinkled. “I have a good story. Very credible. I just want to help you. Not because I give a damn about whether humanity stays around or not. But because I crave excitement. If you need a reason, that’s as good as any.” He drained his glass stoically and called for a refill.
“Real tiger-milk,” he grinned. His red hair flamed as a dancing girl slid by with a hokohloo lamp spinning its sense-drunkening harmonies in a jeweled hand.
“But how do you know so much about all this?” insisted Ward.
“We cabbies get around.” Which didn’t explain much. Or did it?
“But why should you believe me, when no one else does?”
“I just want to, Doc, that’s all. I think the old anarchistic culture was better than this puking state of the proletariat we’ve got now. Got most of my education from the past--nineteenth and early twentieth century literature. And I live in the underground ghettos of the present. Wishful thinking. I only hope you’re right, probably.”
“I assure you,” pleaded Ward. “I’m not a psycho.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you’re psycho or not. So am I. Anyway, we’re killers now, gangsters. Unheard of in our perfect little futile order. So unheard of that we’ll probably get away with it easier than we think.”
Ward shrugged. “I’ve got some equipment that must get to Mars very quickly, if my fight against the Mo-Sanshon is to be effective. Speed is essential.”
“Want to get them in the heart,” said Red.
“Why ... er ... yes. Their headquarters, their center of operation. In fact, to get the Queen Mother alone should be sufficient. The real intelligence, I believe, is only a small inner circle of mutations.”
Red leaned over the table. His rust colored eyes shown eagerly. “Then let’s go, Doc!”
Ward’s lips curled. “There wasn’t a chance before, let alone now.”
“I’ve got it all fixed, Doc,” said Red. “What do you think I brought you here for?”
“We antisocials stick together here. Kind of an underground cult, you know. And we figured it all out how we could rescue you and get you to Mars--just as a gag you know, a little excitement. That act in the Federal Building was just like an old two-dimensional movie I saw the other night at the museum. Late twentieth century I think, called, ‘Hounds of the Void.’ Got the book, too.”