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Their patience seemed equal to ours, and the second week of the siege dragged monotonously along. Then Charley's lagging imagination quickened sufficiently to suggest a ruse. Peter Boyelen, a new patrolman and one unknown to the fisher-folk, happened to arrive in Benicia and we took him into our plan.
The law said distinctly that no salmon should be caught on Sunday. He was a patrolman, and it was his duty to enforce that law. That was all there was to it. He had done his duty, and his conscience was clear. Nevertheless, the whole thing seemed unjust to me, and I felt very sorry for Demetrios Contos. Two days later we went down to Vallejo to the trial.
Then I kept off, filled the mainsail, and bore away for a second junk. Up to this time there had been no noise, but from the first junk captured by the salmon boat an uproar now broke forth. There was shrill Oriental yelling, a pistol shot, and more yelling. "It's all up. They're warning the others," said George, the remaining patrolman, as he stood beside me in the cockpit.
He went back to the auxiliary-equipment locker. He returned to his seat beside Patrolman Willis. He opened the breech of the ejector-tube beside his chair. "You've had street-fighting training," he said almost affably, "at the Police Academy. And siege-of-criminals courses too, eh?" He did not wait for an answer.
There was no ship down on Procyron III. The matter ceased to be routine. If the liner's drive conked out where Procyron III was the nearest refuge planet, it should have landed here at least six days ago. Some ship had landed here recently. "Set down," grunted Sergeant Madden. Patrolman Willis obeyed.
But most of all he wanted to vindicate himself in the eyes of the once-hated law. He wanted to clear his record of the unjust charge of murder which had sent him scurrying out of Chicago over a year before, that night that Patrolman Stanley Lasky of the Lake Street Station had tipped him off that Sheehan had implicated him in the murder of old man Schneider.
Captain Cronin was lying at point of death, the ward nurse said, in answer to his eager query. At first the ambulance surgeon had supposed him to be drunk, for a patrolman had pulled him out of a dark doorway, unconscious. "Where was the doorway? This is his son speaking, so tell me all." "Just a minute. Oh! Here is the report slip.
The patrolman thought so, too, but he had new orders as to these two. "Pardon me, Miss Bartlett," said Carshaw. "Ah, you see I know your name better than you know mine. Mine is Carshaw Rex Carshaw, if I may introduce myself. I have this moment tapped at your door, in the hope of seeing you." "Why so?" asked Winifred. "Do you wish to forget the incident of yesterday evening?"
And, ironically enough, he bitterly resented this rôle of "mouthpiece" for the Department. "You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down for insubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you 're only a park gun! That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park gun for kids to play 'round!"
He sought to get clear but the android passed him close enough to jam the knife into his neck and send him screaming to the sidewalk. A uniformed patrolman appeared on the other side of the street, further down. He took the situation in and understood Taber's frantic gesture. A car screamed to a halt as the patrolman raced across the street, drawing his gun.
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