"I scared him. He'd almost forgotten. Everything's fine." Dan rang off, scowling. He wished he was as sure as he sounded. Rinehart's back was to the wall, now. Dan wasn't too sure he liked it that way.
An hour later he was in Washington, and Jean was dragging him into the Volta. "If you don't sleep now, I'll have you put to sleep. Now shut up while I drive you home."
A soft bed, darkness, escape. When had he slept last? It was heaven.
He slept the clock around, which he had not intended, and caught the next night-jet to Las Vegas, which he had intended. There was some delay with the passenger list after he had gone aboard, a fight of some sort, and the jet took off four minutes late. Dan slept again, fitfully.
Somebody slid into the adjoining seat. "Well! Good old Dan Fowler!"
A gaunt, frantic-looking man, with skin like cracked parchment across his high cheekbones, and a pair of Carradine eyes looking down at Dan. If Death should walk in human flesh, Dan thought, it would look like John Tyndall.
"What do you want, 'Moses'?"
"Just dropped by to chat," said Tyndall. "You're heading for Las Vegas, eh? Why?"
Dan jerked, fumbled for the upright-button. "I like the climate out there. If you want to talk, talk and get it over with."