Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 by Bridge of Ashes Page B

The elevator ground to a halt. Quick drew open
the gate, looked outside, nodded to me, tugged on the cart.
                   I followed him out, pushing. We were in a
half-lit hallway, but things looked to be brighter around the corner to the
left. We moved in that direction, and he gestured for me to change places with
him. I got over to his left before we turned the corner, left again. There was
a ramp leading up to an open area—a loading dock where two workmen sat on
crates, drinking coffee and smoking. The nearer man glanced in our direction as
we moved upward, wheels rattling. Quick pretty much blocked his view of me.
                   "Damn it!" he muttered. "They
don't usually take their break right on the dock."
                   A white van with the words "Simpson's
Foods" stenciled in red on its side was backed against the dock, rear gate
lowered. The door on the driver's side was open, and a man in a green uniform
sat sideways, legs dangling, checking over some papers on a clipboard, a
steaming cup balanced on the dash to his right. Quick waved to him and he waved
back. Moments later, he swiveled forward and slammed the door. Shortly after
that, he dumped the coffee out the window.
                   Quick slowed.
                   "I was simply going to close you in back
and let him drive off with you," he whispered. "No good now. Those
guys would know something was up." He jerked his head toward the laborers.
"I am going to have to go along now—and so are they, I'm afraid"
                   "Guess we don't have much choice."
                   He shook his head.
                   "We stop the cart when we're abreast of
them," he said, looking out past the truck and back down the ramp. "Then
we stroll over. Get your gun out then and get them aboard the truck."
                   "Okay."
                   We halted the cart when we were near, turned
and moved in their direction. I grinned and rested my hand on the butt of the
pistol.
                   "Hi," Quick said, "I was just
wondering.. ."
                   The nearer man was squinting at me. I drew the
weapon and pointed it at them.
                   ". . . wondering whether you wanted to
try and be heroes, or just live and let live."
                   "It's Leishman," he said to the
other.
                   "God!" the other replied.
                   "What'll it be?" Quick asked.
                   "Whatever you want," the second man
said.
                   "Then get in the truck, both of
you."
                   They got to their feet. The first man raised
his arms.
                   "Put your hands down," I said.
"Don't do anything conspicuous like that again."
                   "Sorry."
                   He lowered them, they headed for the truck,
got in. Quick climbed down from the dock, went forward and was talking with the
driver, who kept glancing back, an unhappy look on his face.
                   I followed the men inside.
                   "All the way back," I said,
"and sit on the floor."
                   I seated myself across from them. Seconds
later, the engine spun and caught. There was a scrambling noise from outside,
and Quick rounded the corner and climbed in.
                   "He'll be around to shut it in a
second," he said, taking up a position to my right, legs stretched out
before him.
                   A light came on overhead.
                   The man across from me on the left, a young,
slight, dark-haired guy, said, "What are you going to do with us?"
                   "Nothing," I said, "if you
don't make any trouble. You know you would report someone leaving in the truck.
We can't have that. Be good, don't make any noises as we leave, and