onto the floor. As luck would have it, the snake had found an artery, and ten cubic centimetres of compressed air had been pumped, at high pressure, into Gary's bloodstream.
Frank spun round, astonished.
'Jesus, Gazzer, this is no time to have a bleeding heart attack.'
Even at this moment, Frank could not get over his prejudices. He still could not quite believe that the small, twisted wreck in the armchair could have had anything to do with the besting of his tough, able-bodied colleague. Then Frank saw the jointed robotic arm hanging over the edge of the dresser. He saw its one finger, a long thin spike, crimson with blood, pointing down at the dying man. A stern, accusing finger calling Gary to book for his life of sin. Frank looked from the needle to Geoffrey; then at his now dead colleague – and he began to wonder.
'Did you do that, you little bastard?' he shouted at Geoffrey. 'You're supposed to be some sort of bleeding professor, ain't ya?'
Frank had drawn his gun and his face spelt murder. But Geoffrey wasn't looking at Frank's face, he was looking over Frank's shoulder to the space behind, where a pot of scalding coffee was slowly crossing the room on a long arm.
'All right, mate, that is it. You are dead, you hear? I don't care whether we've got all your research stuff or not, you ain't going to be telling anyone about it because you are bleeding dead.'
Frank held up his pistol, and for the first time in his life Geoffrey found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Except he wasn't really staring down it, his eyes were fixed on the space above his assailant's head. Could the arm reach high enough? Fortunately, it had also been designed for getting things down from the top of wardrobes.
As the man cocked his pistol the coffee pot appeared from behind him and levitated upwards until it hovered above his head. Geoffrey had literally only seconds in which to act, but, to his lasting credit, he found the time to be cool.
Making a huge effort to gain control of his voice he enquired . . .
'Do you take sugar?'
Without waiting for a reply Geoffrey again hit the button on his remote, and a pint of boiling coffee descended on Frank. Fortunately, Frank did not fire, instead he screamed in agony and began to hop about. Geoffrey's plan, as far as he had one, was at this point to try to get to the door, praying he would have time to stumble out before Frank recovered sufficiently to kill him. However, as Frank hopped about, fate hopped in beside Geoffrey and offered him an altogether more satisfactory course of action. Frank's agonized jumps had landed him bang on top of the explosive lifting platform. Geoffrey had intended the platform to be used for purposes such as getting wheelchairs into buses, or the paralysed into bed, but he had no objection to it being employed to fight murderers. It was the work of a moment for Geoffrey to hit his remote for a third time. There was an explosion and the unfortunate Frank sailed out of the window – following exactly the same trajectory that Geoffrey's suitcase had done on the previous occasion. He landed head first in a flower-bed and broke his neck.
THE SMALL MIND OF THE LAW
Detective Constable Collingwood was absolutely delighted.
'I rather think this bears out the point I made earlier, sir,' he had said proudly, 'regarding the fact that this city is a murky melting-pot of sleaze and crime. I mean there you were, not an hour ago, with nothing more to complain about than a pilfered telly, and now you've got a couple of raving deadies on your doorstep. Welcome to life at the sharp end, sir.'
'Shut up, Collingwood,' said the superintendent, having finished his inspection of Geoffrey's corkscrew. 'All right, Doctor Peason. Let's have this story again, shall we?'
For a long time it had proved impossible to make the police believe that Geoffrey had despatched the two thugs alone. However, after he had painstakingly demonstrated the process by which he had achieved his
Frank spun round, astonished.
'Jesus, Gazzer, this is no time to have a bleeding heart attack.'
Even at this moment, Frank could not get over his prejudices. He still could not quite believe that the small, twisted wreck in the armchair could have had anything to do with the besting of his tough, able-bodied colleague. Then Frank saw the jointed robotic arm hanging over the edge of the dresser. He saw its one finger, a long thin spike, crimson with blood, pointing down at the dying man. A stern, accusing finger calling Gary to book for his life of sin. Frank looked from the needle to Geoffrey; then at his now dead colleague – and he began to wonder.
'Did you do that, you little bastard?' he shouted at Geoffrey. 'You're supposed to be some sort of bleeding professor, ain't ya?'
Frank had drawn his gun and his face spelt murder. But Geoffrey wasn't looking at Frank's face, he was looking over Frank's shoulder to the space behind, where a pot of scalding coffee was slowly crossing the room on a long arm.
'All right, mate, that is it. You are dead, you hear? I don't care whether we've got all your research stuff or not, you ain't going to be telling anyone about it because you are bleeding dead.'
Frank held up his pistol, and for the first time in his life Geoffrey found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Except he wasn't really staring down it, his eyes were fixed on the space above his assailant's head. Could the arm reach high enough? Fortunately, it had also been designed for getting things down from the top of wardrobes.
As the man cocked his pistol the coffee pot appeared from behind him and levitated upwards until it hovered above his head. Geoffrey had literally only seconds in which to act, but, to his lasting credit, he found the time to be cool.
Making a huge effort to gain control of his voice he enquired . . .
'Do you take sugar?'
Without waiting for a reply Geoffrey again hit the button on his remote, and a pint of boiling coffee descended on Frank. Fortunately, Frank did not fire, instead he screamed in agony and began to hop about. Geoffrey's plan, as far as he had one, was at this point to try to get to the door, praying he would have time to stumble out before Frank recovered sufficiently to kill him. However, as Frank hopped about, fate hopped in beside Geoffrey and offered him an altogether more satisfactory course of action. Frank's agonized jumps had landed him bang on top of the explosive lifting platform. Geoffrey had intended the platform to be used for purposes such as getting wheelchairs into buses, or the paralysed into bed, but he had no objection to it being employed to fight murderers. It was the work of a moment for Geoffrey to hit his remote for a third time. There was an explosion and the unfortunate Frank sailed out of the window – following exactly the same trajectory that Geoffrey's suitcase had done on the previous occasion. He landed head first in a flower-bed and broke his neck.
THE SMALL MIND OF THE LAW
Detective Constable Collingwood was absolutely delighted.
'I rather think this bears out the point I made earlier, sir,' he had said proudly, 'regarding the fact that this city is a murky melting-pot of sleaze and crime. I mean there you were, not an hour ago, with nothing more to complain about than a pilfered telly, and now you've got a couple of raving deadies on your doorstep. Welcome to life at the sharp end, sir.'
'Shut up, Collingwood,' said the superintendent, having finished his inspection of Geoffrey's corkscrew. 'All right, Doctor Peason. Let's have this story again, shall we?'
For a long time it had proved impossible to make the police believe that Geoffrey had despatched the two thugs alone. However, after he had painstakingly demonstrated the process by which he had achieved his
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