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Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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season.”
Nick had been watching the stewardess walk past them to the cockpit and unlock the door with a key that dangled from her waist. She was carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. “Pardon me,” he interrupted Karowitz.
He moved quickly down the aisle behind the girl, catching the door before she could close it. The flight was still young, but he might not get another chance this good. He pushed past her, shoved the copilot aside, and pointed a pistol at the pilot’s head.
Farnsworth, the pilot, turned as the stewardess gasped. He started to rise, then thought better of it. “Where to?” he asked in a resigned tone. “Havana?”
“No,” Nick told him. “The island of Jabali.”
“We may not have enough fuel for that.”
Nick kept the pistol steady. “Well, let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”
Hours later, as the jet settled down on the runway at Jabali Airport, Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The fuel had indeed been low, and he wondered what he would have done if they’d run dry over the Caribbean. Or if the pilot and copilot had put up a fight. He’d never killed an innocent person during any of his assignments, and he wouldn’t have started now. More likely he would have knocked them out and tried to bring the big plane in himself—though he’d never piloted anything larger than army transports during a brief period of the Korean war.
When he stepped out of the cockpit he faced Pop Hastin, the manager’s face flushed with fury. “Why did you bring us here?” Hastin demanded.
“Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re in no danger.” He motioned with his gun for Pop and the players to leave the plane.
Roswell pushed his way through the crush. “You had no intention of writing any article! It was all a lie to hijack this plane!”
“It wasn’t entirely a lie,” Nick pointed out. “You’ll get plenty of publicity out of this.”
“Publicity?” Pop Hastin looked out the window at the welcome signs. “You mean somebody wanted to kidnap the Beavers?”
Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Welcome to Jabali.”
The President of Jabali, General Tras, was waiting to greet them with his eight cabinet ministers. He was an imposing man in his full military uniform, smiling broadly yet giving an unmistakable picture of power. There were armed bodyguards on both sides of him, and his gloved fists were clenched with expectation.
“We had your radio message, Señor Velvet. You have truly fulfilled your mission! Let us proceed to the National Hall, where I can more formally greet my guests.”
Jorge Asignar stepped forward, wearing the purple sash of a cabinet minister. “I have the balance of your money,” he told Nick. “The President is very pleased.”
“What are you? Secretary of Kidnaping?”
“Minister of Information,” Asignar replied with a thin smile. Then, motioning toward the plane, he questioned, “Who are all these people?”
“Baseball teams aren’t just nine men and a rack of bats. Not these days. They need a trainer, batboy, and press agent. They need pitching and batting coaches. They need—”
Stan Karowitz came barreling over, looking for a fight. “What is this, anyway? Are we prisoners here?”
Nick tried to calm him. “Their president likes baseball. You’ll be home in a few days.”
“ A few days! ”
But already the armed guards were moving in, steering everyone toward a big waiting bus. There was no opportunity for argument. Nick rode to the National Hall in the black, limousine of General Tras, sitting in the back seat between the President and Asignar. On the front fenders fluttered the flag of Jabali—a field of red with a wild boar’s head in the center, enclosed by a black triangle with three seashells along each of the triangle’s sides.
“Jabali,” Nick observed. “The wild boar?”
“At one time they overran our little island,” General Tras remarked. “Now they are confined to the zoos and a few
Nick had been watching the stewardess walk past them to the cockpit and unlock the door with a key that dangled from her waist. She was carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. “Pardon me,” he interrupted Karowitz.
He moved quickly down the aisle behind the girl, catching the door before she could close it. The flight was still young, but he might not get another chance this good. He pushed past her, shoved the copilot aside, and pointed a pistol at the pilot’s head.
Farnsworth, the pilot, turned as the stewardess gasped. He started to rise, then thought better of it. “Where to?” he asked in a resigned tone. “Havana?”
“No,” Nick told him. “The island of Jabali.”
“We may not have enough fuel for that.”
Nick kept the pistol steady. “Well, let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”
Hours later, as the jet settled down on the runway at Jabali Airport, Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The fuel had indeed been low, and he wondered what he would have done if they’d run dry over the Caribbean. Or if the pilot and copilot had put up a fight. He’d never killed an innocent person during any of his assignments, and he wouldn’t have started now. More likely he would have knocked them out and tried to bring the big plane in himself—though he’d never piloted anything larger than army transports during a brief period of the Korean war.
When he stepped out of the cockpit he faced Pop Hastin, the manager’s face flushed with fury. “Why did you bring us here?” Hastin demanded.
“Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re in no danger.” He motioned with his gun for Pop and the players to leave the plane.
Roswell pushed his way through the crush. “You had no intention of writing any article! It was all a lie to hijack this plane!”
“It wasn’t entirely a lie,” Nick pointed out. “You’ll get plenty of publicity out of this.”
“Publicity?” Pop Hastin looked out the window at the welcome signs. “You mean somebody wanted to kidnap the Beavers?”
Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Welcome to Jabali.”
The President of Jabali, General Tras, was waiting to greet them with his eight cabinet ministers. He was an imposing man in his full military uniform, smiling broadly yet giving an unmistakable picture of power. There were armed bodyguards on both sides of him, and his gloved fists were clenched with expectation.
“We had your radio message, Señor Velvet. You have truly fulfilled your mission! Let us proceed to the National Hall, where I can more formally greet my guests.”
Jorge Asignar stepped forward, wearing the purple sash of a cabinet minister. “I have the balance of your money,” he told Nick. “The President is very pleased.”
“What are you? Secretary of Kidnaping?”
“Minister of Information,” Asignar replied with a thin smile. Then, motioning toward the plane, he questioned, “Who are all these people?”
“Baseball teams aren’t just nine men and a rack of bats. Not these days. They need a trainer, batboy, and press agent. They need pitching and batting coaches. They need—”
Stan Karowitz came barreling over, looking for a fight. “What is this, anyway? Are we prisoners here?”
Nick tried to calm him. “Their president likes baseball. You’ll be home in a few days.”
“ A few days! ”
But already the armed guards were moving in, steering everyone toward a big waiting bus. There was no opportunity for argument. Nick rode to the National Hall in the black, limousine of General Tras, sitting in the back seat between the President and Asignar. On the front fenders fluttered the flag of Jabali—a field of red with a wild boar’s head in the center, enclosed by a black triangle with three seashells along each of the triangle’s sides.
“Jabali,” Nick observed. “The wild boar?”
“At one time they overran our little island,” General Tras remarked. “Now they are confined to the zoos and a few
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