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Authors: Victor Appleton II
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line of sight or deface the beautiful blue sky; and the government people are very explicit about not allowing private vehicles inside the borders of the Monument. Even in the air above it! They plan to ban completely overflights by private helicopters and planes."
"Even flying atomicars?"
"Hey, I didn’t write the law."
"They’re pretty ugly, anyhow." —which brought a retort in the form of a thrown pillow. But Tom knew very well that his Silent Streak was graceful technologically but not visually. It had become something of a joke, which Tom took with good-natured rue.
Late in the evening—a typically boistrous evening in the vicinity of the Zocálo—the boys rode their rented scooters back to Coyoacán and the market plaza. The tourists were gone; only some strolling locals and maintenance workers remained. "But there’s a cop," Bud televoc’d.
"Don’t act suspicious, flyboy."
"Tom, acting suspicious is easy, but I have no training in acting un suspicious!"
They reached the spot where they had last seen Ociéda. Tom held the spytron in his right hand, pressed against the handlebar and grasping both. With a subtle movement he angled the transmitter downwards toward the pavement. The device immediately gave its silent vibratory alert—trace acquisition! "Got him!" exulted Tom. "Or at least—sniffed him."
"And we know he was heading in this direction," Bud replied.
They rode along very slowly. The vibration signal occasionally wavered and faded, but then returned with renewed vigor. They passed from the market plaza onto a bordering street, then down a twisting alley to a neighboring street, a small one. "Okay—stop!" commanded Tom suddenly.
"Lost the trail?" asked Bud aloud.
"Ends right here at the curb. He must have got into a car. I’ll start running through our ‘library’ of car-trace profiles." In just a moment Tom hissed: "Match and lock-on!"
"Can we track it this time?"
"I’m sure we can! It’s fresh and well-‘signatured.’ Follow me!"
A long winding trek began, several hours of dizzying twists and turns. "Jetz, what was Rampo doing?" complained Bud as midnight passed.
"Probably looking for crowds and opportunities. Maybe casing storefronts for future burglarizing. Can’t make a living without hard work."
"Yeah, good for him. I’m getting a little saddle-sore, genius boy."
Winding northward they had crossed the borders of the Ciudad , though there had been no change in the dense urban scenery. Fortunately their quarry had chosen to avoid the larger boulevards and highways. Tom knew his humble spytron would have become confused by heavy traffic.
Even before they began to see signs, in Spanish and English, they knew where they were heading by the domes and peaks poking high above the neighborhood roofs ahead.
"This is the Tepeyac district," Tom pronounced. "I recognize it from photos."
"Tepeyac? What are those buldings up ahead? A sports arena?"
"Looks like Rampo decided to ply his trade at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, chum—one of the most famous historic sites in the Western Hemisphere!"
" Jetz !" Bud gulped. "Nice place to visit!"
CHAPTER 9
MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL
THEY arrived at the edge of the great plaza, near the hill where, in 1531, a native peasant had reported meeting the Virgin Mary and receiving her image on his cloak, or tilma, woven of rough cactus fiber.
"The image of the Virgin of Guadalupe," breathed Bud. "You see it everywhere in Latino communities."
Tom pointed. "It’s displayed above the altar in the new basilica, the domed cathedral. But this one here is the original basilica, dating back to the 16th Century. It was deemed unsafe due to its age, but I’ve read it’s been partially refurbished and reinforced, and some parts are open to touring."
"Think that’s where he went?"
"Let’s see."
The trail stopped at a rusty old pickup, nondescript. The spytron indicated that Ociéda had parked, then continued onto the plaza on foot. Tom
"Even flying atomicars?"
"Hey, I didn’t write the law."
"They’re pretty ugly, anyhow." —which brought a retort in the form of a thrown pillow. But Tom knew very well that his Silent Streak was graceful technologically but not visually. It had become something of a joke, which Tom took with good-natured rue.
Late in the evening—a typically boistrous evening in the vicinity of the Zocálo—the boys rode their rented scooters back to Coyoacán and the market plaza. The tourists were gone; only some strolling locals and maintenance workers remained. "But there’s a cop," Bud televoc’d.
"Don’t act suspicious, flyboy."
"Tom, acting suspicious is easy, but I have no training in acting un suspicious!"
They reached the spot where they had last seen Ociéda. Tom held the spytron in his right hand, pressed against the handlebar and grasping both. With a subtle movement he angled the transmitter downwards toward the pavement. The device immediately gave its silent vibratory alert—trace acquisition! "Got him!" exulted Tom. "Or at least—sniffed him."
"And we know he was heading in this direction," Bud replied.
They rode along very slowly. The vibration signal occasionally wavered and faded, but then returned with renewed vigor. They passed from the market plaza onto a bordering street, then down a twisting alley to a neighboring street, a small one. "Okay—stop!" commanded Tom suddenly.
"Lost the trail?" asked Bud aloud.
"Ends right here at the curb. He must have got into a car. I’ll start running through our ‘library’ of car-trace profiles." In just a moment Tom hissed: "Match and lock-on!"
"Can we track it this time?"
"I’m sure we can! It’s fresh and well-‘signatured.’ Follow me!"
A long winding trek began, several hours of dizzying twists and turns. "Jetz, what was Rampo doing?" complained Bud as midnight passed.
"Probably looking for crowds and opportunities. Maybe casing storefronts for future burglarizing. Can’t make a living without hard work."
"Yeah, good for him. I’m getting a little saddle-sore, genius boy."
Winding northward they had crossed the borders of the Ciudad , though there had been no change in the dense urban scenery. Fortunately their quarry had chosen to avoid the larger boulevards and highways. Tom knew his humble spytron would have become confused by heavy traffic.
Even before they began to see signs, in Spanish and English, they knew where they were heading by the domes and peaks poking high above the neighborhood roofs ahead.
"This is the Tepeyac district," Tom pronounced. "I recognize it from photos."
"Tepeyac? What are those buldings up ahead? A sports arena?"
"Looks like Rampo decided to ply his trade at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, chum—one of the most famous historic sites in the Western Hemisphere!"
" Jetz !" Bud gulped. "Nice place to visit!"
CHAPTER 9
MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL
THEY arrived at the edge of the great plaza, near the hill where, in 1531, a native peasant had reported meeting the Virgin Mary and receiving her image on his cloak, or tilma, woven of rough cactus fiber.
"The image of the Virgin of Guadalupe," breathed Bud. "You see it everywhere in Latino communities."
Tom pointed. "It’s displayed above the altar in the new basilica, the domed cathedral. But this one here is the original basilica, dating back to the 16th Century. It was deemed unsafe due to its age, but I’ve read it’s been partially refurbished and reinforced, and some parts are open to touring."
"Think that’s where he went?"
"Let’s see."
The trail stopped at a rusty old pickup, nondescript. The spytron indicated that Ociéda had parked, then continued onto the plaza on foot. Tom
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