ed what was
happening by the time it was all over. Automatic reflexes turned him
away from the driver and toward the source of danger, his gun pointing
toward Malone. But the reflexes gave out as he found himself staring
down a rifled steel tube which, though hardly more than
seven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, must have looked as though a
high-speed locomotive might come roaring out of it at any second.

Malone hardly needed to bark: "_Drop it!_" The revolver hit the seat
next to the cabbie.

"Driver," Malone said in a conversational voice, "can you handle a
gun?"

"Why, it is better than even that I still can," the cabbie said. "I am
in the business myself many years ago, before I see the error of my
ways and buy a taxi with the profits I make. It is a high-pay
business," he went on, "but very insecure."

The cabbie scooped up the weapon by his side, flipped out the cylinder
expertly to check the cartridges, flipped it back in and centered the
muzzle on the gunman who'd dropped the revolver.

"It is more than thirty years since I use one of these," he said
gently, "but I do not forget how to pull the trigger, and at this
range I can hardly miss."

Malone noticed vaguely that he was still holding hands with the second
gunman, and that this one was trying to struggle free. Malone shrugged
and eased off a bit, at the same time shifting his own aim. The .44
Magnum now pointed at gunman number two, and the cabbie was aiming at
gunman number one. The tableau was silent for some seconds.

"Now," Malone said at last, "we wait. Driver, if you would sort of
lean against your horn button, we might be able to speed things up a
little. The light has turned green."

"The local constables," the cabbie said, "do not bother with stalled
cars in traffic these days."

"But," Malone pointed out, "I have a hunch no cop could resist a taxi
which is not only stalled and blocking traffic but is also blatting
its horn continuously. Strike or no strike," he finished
sententiously, "there are things beyond the power of man to ignore."

"Friend," the cabbie said, "you convince me. It is a good move." He
sagged slightly against the horn button, keeping the gun centered at
all times on the man before him.

The horn began to wail horribly.

The first gunman swallowed nervously. "Hey, now, listen," he said,
shouting slightly above the horn. "This wasn't anything. Just a gag,
see? A little gag. We was playing a joke. On a friend.