The Avenger 30 - Black Chariots Read Online Free PDF

away from the engine. “Had a visiting prof named Hamblin once in my college days.”
    “At Cal Tech? It was probably my uncle, then.”
    “Val Hamblin,” said Dipper, “a very smart guy.”
    “Yes, that’s Uncle Val.” She lowered her head and kicked at the sand. “That’s why, in a way, I’m out here.”
    “I’ve heard of this Val Hamblin guy, too,” said the giant. “If he’s staying in these parts, I’d like to meet him.”
    “That’s just it,” Jennifer said. “I don’t know where he is. I came out to southern California hoping . . . well, it’s a long, dull story, really.”
    Dipper shut the hood and wiped his hands on the side of his khaki trousers. “She’ll run again, after a little rest.”
    “You in a hurry, miss?” Smitty asked her. “We could drop you somewhere.”
    “No, not actually. I’ve been driving around most of the day to see if . . . well, it may sound silly. To see if I could spot any of these things they call black chariots. Have you heard any—”
    “Say that again, miss.” Smitty took hold of her arm.
    “I was asking if you’d heard of the black chariots. There was only one mention of them in the papers, and my calls to the local law haven’t produced one bit of—”
    “You’re interested in these flying gizmos, too?” the big man asked her.
    “Yes, I am.” She’d been looking up into his face, a frown on hers, as he questioned her. “You . . . I’ve seen you . . . no, your picture someplace.”
    “Smitty’s somewhat of a celebrity,” said Dipper. “You must have heard of Justice, Inc.”
    “Of course, that’s why you seemed familiar to me,” said Jennifer. She glanced at Dipper, then back at the giant. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Mr. Smith.”
    Smitty said, “You can say whatever you like in front of Dipper.”
    Dipper pointed at the blazing sun. “We should be able to find a cooler spot,” he said. “I noticed a last-chance sort of café a mile or two back. Why don’t we adjourn there?”
    “Okay,” said Smitty.

    They called the little one Moron. The reason for that was . . .
    He came in, adjusting his high-drape slacks, and crossed the windowless gray room. “Hey, did you hear about the little moron who took the ladder to the party because—”
    “Shut up, Moron,” suggested the fat man in the chocolate-colored suit. His complexion was the same shade of gray as the walls.
    “The trouble with you, Heinz, is you ain’t hep.” Moron dropped, with a clank, into one of the six metal folding chairs that made up the room’s only furniture.
    “You’re fifteen minutes late,” pointed out the third man in the room. His name was Trumbull, and he looked like hundreds of other tired middle-aged men.
    “I drove over to the Springs,” explained Moron. “I’m hunting for a Coleman Hawkins record that—”
    “All right, enough,” said the fat Heinz.
    “I picked up a good one from the guy who runs the disk shop,” said Moron. “Did you hear about the little moron who took the tape measure to bed because he—”
    “They’re not happy,” said Heinz. The small folding chair was too small for his bulk; he kept shifting his weight uncomfortably. “We have to do better.”
    “I’d like to meet these guys,” said Moron. “Who the hell do they—”
    “They’re the people we work for,” said Trumbull. “They have a right to expect results.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t like being treated like a stooge,” said the little man. “Never see these birds, get orders handed down to me by you guys. It lacks—”
    “I’ve never seen them, either,” said Trumbull. He took the display handkerchief from the pocket of his double-breasted blue suit and wiped his forehead. “They pay well, and on time. That’s all that need concern you.”
    Sighing unhappily, Heinz jiggled up off his chair. “They may not continue to pay us,” he said. “They feel the last job was botched, very badly botched.”
    “We almost