Read Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound for Free Online Page B

reached a metal hand under the metal desk.
    “I want to find out about an aircar you rented yesterday,” said the doctor. “I’ve tracked the damn thing this far. Now I’d—”
    “We can’t give out that type of information, sir, unless you happen to be a policeman, a military intelligence agent, a credit investigator, a bank official, or an officer of the federal or municipal court. Are you?”
    “I’m Dr. Zarkov,” he boomed. “And what I want to know is who rented this aircar from you nitwits.” He waved a memo with numbers scribbled on it.
    “I take it then you are not a policeman, a military intelligence agent, a credit investigator, a banker, or an officer of the federal or municipal court?”
    The first part of the doctor’s reply was a chesty growl. Before any words emerged, a door at the rear of the office whirred to one side.
    “Why, you’re even handsomer than you look on the TV wall, Doctor,” said the huge green woman in the doorway. She wore an orange wig, a white vinyl jumpsuit. She was smoking a pink cigar. “And your beard is much fuller. Come in, come in.”
    Zarkov blinked once before wending his way through the sitting robot rental agents. “And you are, madam?”
    “Granola Ben-Sen.” She smiled. “I own and operate this little establishment. I’ve been the sole owner since my late husband, Norge, totaled a skycycle last winter. Rest his soul. How may I help you, Dr. Zarkov?”
    “It’s important, Mrs. Ben-Sen, that I find out who rented this particular aircruiser from you yesterday.” He handed her the memo slip.
    “These contact lenses of mine are lousy,” she said as she brought the slip close to her broad flat green nose.
    “License number MOT-263-Y,” supplied Zarkov. “Registration number 544-8313, air permit PRAX-4809.”
    “Ah, yes, I remember that one,” said Mrs. Ben-Sen. “Come into my little parlor,. Dr. Zarkov, and I’ll trace this down for you.”
    Everything in the back room was pink: the floor, the walls, the metal desks, and the two floating rockers. Zarkov seated himself in the darker pink one. “I appreciate your co-operation, madam.”
    “You’re a real personage to me, Dr. Zarkov.” She stood smiling across at him, the memo rubbing against her chin. “Great men, even in this wide universe of ours, are rare. So most of us, we everyday people, must content ourselves with viewing greatness at a distance. You can imagine, then, the thrill of excitement which coursed through me when I heard you shouting your name in that deep manly voice of yours.”
    “Mrs. Ben-Sen, there’s some urgency connected with this inquiry.”
    “Of course, I can well imagine.” She went to a pink portable computer against one wall. Hesitating, studying the memo slip and then the keyboard, she finally punched out some questions.
    The pink mechanism began making huffing, grinding noises. A tiny bell tinkled inside it. A strip of paper unfurled out a slot.
    “Do you think perhaps I’m not oiling my computer enough, Dr. Zarkov?” She approached him with a strip of paper the computer had produced. “It often makes strange noises.”
    “That’s an inferior Plutonian make of computer, madam. They all make strange noises.” He bounced up out of his chair to take the information slip. “John J. Connigton, 260 Stockbridge Road, this city. Rented the aircar at 6:01 last night, returned it at 11:07. Huh.”
    “Do you need this information for some scientific project, Dr. Zarkov?” asked the green woman. “Perhaps you’re only an inch from solving the problem of this horrible sound plague.”
    Zarkov said, “Thank you, madam.”
    “I wonder, Dr. Zarkov, if you would indulge a long-time admirer of yours by giving me your autograph?”
    “Certainly, madam.”
    Smiling, Mrs. Ben-Sen began looking around. “Now, let me see, what’s something appropriate for a man of your standing to sign?”
    Zarkov whipped out an electric marker from the breast pocket of his worksuit.