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strange violent men arrive. None seemed to leave. He hung around the bars, cadging drinks, watching the gambling in the day and night casino, marveling at the scantily dressed, highly decorated "ladies" who had become a permanent fixture, and wondering occasionally, dimly, what he had done on that day when he had so casually sold New Metropolis. He'd been granted a cot in the cellar of the hotel, but he still hadn't been paid. Eagle, now a busy man, was hard to find, harder to talk to. He would dismiss Matthew with a pat on the back, a chit for a free beer at; the bar, or a kick when he was in a hurry. Matthew was a law-abiding man, more or less, and he was disturbed when he began to realize what kind of people these were. He was more disturbed when he saw the Jungle Patrol fired on. He had always admired those brisk young men, and in his youth had once tried to join them, but failed to qualify. Ah, well, he thought as he shambled back to his cot in the cellar for a nap, what's done is done.
The Patrol continued to observe from a distance, attempting to quarantine the town. But they were spread too thin, too far apart. An army would be needed to surround the place properly. Men were able to enter or leave at night without trouble, knowing the positions of the vehicles. And there was nothing to be done about the big amphibian planes that roared in and out during the night several times a week to and from parts unknown. So the population swelled, and Koy's safe bulged, but the presence of those Patrolmen out there still annoyed him. From the roof of his hotel, he would occasionally fire a rifle bullet, just to annoy them. The patrolmen ducked, gritted their teeth, and waited. This assignment was the most hated of all. To watch that crowd of gangsters and killers, to hear their laughter, shouts, curses, fights; to hear the shrill voices of their "ladies"—so close, yet unable to do anything about it. It was frustrating, aggravating, irritating, monstrous!
Colonel Weeks suffered in silence with his men. The Jungle Patrol is an elite corps, proud of two hundred fifty years of tradition, dedicated to incorruptible service, jealous of its unblemished reputation. To be mocked and derided by these vicious criminals was almost more than these proud young men and their Colonel could bear. More than once, law or no law, they were ready to charge into that snake pit, Killer's Town, with guns blazing. After all, one patrolman can handle ten criminals. But they restrained themselves, hung on, and, like their Colonel, suffered in silence. Someday, they told themselves. Someday.
Caroline Weeks, the Colonel's beautiful, red-haired, eighteen-year-old daughter, stepped off the big plane at Ma- witaan airport and ran into her father's waiting arms. He had not seen her for four years. A widower, Weeks had sent her to England to live with his sister and go to school there. Her trips to Bangalla were not frequent, because it was a long distance and expensive, and jungle patrolmen, even the Colonel, receive a great deal of respect, honor, and glory, but not much money. At Caroline's age, four years make a huge difference. She had left him, a gangling, freckled, awkward child. It took him a moment to realize that the red-haired beauty who leaped into his arms was his little Caroline. Now she would spend the entire summer vacation with him before returning to the university. They would have a chance to become reacquainted.
Caroline, in those years away, remembered her father as a sharp but gentle and authoritative figure, the heroic leader of a band of heroes. Returning, she wondered if her memory was false. She was afraid of disappointment in seeing him with older eyes. But she was delighted to find that her father was as alert, gentle, and strong as she had remembered. And after the first few days, he found that the red- haired young beauty called Caroline was still half-tomboy, still produced freckles after an hour in the sun, still laughed and