"This is the car, Fodder!" one of the police shouted out over the constant moan of the flywheels.

"I'll call it in. They can't have gone far. We sure have them trapped now!"

Nothing infuriates me like the bland assurances of petty officials. Oh yes, really trapped now. I growled deep in my throat as the other uniformed incompetent poked his nose around the car and gaped at our cozy cuddle in the grass. He was still gaping when I lunged an arm up and around his neck with a tight squeeze on his throat and pulled him down to join us. It was fun to watch his tongue come out and his eyes pop and his head turn red but Angelina spoiled it. She whipped off his helmet and rapped him smartly—and accurately—on the temple with the heel of her shoe. He turned off and I let him drop.

"And you talk about me," my bride whispered. "You've got more than a touch of the old sadist in your own makeup."

"I called it in. Everybody knows. We've sure got than now…" the enthusiastic remaining officer said, but his voice rattled to a stop when he looked down the muzzle of his associate's riot gun. Angelina dug a sleep capsule out of her bag and snapped it under his nose.

"And now what, boss?" she asked, smiling happily at the two black-uniformed, brass-buttoned figures by the side of the road.

"I have been thinking," I said, and rubbed my jaw and frowned with deep concentration to prove it. "We have had over four months of worry-less holiday, but all good things must end. We could extend our leave. But it would be hectic to say the least and people would get hurt and you—while that is a fine shape—it is not quite the shape for flight aid pursuit and general nastiness. Shall we return to the service from which we fled?"