Free One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing by David Forrest Page B

Hettie.
    “Adjustments,” replied Emily, fiddling with the gear lever, and then repositioning her pince-nez.
    She remembered the salesman’s instructions, pulled the gear stick into neutral, turned the ignition key and started all over again. This time she changed gear successfully. Three times! There was the sound of a siren alongside them. A motorcycle patrolman waved.
    “He recognizes us,” said Emily.
    Hettie sniffed and wriggled her shoulders primly. “We don’t think we recognize him.”
    The speedcop shouted something at them. He swerved his machine in front of the truck, missing them by inches, then slowed down.
    “That was dangerous,” said Emily. “Do you think he wants to talk to us?”
    The Harley Davidson stopped ahead of them. Emily struggled with the gear lever and the brakes. The truck kangarooed to a stop half an inch from the motorcycle’s polished rear fender.
    The speedcop turned a slightly darker shade of crimson and pulled out his notebook as he walked round to the driver’s window.
    “Okay, bud,” he began, then noticed the two women.
    “Oh, God ... Dames. Dames driving trucks!” He went forward and pulled open the cab door.
    “Okay, ladies ..
    The two women peered down. The cop looked them over.
    “Now what’s a coupla nice old nurses like you doing driving around like drag-racers?”
    They were silent.
    “I know,” continued the cop. “You was on the way to the hospital. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re Dr. Kildare and you’re late for an operation. Well . .he paused and began writing in his book. “Well, I gotta message for you . . . sort of a prescription.” He licked the end of his pencil and continued writing. “Gotya licence?”
    “Er... no...” said Emily. “Sorry, constable.”
    “Whadja mean, constable? I’m a cop. You dames foreigners?”
    “Most certainly not, laddie,” replied Hettie, fiercely. “you’re foreign, we’re British.”
    “Yes British,” added Emily. “This lady is a royal nanny. You should be more polite.”
    “A royal what?” asked the patrolman.
    “Nanny--a governess,” said Emily.
    “An Embassy official?”
    “Royal governess,” repeated Emily. She polished her pince-nez on a handkerchief and perched them back on her twitching nose.
    “We teach manners, my man,” said Hettie.
    “You claiming diplomatic immunity?” The cop vaguely remembered something unpleasant happening to a friend who’d stopped another foreign driver who turned out to be a Danish prince. He shut his notebook with a slap.
    “You got a passport, then? Alien’s Registration Card?”
    “They’re at home,” said Emily.
    “No identification, eh? No proof of diplomatic immunity?”
    “Identification? Proof?” growled Hettie. “We’re ladies. And British. Surely, our word’s good enough?”
    “I gotta have identification,” muttered the patrolman. He fished in his breast pocket, and pulled out his warrant card. “Something like this.”
    Hettie took the card and examined the photograph, then compared it with the patrolman’s face. “Very interesting, laddie.” She handed it back to him. “All right then, officer. You can go now. And behave yourself.”
    “Thank you, ma’am,” said the cop, automatically. He pushed his warrant card back into his pocket and began to walk to his machine. Then, he hesitated, thought for a second and turned back. “Hey, I’m supposed to be the one who says that.”
    “Says what?” asked Emily, as she twisted the ignition key.
    “You can go now,” he repeated.
    “Why, thank you, officer. Good day,” said Emily. The truck rumbled to life. She smashed it into gear. The scarlet-faced patrolman just managed to drag his motorcycle from her path. He started to pull his whistle from his pocket, then stopped. He pushed back his helmet.
    “Aw, hell, what’s the use?”
     
    For the next hour Emily drove the truck around the city. Then, when she felt completely familiar with what she considered to be its