Текст книги "The Power Cube Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"Eh?" Solo stared at him wonderingly. "Why?"

"That thing about the seventh stone. I think I've got it. You keep on trying for a bit, see if you get it too. Take it from that phony phone call and see where it gets you."

"I like you least when you're being all enigmatic and Slavic," Solo grumbled.

But he had to be content, knowing full well that Illya could be mulish when it suited him. Lieutenant Commander Hope met them on the Trojan deck and managed to look a trifle less sad than usual.

"You've given us something to talk about for months. Especially you, my dear. Thank you. My orders are to let you carry on. Your clothes are dry, Mr. Solo. And I'm to hang on to that recorder, as evidence. I think that's all. It's been very nice having you."

And then, surprisingly quickly, it was all over and they went once more along the quayside, until Nan Perrell halted with a snort of dismay.

"We should have borrowed some cash off him," she declared. "How are we going to get back? I haven't a penny on me. Can't even make a phone call!"

"I think we're saved." Solo peered ahead, saw a familiar black and shiny bulk. "Friend Charles has ordered the car."

He marched up to the tiny driver, smiling, and she grinned cheerfully back at him. "Ready when you are, sir," she said.

FIFTEEN

THE DAIMLER had a let down seat against the backrest which enabled Nan to settle herself facing the two men. It also gave her the chance, which she took, to show off her long and shapely limbs to great advantage. She leaned forward seriously. "What was all that about jewels? Little black things?"

"Your chance to prove that you are not just a pretty face, Nan. We know what Beeman was after, what Mary Chantry stumbled onto." With care, Kuryakin brought her up to date, relating what they had learned from Carpenter, what they had seen on Beeman's desk, and then he carefully reminded her, and Solo, of what Mary Chantry had said about the seventh stone.

"You think that comes into it, Illya?"

"Definitely. It's the key to the whole thing."

"Some key. Oh well, if you say so." Solo leaned back and scowled, chewing his lip. Nan looked from one to the other, settled on Solo.

"Is he often like this?"

"Pretty often. Likes to show off that he is a very smart Russian. The trouble is, he really is just that. The more foolish we look, the more his ego will swell."

"You want a clue?" Kuryakin offered, and she made a face at him, but had to admit it in the end.

"All right, clever dick, what's the clue?"

"That phone call from Monty Hagen—was genuine. No fake."

Her amusement withered instantly. "You can't possibly say that. It was an impersonation. It must have been,"

"Assume that it wasn't and see what follows."

"But it's ridiculous! Monty Hagen?"

"You wanted a clue. Here's another. Exhibition is camouflage. You said so yourself. You also said, remember, that Lady Herriott always, somehow, seemed to be on that same channel steamer that the drugs came in by. So you add it up. You are trying to smuggle something highly valuable into the country. You carefully plant some drugs on an innocent party—you said yourself that the follow-ups were dead ends. You allow a tip to leak out. The customs men make their pounce. And your real smuggler walks through without so much as a glance from anyone."

"But they can't be!" she cried. "Not Maggie Herriott!"

"You mean you don't want to believe it, any more than you would have believed us about Uncle Henry if we had tried to tell you. You know, you keep on getting personal values mixed in with your thinking."

"I refuse to accept it," she said through her teeth. "Call Maggie anything else. A moral hedonist, halfwit, fool, any thing. But not crook!"

"Just like Uncle Henry," Solo stated grimly. "Dear, harmless, sweet old Uncle Henry. He couldn't be a murderer. He wouldn't cut your fingers off or put a garrote around your neck, not him! Never!"

She went white as death, and her voice was tight and small as she said, "All right. Yes, I asked for that. I was wrong about Beeman. But not. about Maggie Herriott!"

"She wears a halo?"

"Stop it! All right, you may have something. It's barely possible. But this time we must have evidence, some kind of proof. You two are not going to rampage all over Danby Hall, smashing and charging, breaking up the place, killing people, on some wild hunch! Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Certainly not." Kuryakin's voice was icily polite now. "That's the wrong way, isn't it? The next time your life is in danger I'll write a long letter to Charles, to tell him all about it, give him time to work out some careful plan, while you sit and count your fingers!"

"You know how to hurt," she whispered, "when you want to."

"Nobody is trying to hurt you," Solo growled at her, and then leaned forward to check with the Wren driver. "Miss Heston, do you have instructions where to take us?"

"No, sir. Wherever you say."

"Right. Back with you in a moment." He fixed Nan with a hard eye. "We can go to your place first. You'll get Charles on the phone and ask him where he has been getting the tipoffs about the drugs. Maybe that will go part of the way to establishing some kind of evidence. Now, you tell her the route." She did more. She had the car stopped while she removed herself to the front seat, and then they roared on once more.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Illya," Solo muttered.

"By which I gather that you have not yet cracked the riddle?"

"You know damned well I haven't. But I will."

And by the time they pulled into the forecourt of Nan's home, he had. At least, he believed he had, but he left it unsaid as he saw the white lines of rage around her jaw and the way she strode indoors and to the phone.

"The inquiries will take a moment or two. No reason why we can't rest and have a cup of something. Curtis!"

"Very glad to see you safe and sound again, miss. And you, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you dealt with them properly?"

"I'm afraid we were rather crude and rough," Kuryakin said, and Nan beamed him a glare of blue fire before putting on a smile for Miss Heston. It was almost fifteen minutes before Charles came through. Solo stood by her shoulder as she took it, and heard the old voice, tinged with irritation.

"I hope you have good reason for this, Nan. I don't usually betray my sources, and it's not always easy to back check them. However, you say Solo wanted to know, and I respect his guesswork. The tips have been corning, in the first place, from a chap called Hagen. That what you wanted?"

"That's what we thought." Solo grabbed the instrument as she choked on the words. "And not my intuition, Illya's. He's the inspired one between us. I just do the hard work. I think we're going to have that power cube for you, soon."

"Power cube? What the devil do you know about that?"

"Plenty. We'll get back to you later." He hung up and put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Don't let it throw you, Nan. We can all make mistakes. I've made a few, one way or another. Come on, let's get it over with."

Again she sat up front with Miss Heston, to point the way, but now there was a droop to her shoulders. She turned to point as they took the sharp dip she had told them about.

"There's my poor old Princess."

Danby Hall didn't look nearly so fiendish by daylight, just an old and cozily weatherbeaten old mansion, with a gleaming white MG standing in the sunlight as they rolled to a stop.

"Nice car!" Solo commented, as they climbed out. "Who drives that, Evadne?"

"She and Monty share it between them. Shall we go in?"

They were approached by a stately butler, last seen by Solo in the guise of a Roman slave. He suppressed a grin at the thought.

"We'd like to see her ladyship, please," he said.

"I will inquire—" the butler began, and was cut short by a twitter from the top of a magnificent stairway. Lady Herriott came trotting down.

"Nan! And the two fugitives! What a lovely surprise! I'm furious with you two, of course, for running away the other night, but I'll forgive you if you'll promise to come again some other time. Will you?"

"That's hard to say. Lady Herriott, this is hardly a social call."

"Oh!" She fluttered a hand anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know yet. I'd like to see your rubies, if possible."

"These?" She twined her fingers in the string at her neck!

"And the other two sets. All at once, please!"

"Nan told you! Don't you think it was a clever idea?"

"Very ingenious," Kuryakin murmured. "Your own?"

"Heavens, no! I'm not a bit clever like that. No, Monty thought of it. He's bright, you know. Come along and I'll show you." She went trotting back upstairs and along a broad passage rainbow-lit by sunlight through stained glass windows. A door stood open at the far end, leading to an interior that was, predictably, in all shades of green. Lady Herriott scurried to an old-fashioned escritoire, then paused in indecision.

"Monty takes care of all my jewelry and trinkets. He really ought to be here. But I don't suppose he will mind. Here you are." She reached into a recess and brought out a lacquered work box, lifted the lid and set it down. Kuryakin went forward to look, to put in his fingers and lift out a string of egg sized bloodred stones, interspersed with delicate gold filigree. Lady Herriott. bowed her head and slipped off the string she was wearing, added it to the rest.

"There you are!" she said triumphantly. "I will wager you can't tell which is the genuine set!"

Kuryakin lifted out another, laid all three on the dark wood. He looked at her curiously. "You say this was Hagen's idea? And, I understand, you can't tell the difference yourself?"

"That's right. Aren't they good?"

"Very fine. Just one more thing. When you travel, you carry them all like this? All in that box?"

"Of course. That's the box I keep them in."

Solo sighed. He heard Nan Perrell gasp as it struck her. Kuryakin shook his head sadly. "Madam, you're not safe to be let loose. Don't you realize that this whole scheme to frustrate a possible thief, is useless? When all he has to do is lift the whole box and sort out one from the other later on, at his leisure?"

She stared, and then her face crumpled into total confusion. Watching her, Solo felt that she was either an incredible actress or just plain stupid. Then she said, "You must think me a fool. But still," she rallied valiantly, "you must admit that it works. I mean, they haven't been stolen, have they?"

"No? If you can't tell the real from the fake, how do you know that any of them are genuine?"

This time Lady Herriott staggered, her face chalk white and showing its age. "You'd better sit," Kuryakin advised. "There's more. A lot more." At that moment Evadne scampered into the room, dripping water and clutching a white bath towel negligently about her curves. She braked to a halt at the sight of company.

"Hello, you two! Hey, what's all the panic about? Monty just came bursting into the bathroom demanding the car keys—"

"Car keys!" Solo snapped, heading for the door. There came the sudden snarl of a revving engine from outside.

"Hold it!" Nan Perrell called, and stepped to the window. "You'll never catch him that way, but I can. She shoved the swinging pane, swept up her brief skirt with a double handed grab, rested her forearms on the ledge, and Kuryakin was there, looking over her shoulder. Her right hand weapon coughed and snapped. Down there the MG's rear right wheel exploded loudly, lifting the tail of the car up and around. As it swung her left hand gun spoke, snapped, and the corresponding front wheel erupted loudly. The car heeled over, hung a moment, then fell back and bounced heavily. She leaned out into the sunlight.

"Hagen!" Her voice was like a silver bugle. "Come on out, nice and slow. Try anything funny and the next one's for you!"

Kuryakin watched, saw the car heave and shake as the buckled door jerked open and Hagen tottered out, raising his hands in abject surrender.

"Nice shooting, Nan," murmured Kuryakin, and lowered his palm to pat her, a gentle pat, more like a caress.

"Time and place for everything, Illya, remind me some other time. Now—Napoleon! You can go down and get him. Careful not to get in the line of fire, mind, but I doubt if he'll give any trouble."

She was right about Hagen. He came meekly back with Solo to the room where Nan was once more decorous but still holding one weapon, in case. In a chair, Lady Herriott sagged and looked like a mourner at her own funeral.

"It's dreadful," she wailed. "Those rubies—they're antiques. I can never replace them!"

"I shouldn't worry," Kuryakin comforted her. "It's my guess that Hagen has them stashed away somewhere, for insurance. Else why did he bolt?"

"I don't understand!" Evadne cried. "What's he done?"

"Cue for speech, Illya. You're the one who knows all the twists in this thing. I know some, I think."

"All right." Kuryakin returned to the escritoire, picked up a ruby string, holding it by the clasp. "Please notice, thirteen stones. An unlucky number, some would think. Six a side, and the seventh one, the biggest of all, this one—is hollow!" He took it between finger and thumb and it was like a huge acorn in a cup of goldwork. He twisted firmly, and it came apart neatly. "You could conceal quite a lot in that, you know."

"It's empty!" Lady Herriott declared.

"Of course it is!" Hagen snarled. "Hollow, to save weight!"

"A plastic that is heavier than genuine ruby? I think not." Kuryakin put down the string he held. He was watching the immaculate secretary like a hawk. "Let's see if the others are empty too," he murmured, and Hagen's sag told him all he wanted to know. The second one was empty, but the third little blood red egg was occupied. A packet wad of white cotton yielded a tiny black thing carefully enclosed in glossy plastic.

Lady Herriott stared blankly.

"What is it?"

"I'm pretty sure you don't know, madam. I owe you an apology for that. But I'm almost certain that you don't know either, Hagen, or you'd never have let them rest here."

The secretary wet his lips several times before he managed to speak.

"It's a gemstone and very valuable. What more is there to know?"

"So. Beeman duped you just like all the rest. It is not a gem. It is—I'll show you."

"Careful, Illya!"

"All right, Napoleon. I'm not going to take any big chances. But I would like to see just what the potential really is. Kuryakin took the plastic—it was tube shaped—and squeezed one end gingerly, easing the black crystal along until it showed partly exposed. Pausing to look around at the attentive faces just once, he took finger and thumb of his right hand and pressed them firmly against the black stuff. In that moment Solo felt a sudden, irrational and surging sense of hatred for the slim, fair haired Russian agent. As he moved instinctively he saw Hagen stiffen, his pretty face twisted into a snarl that epitomized exactly what Solo felt himself. Checking savagely, stamping on his own emotions, he cast a glance around and caught his breath. Lady Herriott had risen from her seat, her eyes wide on Kuryakin. Evadne had forgotten her towel entirely in putting out her arms, and over by the window, Nan Perrell had let her weapon slip to the floor as she surged slowly from the window toward the Russian agent. On all three faces was a radiance, a glow that Solo had seen only in Italian paintings of adoration and reverence. In that instant the whole room was charged with an invisible force. Then Kuryakin took his finger away, the magic of invisible power faded, and he sighed, and shivered.

"I wouldn't want to do that again," he said very softly. "That's the kind of power that corrupts!" Then he looked at his audience and his eyes widened. "You too, Napoleon?"

"Me too, Illya. Just as well I was warned. I could have shot you without another thought. Hatred. For the ladies, just the opposite."

Nan Perrell sagged back against the wall. "I didn't believe you, Illya, when you told me about those things, but I do now. And that was only one! What would it be like with the whole set?"

"Never mind any set!" Evadne whispered. "Just do that again, please !" -

"Yes, please!" her mother echoed. "It made me feel like a girl again."

Kuryakin cleared his throat awkwardly, pressed the exposed corner of the crystal against the desk top until it was safely submerged again, and laid it carefully aside.

"That is just one," he pointed out. "There are twenty-seven in the full set. Where are they, Hagen?" The secretary looked stubborn, set what jaw he had, and Kuryakin sighed. "You have a jewel box, Lady Herriott?"

"Yes. In there. But Monty has the key."

Solo held out his hand. "Give! Or not, just as you like. I'd have fun taking it from you." Hagen swallowed audibly and yielded the key. The box contained plenty of other things, but most important was the sight of twenty-five more little black things in plastic covers.

"There you are, Napoleon. One more to come. Guess how."

"You can do yourself some good, Hagen, by talking. You have the last one all laid on, don't you?"

Hagen nodded dumbly.

"Right. Now, how were you supposed to deliver the set?"

"Her ladyship has an invitation. A pleasure cruise on a yacht."

"So that's it. All right, we can fill in the rest. Now pin back your ears and get this good. The yacht is no longer available. The owner is dead, and at this moment, the customs authorities are taking it apart bolt by bolt. Your best bet, by far, is to go through with the arrangements already made, collect the last piece, and turn it over, openly, to Lady Herriott. We will take these we already have and turn them over to somebody who knows exactly what to do with them. Lady Herriott, I imagine there will be a pretty generous reward for recovering these, so there's something for your favorite charity."

"Oh!" Her expression brightened at once. "Do you really think so? That would be nice. Monty, you have been wicked, haven't you? Making me break the law. But I'm sure he won't do it again, Mr. Solo."

"He hadn't better, not with what we've got on him. Well, that's about it, Illya?"

"I think so. Lady Herriott, you'll be informed in due course. I imagine Miss Perrell will take care of that. Good bye, Miss Evadne, it has been a pleasure. After you, Napoleon."

As they passed through the hall Nan Perrell sighed and grinned.

"You two have a way of wrapping things up so tight you make me feel superfluous. You don't need me at all."

"On the contrary." Kuryakin aimed a finger at the wrecked MG. "You did that. Very good shooting."

"Oh well!" She shrugged and grinned at him. "It was nothing."

"No, wait." He caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. "I also have to apologize about Lady Herriott. She wasn't involved. You were quite right to defend her."

She stared at him a long moment, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him very warmly. Then, letting him go, she whispered, "Thank you for letting me join the company on an even basis. You were right, really. We have to suspect everybody—except ourselves."

"You can even suspect each other," Solo suggested. "Even me.

"Oh you! I shudder to think what would have happened if you had held that magic crystal in your fingers. Besides, remember the navy's watching us!"

They reached the waiting Daimler, and Solo stooped to grin in at the Wren driver, who was looking a little strained. "All over now," he told her. "No more excitement. Just take us back to Admiralty House, please."

This time Nan sat in her favorite position, between them. She looked somewhat downcast, and Solo remarked on it.

"I'm sorry." She put a hand on his knee. "But can you blame me? The only two men I've ever cared for, and I'm going to lose both of you soon. I don't suppose we'll ever meet again, but you've a home, whenever you like, with me. Don't forget that, either of you. I mean it."

"We'll have to leave you some odd ends to clear up," Solo said, "after we've seen Charles and handed over those nasty baubles to him. There's John Guard, for instance. He needs someone to keep an eye on him until he's fit and well again."

"We never did get that carving for Mr. Waverly, Napoleon. Maybe we ought to run down there and see about it anyway."

"And I'll come with you," she decided. "I'm due for a holiday anyway, and it will give me the chance to hold on to you two for a bit longer."

"And there's Louise," Solo murmured. "I'd like to think she had a friend or two for a while."

Their Mini was still standing there, waiting, as the naval car rolled to a stop. As they got out both men made a point of shaking hands with the little Wren driver and congratulating her on a fine show; then they regained their own car. Nan took the wheel, and they set off for Charles.

"You do it well," she said over her shoulder as they weaved through the traffic. "That little sailor girl will have stars in her eyes for weeks. I know just how she feels."

"Don't we get blindfolded this time?" Kuryakin demanded, more to change the subject than anything else, and she snorted gently.

"You know that's not necessary now. I know who Char1es is, and there is no reason why you shouldn't." They were able to guess when she piloted them to the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and they knew for sure when they discovered that they had to sit in the dark once again. As she told them, he was always in the dark, being totally blind. But there was nothing wrong with his voice as he greeted them and listened intently to the story.

"I shall certainly see that any reward goes to Lady Herriott," he said. "I know she will put it to good use. I only wish I could reward you two as well."

"Not for us, sir, but there are a few things you could do. For the crew of the Trojan, and that launch, for instance. Some kind of indication from us that they did a very nice job?"

"I can arrange that, yes. The navy has methods."

"And a certain Wren, Miss Heston, who drives like a demon and has all the nerve anybody could want."

"That too, Mr. Kuryakin."

"And me!" Nan Perrell declared. "I claim a reward. A day or two off duty. A holiday, Charles. I've earned it."

"Hmm!" The old voice sounded amused. "You have? Very well."

"One last thing, sir," Solo remembered. "If you could somehow fix it that one Raymond Carpenter, newsman, gets an exclusive on the story about the power cube? He helped us a lot."

"And you've helped me a lot, gentlemen. Any time you might contemplate retiring from U.N.C.L.E. you must look me up."

They took turns driving and stopped for lunch on the way down to the coast, a very late lunch full of reminiscences and chuckles. Now that some of the ice had broken around Nan's opposition to the male sex, she was very good company. By the time they struck the coast road that would lead them to the lonely seaside bungalow she had to sigh and admit:

"I don't know when I've enjoyed myself more. I didn't know it was possible to just relax and be natural with a man. I'm going to miss you two dreadfully."

"That's why I said," Solo reminded her, "that somebody should keep an eye on Johnny. You'll like him a lot. In fact, if you play it right, you might be able to recruit him into your company. I know he's supposed to be retired, but that's not natural for a man like him."

"There it is," Kuryakin warned, and Solo, driving, pulled over to the side and scowled in thought a moment.

"Look," he suggested, "you drive on to the hospital and see Johnny, tell him the story. We'll go on in and clear up any oddments, get something cooking for when you get back, all right?"

They watched her drive off, and Solo sighed. "She's quite a girl. In a way it's a good thing our vacation is almost over, Illya. Much more of her society, and I would have serious temptations."

"It would be a hectic life, Napoleon. I can't imagine her ever being domesticated, somehow."

He leaned on the door, and it swung open. The tiny hall way inside was dark by contrast. As he stepped forward something hard and heavy struck the base of his skull. He heard a cry, not his own, as he plunged forward into blackness.

He came awake to a throb in his head and the realization that he was tightly tied up, gagged, and lying down on something hard. Opening his eyes, he looked along the floor, to see Solo opposite him, equally bound and silenced. At the table, sitting so that he could command the door leading in from the road, was Henry Beeman, squatting on a low stool and ravenously digging in to a meal spread out before him.

"You can't talk," he said, through mouthfuls and chewing, "but I can. I like talk, as you know. I also like working out solutions in advance, as you also know. You must remember," he told them, "that Oberon was my yacht. Your damned customs people will examine it. They may, just, discover a tight shut compartment well below waterline. If they open it the ship will flood and sink. Possibly!" He stopped to chuckle heavily. "That compartment opens downwards, to the sea, like a diving bell. It contained breathing apparatus and survival equipment. Forethought, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo. You brought me safely back to Harwich. From there I was able to make contact with people who owe me things. And so, here I am, waiting for you. I knew you would return here, some of you, eventually." He chuckled again, and Solo groaned as he strained at his bonds. Beeman shook his head slowly.

"Oh no, Mr. Solo. Not this time. I confess I had not counted on catching both of you quite so soon. Or Miss Perrell, who has gone off in the car and will return eventually, eh? All of you. And this time there will be no escape. I am handling things myself. You have done me grievous harm, between you, and I must devise a fitting vengeance. Did you know that I was on the short list for a title? Not now, of course. You'll pay for that, I assure you. And I will have the power cube, eventually. Oh yes. You fools don't know what to do with it, you see. I do. I'll get it back. But you will never know. You won't be alive to see it."

The man was obviously raving. Solo wrenched at his bonds, but there was no hope there. Illya looked desperate too. And Nan was coming back. He strained again, until the blood hammered in his head, but there was no slack. Beeman had done his work well. Now the fat man pushed away his plate, took a bottle of milk and guzzled from it greedily, then slammed it down on the table. His huge paw took up a gun, a big bore monster like the one Green had used.

"We will wait," he said, "for Miss Perrell to return. The waiting will provide ample time for me to devise things. I imagine she would do almost anything to save your lives, eh? I shall suggest some things, and you shall watch while she does them. When your bodies are eventually found, there will be a lot for the authorities to speculate about. And you know the kind of thoughts they always think, don't you?"

With his head against the stone floor, Kuryakin felt rather than heard the steps outside. But Beeman was as acute as a fox. He stiffened, leveled the gun at the door, and waited.

Kuryakin heaved madly, trying to make a sound, any kind of sound, as warning, but it was futile. The door opened.

"Hello there!" She strode in. "Guess who—"

"Stop quite still, Miss Perrell! Ah—but this is truly an unexpected treat! Mr. Guard, isn't it? Come in, right in!"

John Guard stepped inside the door, pushed it shut with a casual hand and settled himself, feet slightly astride, alongside Nan Perrell. The tanned face was as bleak as ever, looking as if it had been planed out of teak, and the crisp brown hair lay flat back from a forehead and brow that always looked armor plated, somehow. Tiger yellow eyes bored into Beeman, looking right through him.

"Johnny," she said softly, "this is Henry Beeman. The man who had Mary Chantry destroyed."

"I'm glad," Guard said. Just that, but there was death in his words.

"Your pleasure is as nothing to mine, Guard. My misfortunes began here, in this room, when Green failed to kill you. I shall not fail. Miss Perrell, there is some cord left over there. Get it. Tie him up!"

"Stay still, Nan!" Guard kept his voice quiet, but there was power in it. "Take no notice of him at all."

"Dramatic, Mr. Guard, but I hold the gun, remember?"

"So?" Guard stared him down. Solo saw his left hand move very slightly, to touch hers just for a moment, and then fall to his side again. Then he saw something that took him back several years, as Guard seemed to settle into himself, like a spring winding up, and his head moved, just fractionally, from side to side. Guard began to talk, quietly and flatly, without emotion.

"Like so many other people, Beeman, you imagine you can point a gun at someone and make that person behave. In a book, perhaps, or on a screen, that will pass. But not in real life. That's just a gun. If you shoot me you will effectively stop me from doing anything, yes, but you can't make me, or anybody else, do anything." Unless you were watching for it, you would never notice, Solo thought, that Guard was easing himself gradually away from Nan Perrell. Beeman didn't notice it until there was quite a gap.

"Stand still, damn you!" he squealed, and the weapon in his hand began to swing from one target to the other.

"Two of us," Guard pointed out, still quietly. "And only one of you. And you know, don't you, that you may get one of us, but the other one will get you, absolutely and for sure."

Solo held his breath as the gun in Beeman's hand swung nervously to and fro and sweat broke out of the fat man's face. It was a moment that seemed to stretch out eternally. Time stood still. The gun swung from Guard. In that instant he leaped like a tiger, forward and down, arms out to grab. The gun jerked back, spoke deafeningly, and Solo saw the white splinters erupt from the corner of the table as Beeman lowered his aim.

In that same instant Nan Perrell crouched, swept with both hands at her hem, and two tiny weapons coughed in unison, two snap-cracks that slammed Beeman back and away and flat, solidly, on the floor. There was just one strangling cry, arid then the life ran out of him. Nan rushed forward.