Текст книги "The Power Cube Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"Oh!" She looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I should take off this stupid dress, then? Stop pretending to be—"

"Save it," he grinned. "You don't have to prove anything to me. Shall we try that dance again?"

"Do you really want to?"

Solo caught what he had been straining to see all this time, just a flash of coppery red hair over there. It was enough. "Eh? Want to? You bet I do. Come on!"

Meanwhile Mr. Kuryakin was having troubles of his own. Evadne was setting a pace that he couldn't possibly keep up with, but that didn't worry her at all.

"You just watch me," she invited. "When the steam starts coming out of your ears, then we'll see what we can do let it off."

So he watched her and hoped that the glue she had used was good stuff, or she was going to lose her pear patches. From time to time he spared a quick glance for the others on the floor. One slim girl circled sedately past him, at arm's length from her partner, and, like him, she wore a black tailcoat. And a veil. And nothing else at all. And there was a Spanish vivid girl, every bit as lively as Evadne, who had achieved her costume by simply dipping handfuls of flower petals in some kind of gum and dabbing them all over herself. But then, out of the babble and rhythm, came a voice.

"My dear young lady, I am, I assure you, performing the oscillations you require of me. On the inside. The news has yet to reach the outskirts, alas. It will take time!"

Kuryakin knew that voice, would never forget it. He fixed Evadne with a chill eye, extended his arm and waved her close.

"Touching is for later, darling!" she protested, but he took her by the wrist and held her close, working her around in conventional steps until he could see where the voice had come from. It came again.

"I fear it is a labor of futility, my dear. My body could never contort itself like that, nor would it look attractive if it did. I leave it, delightfully, to you."

Kuryakin looked. That was Louise, sure enough, and the man with her fitted the mental picture. A veritable Falstaff, he had a pinkly cherubic face and a great shining dome of a head. Kuryakin locked his partner close.

"You know everybody here?"

"Naturally. There isn't one can hold a candle—"

"Shut up! Look, that large man dancing with the redhead in gold."

"That's Uncle Henry. Silly old man, he is."

"Your uncle?"

"Of course not! I just call him that. He's an old friend of the family, comes here often."

"What's his name?"

"Now look here!" Evadne grew restive under the questioning. "You forget about him. Pay attention to me, that's what I'm for—"

"The name!"

Evadne's lower lip protruded and quivered as if tears were imminent. She said, fast and furious, "If you must know, his name is Henry Beeman. He is filthy rich. He lives quite close. When he's home, that is. And he knows the rudest stories I ever heard, so there!"

"Thank you!" Kuryakin whirled her swiftly and skillfully to the edge of the floor and released her. "Sorry about all this, but I have to go now. Urgent business. Some other time, perhaps." He stepped away, peering through the throng, and saw Solo coming to meet him, with Miss Perrell, set faced and silent, on his heels.

"Got him spotted, Illya, and the high sign from Louise."

"Me too. I heard him, first. Our man, sure enough. And I have his name, from Evadne."

"Good. I was scared to ask you know who, the mood she's in."

"But we need her for transport, Napoleon."

"Yes. Pray for me, huh?" He tried on a smile as he turned to Miss Perrell. "Look, Nan!" he murmured. "We've seen. It's very nice, but we're not all that impressed. We'd like you to take us home. Back to your place, that is. Would you?"

"Both of you?" she sounded baffled.

"That's the way we prefer to work," Kuryakin explained. "Together. We always do that."

Solo smiled at her. "Let Lady Herriott think what she likes, eh? You don't really mind about that, do you?"

"I suppose I don't, really. All right, come on." They followed her around and to the double doors again. Lady Herriott stood by the low table while the immaculate Monty Hagen counted a sizable pile of engravings with great care, mumbling to himself.

"You're leaving? So soon? Nothing went wrong, I hope?"

"Not a thing, Lady Herriott. Let's say we found what we were looking for, and we're satisfied."

"I'm taking them home with me," Miss Perrell said, rather more loudly than was necessary. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not, my dear. Have a lovely time, won't you?"

"Thanks, Maggie, I intend to. Come on, you two."

Solo was so intent on his discovery, and involved with tentative plans ahead, that he missed completely the innuendo between Miss Perrell and their hostess. It didn't begin to dawn on him until they were entering the car and she suggested he should drive.

"So that I can sit between you," she explained. The uncertainty in her voice was his first intimation something was going on that he hadn't caught, but he took the wheel any way and sent the car growling around in a sweep, into the road and storming up the hill.

"You're a forthright pair, I'll say that," she declared. "I don't know whether to be offended or flattered. Flattered, naturally, if a bit overwhelmed."

Baffled by her playful tone, Solo said, "We didn't think you'd understand."

"We know, of course," Kuryakin put in helpfully, "that the Danby kind of thing isn't in your line."

"Right," Solo endorsed, wondering what Illya was trying to lead up to. "Of course, once we had found out—what we wanted to know—there was no point in staying. And it was no fun for you, either."

"It certainly wasn't. I think it's rather pathetic, all those nice people trying so hard to be wicked, just for the thrill of it. You're very deep, the pair of you."

"We are?" Solo kept his eyes on the road and began to feel uneasy. "What makes you say that?"

"You don't have to be gentle with me any longer, Napoleon. It may be simple for you, but it had never occurred to me before that I was just like all the rest. Pretending. Afraid of reality. You've really shown me, haven't you? And you"—she put her hand on Kuryakin's knee and smiled at him—"were really wonderful, too. You let me off lightly. Oh yes, it hurt like the devil, but that was my own fault. And it hurt more, afterwards, when you didn't bother to collect—what you'd won! I didn't understand that until Napoleon explained it, tonight. That people have a lot of false values on themselves. That they ought to be able to be honest, to let themselves go and be real."

Solo risked his eyes away from the road for a flash of utter bewilderment to his companion and met the same expression there. Then, all at once, it dawned on him that she was talking about something totally other than what they had in mind, and he almost drove the powerful car off the road as he realized what.

"Look," he muttered, "Nan—I think we need to clear up a point or two. We're not trying to rush you into anything. At all!"

"You're being kind again. Telling me that it can't last. I have realized that from the first moment I started on this kind of work. I had to learn to live just one day at a time, with no tomorrow."

"Almost home," Solo muttered thankfully, and lifted his foot as the gates drew near. He settled her car close to the steps. Then he steeled himself for a bad moment. Illya got out hastily and made for the Mini. She saw him go, frowned, turned to Solo, and he said:

"That's it, Nan. Much obliged for the lift home. Now we have to rush. Very urgent. See you sometime!" and before she could catch her breath he was out from under the wheel and hurrying to join his companion.

"Get going, fast!" he muttered as he scrambled in.

He strained against the cushions as Kuryakin gave the little car lots of fuel, sending it roaring forward. His last glimpse of Nan was a tall, white, somehow tragic figured staring blankly after them.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Napoleon, but I got the idea, right at the last, that she was contemplating a ménage a trois with us?"

"That's the trouble with idealistic females, Illya. They don't just bend a little, they break in pieces. Like Carpenter said, remember? Forget it. Keep an eye out for that sign."

They found it some fifteen minutes later and swung off to follow the indication, finding themselves in a quiet, almost deserted road that ran on a gentle downward gradient for a mile, then swung into a tremendous right hand curve. Kuryakin killed the engine and they climbed out.

"That's it, Napoleon. That's why it's called Piedmont. Foot of the mountain. It isn't exactly a mountain, but that house is certainly right at the foot of it. And there isn't another for miles."

The road curved widely away to the right, then reversed and swooped down and back to pass the front of the house. While they were standing, a distant bobbing light became a motorcyclist, tracing out the road for them and eventually roaring past and away the way they bad come.

"Beeman's the name," Kuryakin murmured, "Henry Beeman, and filthy rich. So it's reasonably certain that his approaches will be guarded.

Solo stared down the almost vertical slope, studying the bushes and grass clumps. "That way." He pointed. "Over the brick wall. We'll stash the Mini among those bushes back there, get these glad rags off, and then we'll see what sort of a home life Mr. Beeman has."

"Yes." Kuryakin sounded thoughtful. "Napoleon, do you ever stop to wonder why we do these things? I mean, we were all set for what looked like a very entertaining evening. We rushed away from it, and Miss Perrell tried her best to hand us another version of the same thing. And yet, here we are. Don't you ever wonder?"

"If I ever stopped to think about things like that I'd never draw my wages, Illya. Come on, let's not waste time."

ELEVEN

THE FOOT of the slope brought them to a small stream and then an eight foot stone wall with a top fringe of broken glass.

"Cautious man," Solo murmured, stripping off the dark sweater he had just put on a few minutes before and stretching up to toss it carefully across the hazard. Kuryakin made a step with his back, and Solo went up. A moment later the pair of them were perched and studying the gloom below. Bushes bulked in the dark, and there were no lights from the dark mass of the house in the distance.

"We take no chances, Napoleon. At the first sign of any alarm we rum for it. This is just an investigation, right?"

"Right. Down we go." They struck and rolled on grass side by side. Solo had brought the sweater down with him. He squirmed into it now, then froze as he heard a faint rustle, the pad of footsteps of some kind and then a deep throaty growl. It sounded like a dog, a big dog, and they both knew the drill for such an event. Separate. Let the dog choose one and get occupied; then the other would close in. He sank to a crouch and held still.

"Get a mouthful of that, sonny!" whispered Solo, thrusting the arm so that the questing fangs had a target, and gritting his teeth as the bite struck through the heavy knit. The dog's only weapon thus taken care of, he reached out with his other hand and grabbed an ear, grabbed it viciously, and heaved, even as he went over and down under the charge. The dog whined, he heaved harder, twisting, and the savage fangs let go just for a moment. It was all he could hope for. Out went his other hand, groping and seeking, avoiding the teeth, finding the other ear and clamping on. He hung on, wondering where Illya was. He got to his knees, stole time to stare aside into the gloom, and saw his companion rolling on the grass with the mate to the dog he was fighting.

"Oh well!" he muttered. "One each! It's fair. Come up, you!" and he struggled to his feet, still grimly hanging on to the ears. Now in the gloom he could see the savage muzzle close to him and knew that he had to win this decisively, that it was no time for half measures. Clenching his teeth, Solo braced himself, then fell, using all his weight, flat onto the squirming beast. Using both hands like hatchets he chopped again and again, hitting as hard as he could The dog heaved frantically in wild desire to get its fangs into him. He laid hold of a front leg, then the other, wrenched on them, struggling to his feet. For a moment the pair of them swayed in a mad ballet, then out of the gloom came Kuryakin, to sway and then land a blow like a hammer. The dog made a strained squeal and fell limply to the ground. Solo flexed his hands. It had taken only a. few seconds, but he was soaked with sweat and felt limp.

"Thanks, Illya. Call it a day," he muttered. "We'd better get while we can."

"I'll second that. Friend Beeman trains his dogs too well." They stood a moment to catch breath. Then, before they could turn back to the wall, a blinding white light struck out of the gloom, catching both of them full face, and a harsh, chesty voice ordered:

"Don't nobody move. There's two barrels of sudden death looking right at you. Just hold still now!"

"I know that voice," Solo breathed. "It's Rambo, the puncher. I'd love to meet him. He can't shoot both of us at once—"

"Hey, Sampson! Delilah!" the chesty voice came again, imperatively. "What in tarnation happened to those dogs?" Solo tensed, all ready to make a sideways leap; then he dismissed the wild notion as he heard sounds away to one side, and Rambo's voice again.

"Hey, Hoppy, you see anything of the dogs?"

"Hang on a minute, mate!" a new voice demanded, in a nasal Australian whine. "I think I found one. Yeah, I got one. Dead as mutton!"

"You sure, Hoppy?"

"Course I'm sure. And here's the other one, same way. These fellows must have clobbered them well and truly. I call that downright unfriendly!"

Solo squinted into the light, shifting his feet cautiously, trying to get a line on this other enemy, when all at once he heard a sharp thump, and spun as Illya staggered forward and began to fall. Then a bright light exploded inside his skull and he fell forward into darkness.

Realizing that he was awake, Solo kept quite still and waited for his head to go away. He opened an eye cautiously, wondering how all the rust had crept into it. The other was just as bad. He focused on a glow, a pool of light on something glossy, and decided that he was in a chair, that he was tied up, his head hanging forward and looking at a tabletop. With care he elevated his sight angle a little at a time. The light stretched, leading him to a pair of hands. Hands in motion, strong and clever hands, picking up and putting down small black things that caught momentary glitter from the light. Trying to fit them together. And there was a thin, threadlike whistle. Explanations began to come. Solo made the effort, raised his head to look.

"Ah!" Henry Beeman said gently. "You are with us again, Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin's head is a little harder than yours. He has been conscious for some time, but shamming."

"Waiting!" Kuryakin contradicted. "I'm in no hurry."

"Nor me, indeed. We have all night for it."

"For what?" Solo found his voice. "You expect us to talk, to tell you things?"

"Hardly. Louise told me all I need to know before she passed out. You're a pair of halfway competent blackguards, I'll say that, but you did make a few errors, you know."

"What have you done to her?"

"Gently, Mr. Kuryakin, you'll only hurt yourself if you struggle. I used a drug. It has various names. Thiopentone sodium is the official one, I believe. You'd know it as Pentothal. The truth drug? It's not, of course, but it does make people talk. It is also lethal in an overdose, as is almost any barbiturate. She'll die soon, just as you will. When I'm ready. In the meantime, shall we talk?"

"It won't do you any good!" Solo growled. "No deals!"

"Certainly not!" Beeman smiled genially. "That sort of thing happens only in books. But I enjoy a good talk, you know. For instance, when my faithful Rambo informed me he had caught two intruders, and their descriptions with those of the two men my Mr. Green was planning to remove with the aid of Miss Thompson—and Miss Thompson was there dancing with me—you know, it was very easy to add up."

"It wouldn't be the first time somebody has tried to get rid of us."

"That doesn't surprise me either, Mr. Solo. You seem professionals. You know, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that you serve U.N.C.L.E., or Thrush, or some other similar organization."

"And you don't care which?"

"Not in the least. I have this, you see!" and he held up a palmful of the small black chips of crystal.

"Those aren't the Gorchak stones!"

"They aren't, indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. Shrewd of you."

"Common sense, Beeman. No man could handle those the way you do and stay sane."

"Quite so. No, these are duplicates. Exact copies of each piece but in inert plastic. Gorchak was a genius, you know. These pieces fit to form a perfect cube, and each one is different. There is only one right way. I wonder if you can imagine just how many wrong ways there are?"

"Factorial twenty seven," Kuryakin said promptly. "An enormous number, so big it would take several lifetimes to run through."

Beeman's hand clenched suddenly on the black pieces. "Nevertheless"—his orotund voice hardened—"I shall solve it, with these, first. Because I have the Gorchak stones, you see. Never mind, that can't concern you."

Solo shifted cautiously, trying his bonds and the effort made him sweat. His hands were tied at his back, and his arms were aching numbly.

"Bodies are a nuisance," Beeman said, and Solo wanted to agree. "It is a hobby of mine to imagine various problems ahead of time and work out solutions in readiness. This is one for which I have several solutions, and I am about to– ah!" He broke off as a ringing noise sounded. Diving one hand into a drawer he produced a telephone.

"Wendig? Good, found you at last. Of course it's late. You've had to leave a party? My dear man, you wouldn't believe it if I told you the entertainment I have had to abandon this night. Listen, now. The last time I passed the Moorside Estate I think you were on the fifteenth floor? On the second block, yes. Wendig, did it ever strike you that the human body, laid flat, is less than eighteen inches thick? And those floors you are putting in are that thickness, aren't they?" He listened, smiling, to the chatter from the other end.

"Quite right. And so permanent, don't you agree? Good. How soon can you be at the site? Very well. Two of my men will deliver three–er—packages to you at that time and remain to assist. I think you will agree that we don't want too many eyes involved? Good!" He waited, touched a button at the base of the instrument, then put it to his ear again.

"Hopwell? Get the small van and bring it around to the rear, and send Rambo to me. I have a job for you both." He put the instrument back in the drawer and leaned back comfortably.

"You see, gentlemen, the virtues of planning? Wendig is the construction foreman of a firm that I own. I am building several blocks of very fine dwellings on the Moorside Estate, very cheaply too. You are about to become part of them, permanently. Ah, Rambo."

"Something you want doing, Chief?"

"Yes. You know the Moorside Estate?"

"Yah. Buildings about twenty miles off, back up the road."

"Right. Now, you and Hopwell will take these two and the girl, put each one in a sack, tied and roped, inside and out. In the small van, and deliver them to that site. You will meet a man there. You will help him lay a floor of concrete."

"Do we kill them first?"

Solo held his breath while Beeman deliberated carefully, his eyes half-closed. "I am not a sadist, you know. Can't afford to be. Emotional values are dangerous in planning. But I will admit there is something very appealing in the thought of you two lying there helpless while the concrete settles and sets around you. And I owe myself that much, for the two dogs. They were valuable dogs. Pets. No, Rambo, don't kill them. Just wrap them up well and deliver them as instructed."

A heavy hand descended on Solo's shoulder, shifted its grip to the scruff of his neck. He saw Illya's head come to meet his own, and again there was that flashing light. And darkness. He was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged into a small room ablaze with light. There was a smell compounded of stale beer, frying, hot metal, and tea. He dropped to his knees as Rambo released him. He struggled to stay conscious, squinted painfully up at a tall, lean man in dark trousers and a gaudy sports jacket, a man who grinned evilly down at him and went right on slapping his palm with a flexible leather thing that sounded solid.

"You're a tough nut, cobber. If it comes to a next time I'll have to give you the full treatment."

"Ain't going to be no next time, Hoppy, not for these fellers. We got some old potato sacks? Gotta wrap the lot of them up and deliver them for burial." Hopwell came back, after a moment, frowning.

"Two. That's all there is."

"Don't matter. We can put two of 'em in one sack easy enough. Give me a hand, will you?" Solo's wits were unscrambling a little now, enough to show him that Louise lay in a corner on the tiled floor, like a discarded doll. She was very still. Beeman, evidently, had an economical mind. He had recovered the glamorous ball gown. Solo shivered as he watched the indifferent pair grab Illya and stuff him into a filthy sack, to whip a noose about the top and extend the lashings all the way down, firmly. Then it was his turn. Rambo stooped, caught up Louise's sprawling body and dumped it on the floor roughly. A shove of his huge hand sent Solo flat beside it.

"You're lucky, man! I should hope to have that kind of company when it comes to my turn to die!" Rambo laughed hugely as he clamped Solo firmly against the inert girl so that Hopwell could apply more rope. Then he was hoisted bodily and slid into the sack. It was ancient, dusty, and the smell was unbelievable, so powerful that he passed out again. The next thing he knew was the agonizing shock of being dropped onto a hard and unyielding surface with Louise's weight on top of him.

The floor of the truck was hard and equipped with painful bumps that took their toll as the truck heeled around a corner before striking the road. Solo knew he had only the scantiest chance of ever seeing daylight and fresh air again. Hopwell had put plenty of muscle into the roping, and Louise was no help. He squirmed desperately, begging her pardon silently for being rough but intent on getting his hands close enough together so that he might reach the knife that was stuck to his right forearm. The only way was to hug her tight, and she was a buxom girl. The truck took another bend violently, and he rolled, cracking his head on the hard floor, but the jar had helped. He gripped his own fingers, heaved savagely, got his fingertips to the haft of the knife and breathed all the way out so that he could gain an extra inch. Then he had it. Seconds more and the nearest rope was in pieces. Hauling back, he slit the sack enough to get his nostrils to the gap and suck in a much needed breath. He didn't know whether he was being observed or not, and this was no time to worry. He enjoyed the breath, then used the knife fast, got himself out of the sack, and was able to look around.

The truck was empty of everything but a spare fuel can and the bodies. The back wall was blank. The twin doors had tiny windows. He peered out just in time to see the main road intersection slip backward into the night. He knew where he was now, for what good that was. Turning to the other sack, he got busy with the knife and had Illya free. The Russian agent was barely conscious, his eyes glazed.

Solo went back to his vantage point by the small windows, sparing only a moment to grab a sack and spread it, not very effectively, over Louise's nude body. "Got to get you to a doctor," he mumbled, "among other things. Got a lot to do and nothing to do it with."

Kuryakin sat up weakly. The truck swung into another sharp curve, and he rolled over again, grunting painfully. Through the windows Solo saw a high wire fence and then the scattered debris of construction, the tall gray ghosts of buildings. The truck halted, began to back up and around, and he saw double gates standing open. Just beyond were the low roofed sheds of temporary offices and haphazard piles of girder strip and wooden boxes. On beyond those again stood the gaunt white bulk of multistory block, and beside it the fragile looking skeleton frame of a monotower crane. The truck shuddered to a stop. Solo tensed as he heard doors slam at the front of the truck and then Rambo's giant voice.

"You be dragging one out, Hoppy, while I talk to this feller, see what he wants us to do."

Kuryakin sat up, groaning, and Solo hissed him to silence urgently, listening to the approaching footsteps. He gathered himself by the door, and as it clicked and swung open for Hopwell to lean in, he struck, hard and savage, with both hands and all his might. Hat, head and shoulders went down with a crack against the steel stripped floor; then Solo leaped catlike right over him and turned to do what battle he could. But there was no need. One touch of the sagging body told him that.

"What now, Napoleon?"

"What else? It's crazy, but I'll have to play it by ear. Give me a hand to get his jacket off and then we'll stuff him in the sack."

Within minutes Hopwell's body was roped, and Solo, with the hat jammed on his head and the garish jacket in place, stooped and took hold. "I'll deliver this. You follow up, stay out of sight until we get an idea going. Right?"

He got a good grip, hoisted, grunted with the strain, and went plodding away with Hopwell's limpness sagging over his shoulders and his head well tucked down to avoid recognition. He heard, now, a high pitched squealing voice that had to be Wendig. He sounded Welsh and bad tempered.

"Only two of you? What does that fat fool think I am, a magician? Who's going to take the crane?"

"I can handle that bit," answered Rambo. "Done it before."

"All right, get going! Is that it?"

Solo staggered close, spun round to peer, saw Rambo striding away to the foot of the crane, met the bright little eyes of the foreman staring.

"This is one of them, yes." He stooped and let the sacked body fall to the ground, and stretched up gratefully. "Now what?"

"Hmm! I can't do six different things at once, can I? You know how to feed a mixer?"

"Sorry, no idea."

"That's a great help you are, then. Hell!" Wendig swung around, his face screwing up into a scowl. "I'll have to do that bit myself. Hey!" He put his head back and squealed up into the darkness. "You let the hooks down here, right away!" He spun around again. "You stay there a minute." Seconds later two spotlights flared into life, aimed up at the building and the crane. Wendig came back, striking a switch that set the mixer grinding loudly.

"You'll have to go up with the hooks," he said, "and that!"

"I what?" Solo stared at him, "You must be joking!"

"Damn and blast it, man!" Wendig squealed furiously. "I haven't got the time for playing about. I haven't got six arms, see? I have to make the mix, all ready. Your mate is on the crane. Somebody has to ride up there with that and disconnect it so that the hooks can come back down for the next one. I can go and get that, easily enough, as soon as I've got a mix going. But somebody has got to go with the hooks. You!"

Solo gulped, stared up at the looming building. Black rectangles of windows stared at him blindly from gray walls festooned with a spider web of scaffolding. He shifted his gaze to the unlikely frailty of the crane, with the great jib stretching out and the cluster of concrete blocks at the other end to balance the weight. He swallowed again as out of the gloom came two massive and grit crusted hooks on the end of twin chains. The chains and hooks fell swiftly, swayed toward him, then halted a moment, to drop the last few feet and sprawl right alongside the sack.

"All right?" Wendig demanded. "Up you go, then!" Unwillingly, but unable to see any way out of it, Solo stooped and grabbed the gritty hooks, jamming them under the rope loops, wide apart. Reluctantly he set his feet by them, clutched the chains, and heard Wendig shriek out.

"Hey, up there! You take him up nice and steady, now. Put him down by that stair well, all right?"

Rambo's reply was a monstrous bellow of laughter. The links came taut, and Solo groaned as his weight grew large and the sagging burden lifted and buckled. He clung frantically, watching the ground fall away. The gray face of the building slid down and past like a nightmare. Then, with added height, the unfinished top of the building was below him, a pattern in stark black and white like some scene from an abstracted hell. The upward surge stopped abruptly, and, all at once Solo was weightless as the load ran down and the pockmarked surface there seemed to leap up.

He came to a spinning, swinging halt about a foot above the surface, drew a deep breath, and then Rambo let him go, let him fall the last short bit with a bone shaking thud. He crashed, pitched forward, put up his arms to save himself, rolled to the edge of a patch of black shadow, hung there for one awful second, then tumbled over. The drop was no more than three feet but it was enough to shock him and rasp his elbows and knees into agony. The crane whirred again, and here came the sack, slithering and sliding, to fall into the hole with him, knocking him staggering again. Once more Rambo laughed.

"Cast her off, Hoppy. Want them hooks for the next one." Solo squinted up under the brim of the hat, up at the spidery structure of the tower and the jib, until his eyes found the cab with its windows, no more than ten feet down from the cross member which carried the jib. He got a glimpse of Rambo's face and toothy grin. He fumed inwardly, turned, and caught his foot in what appeared to be a U shaped length of stout steel rod. Crouching, he investigated and found it was solidly rooted in the previous layer. He turned to fumble with the limp sack, disengaged a hook, slipped it under the U piece and over, linking the beak into the chain itself. A moment later he had done the same with the other one. All in the dark. Rambo couldn't see. He stood cautiously, backed away, then made a sign, threw his hand up in the air—and prayed that Rambo would be as heavy handed as before.