Текст книги "The Power Cube Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"Take your word for it. How long will it take us to get to Harwich, starting now?"

"Under four hours, sir," the Marine sergeant spoke up, "With a fast car and a good driver."

"We can lay that on, I think," Barnett offered. "See to it, Chitty."

"Sir!" The sergeant saluted and strode away.

"Four hours!" Kuryakin looked at his watch. "Say six– thirty. Where will Oberon be then?"

Back at the map Barnett made brief estimates. "Four hours at nine knots will put her about here, just north of Margate, in the estuary. If you leave Harwich about seven—nineteen hours—you'll have a couple of hours of daylight. But Oberon may run in somewhere for the night."

"Yes." Solo scraped his jaw. "This could be tricky. We need to get the drop on her just at dusk. How close can you follow her movements?"

"Put the finger on her any time. Coastguard Shackletons will do that for us."

"And can you radio that information to the destroyer?"

"Nothing to it."

As they went out they heard Barnett dictating, "Signal to Trojan, Harwich. Rendezvous at nineteen hours at Cork Buoy with M.L."

"That's more like the Royal Navy as I've heard of it," Solo murmured, as they went down in the elevator. "They can move when the heat's on."

Out in the forecourt, conspicuous among the other vehicles there, stood a large and sleek black Daimler, a pennant drooping from its right front fender and a tiny uniformed Wren sitting at the wheel. Solo stared, went across to it.

"I'm Napoleon Solo," he said. "Are you waiting for us?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know what's required?"

"You want to go to Harwich, sir, in a hurry."

"Fair enough. Come on, Illya. Miss—?"

"Wren Heston, sir."

"Ah. Yes, well, do you have maps I can look at?'

She reached into a door pocket and produced a flat bundle for him. The two men sat back as the car growled into life and wheeled out into the road. Solo unfolded the map thoughtfully.

"Let's not give Beeman credit for impossibilities. Say he could snatch Nan within half an hour of her leaving home. Eight A.M. He still has to get her to the yacht. Barnett said she had come out of Dungeness. Let's find that, first."

"South coast. Work back from Folkestone."

"Ah. Yes, there's an airfield. And there's one at Croydon. So If Uncle Henry has a private charter plane, he could make it with time to spare."

He folded the map again, struggling with it as the powerful car swooped to avoid a lesser road user, swung into a major road, and began to roar in earnest.

"Looks like we have a second Stirling Moss here," he murmured. "I think we're going to be on time, Illya."

They were. As they crested the hill just outside Dovercourt and flew down the far side into Parkestone Quay, with the river Stour stretching out beyond, it was fifteen minutes short of six-thirty. They bounced over the level crossings and sighed to a halt on the quayside.

"Much obliged." Solo stooped to grin at the driver. They moved away, striding along the planking, casting curious eyes over the tied up craft. "That looks like ours." Kuryakin pointed to where a low lying vessel hugged the woodwork. It was one of three. They approached the gangway and a seaman in jersey and sea boots came to intercept them.

"Looking for M.L. one-oh-four. We're expected. Solo and Kuryakin."

"That's her, the outboard one. Ask for Lieutenant Woods."

Woods proved to be a chunky youngster with a straggle of beard and a wry grin, with a uniform jacket over his sweater.

"No rest for the wicked," he said, offering his hand. "I gather you two have something special in mind?"

"You could say that. How quiet are your engines?"

"Motors!" Woods corrected patiently. "Depends what you call quiet. Hold on a bit." He moved away to the cabin superstructure, spoke into a voice pipe, and came back. "Is this something hush-hush, then?"

"In a way. About those—motors?"

"They're running now. Did you hear them start up?" Solo, who hadn't heard or felt a thing, nodded approvingly. "That's fine. You know about the rendezvous with Trojan?"

"Yes. Ready when you are."

"Let's go. You'll hear all about it when we talk to her skipper."

The commanding officer of Trojan was Lieutenant Commander Hope, a tall, lean man with a sad expression. The two agents gathered with him, his first, and Lieutenant Woods, in the destroyer's tiny wardroom, and Solo put the proposition to them.

"Oberon's a privately owned yacht. The man who owns it on paper is called Green. The real owner, his boss, will also be aboard. A very rich and powerful man, who can– and will, given half a chance—cause trouble. Also aboard is a young woman, very much against her will. Just to give you the right kind of picture, if this is fumbled and the big man gets even a hint that Mr. Kuryakin or myself are involved—too early—she is as good as dead. So what we would like is this. First to find Oberon. Ideally, just as it's getting dark. Then, this destroyer closes up on one side and makes a fuss. You know, lights and hailings and talk. While the launch, with us two aboard, sneaks around the other side in the gloom, and we get aboard and take a quick look, before anybody can get rid of the evidence."

"Sounds all right," Hope murmured, "except that I'd like it better if we found Oberon in daylight, while we can still see enough to be certain. Then we can lay off until dark and close in. Better than conducting a search in the dark. It's blowing up a bit."

"So long as they don't see us first and take fright."

"They won't. Do you have a script?"

"It would be better if you wrote your own lines," Kuryakin suggested. "They will sound more authentic that way. What we would like is a first class impersonation of a bumbling brass hat going by the rule book. At no time must they suspect that this is anything more than a routine stop and check. Not—repeat not—a search. If they get that idea then the lady is over the side with her throat cut instantly."

"Wouldn't want that." Hope caressed his jaw and looked unhappy. "There's been something of a shake-up lately, with small boats bringing in Pakistanis and the like. That gives us a cover story. We'll work out the rest as we go. How about you, Woods?"

"Looks like a gift, our bit. We keep station with you until you find the yacht; then, just on dusk, we come alongside, pick up you two, and then deliver you to the blind side. Just a point. Is anything likely to go off with a loud bang, or shells, anything like that?"

"Hardly. These people are killers, but they do it quietly."

"All right, let's get moving. Stations for leaving harbor, Number One!" First Lieutenant Willis went away. There came the keening of whistles, shouted commands, the tramp of feet, and the destroyer began to move, to bite a white bone of spray at her bows. A seaman came to conduct Solo and Kuryakin to the bridge, where Hope stood well back while others did all the operating.

"Full speed," he told them, "until we sight the beggar, and then we can relax. I'll have a word with Cox'n Armitage about the performance, and there'll be no bother there. But I don't care for your bit, just the two of you. Never know what you might run into."

"That's really the point," Kuryakin explained. "This has no legality at all, so we can't ask anyone else to take the risk with us."

"Let me worry about that. I'm responsible too. I'd like to appoint a man to go with you." The little ship was clear of the river mouth now and nosing into running seas, tossing the spray high over her bows. "No need to hang about here," Hope decided. "We'll go below and eat."

Later, with the inner man properly taken care of, Hope introduced them to a chunky youngster with vast shoulders and a wide grin. "Sub-Lieutenant Walker," he sighed, "is the navy's east coast champion at anything that calls for violence, like chucking weights about. Or people."

"You care for being shot at?" Solo demanded, and the grin stayed.

"Has to be a first time for everything. Count me in."

There came a messenger from the bridge to say they had a blip on radar that looked like the target they were after, and ten minutes later Hope was able to be positive with the aid of binoculars. "That's her all right. Now, signalman, flash the M.L. 'Do not—repeat not—acknowledge by flash. Come alongside, starboard, immediately.' That's it, gentlemen. Nothing to do now but wait for dusk. And rehearse a few things."

FOURTEEN

"LET'S GET One thing straight," Solo said firmly. He and Kuryakin were huddled in the tiny wheelhouse of the launch alongside Woods, with Sub-Lieutenant Walker on the far side. "You come after us, to pick up any bits we may leave. Don't stick your neck out. If anybody is to get shot at, it is us, right?" On their port side the gray green bulk of Trojan heaved and wallowed in the sea as both vessels crept slowly closer to the target. Woods murmured gently into his voice pipe, regulating the speed by small amounts so that the launch held level with the destroyer but on the blind side. The only light was a feeble glow over the rev counters. All at once a loudspeaker gave voice into the gloom.

"Yacht ahoy. Ahoy there. What ship?"

"That's us," Woods murmured, and said into the pipe:

"Half-astern starboard, half-ahead port." The launch shivered and swung away from the cover of the destroyer's side, driving into the waves and thumping down on them as she picked up speed. The two agents held on tight, knowing that they were now describing a large circle that would bring them around the stem of that yacht over there and up on her port side. Meanwhile Trojan was busy with the performance. Light clusters blazed, all aimed at Oberon, and the upper deck was a mass of moving forms. The amplified voice kept hailing, but the breeze whipped away the words. Woods had the motors into full speed now and the launch was lifting like a race horse.

"Rolls-Royce engines?" Kuryakin wondered, and Woods grinned.

"We still call them motors, though. Nice, aren't they?"

He hauled on the wheel steadily, then cut the speed in half. The gentle shudder died away in inaudibility. "Won't be long now," he said. "Better get ready to jump. I'm slowing down."

They could see Oberon now, rapidly looming closer. The launch wallowed, drifted with the sea until it was running parallel and no more than three feet away from the yacht's side. Three men stood, knees bent, eyes on the heaving deck edge. The launch sank, rose level—they sprang in unison, grabbed hold and fell forward flat. The launch heeled away into the dark. Out there, broken by the breeze, came the stentorian voice:

"—will send a boarding party. You will drop a gangway, please."

The three rolled urgently together. Walker pointed in the gloom.

"That looks like a cabin superstructure, there."

They rose to their knees, scurried forward with the lurch of the deck, and went down prone again, to listen. Over head a familiar voice sounded on the yacht's bullhorn.

"Good evening. May I ask the meaning of this intrusion? What do you expect to find?"

"That's him!" Solo hissed. "Confirmation, if we needed it." Walker put out a hand to tap his shoulder.

"This one's empty. Try further aft. Ventilators."

They crept, using all the available cover. They heard Hope now and the yarn he had prepared.

"—reason to believe—stolen vessels—used to import illegal immigrants. Intend to inspect your certificates of ownership, logbooks, registration. Formality only, but we have our duty—"

"This looks more like it." Kuryakin snuggled his ear close, plugged the other ear with a finger. Solo did likewise. They heard a voice.

"—said you'd never get away with it, didn't I? And that was Nan Perrell's voice, furious and uncowed.

"My dear lady"–it was Green, definitely–"this interruption is probably fortuitous. For your sake, it had better be. One false move by you and you die instantly"

Walker growled, and Solo tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Easy now," he whispered. "That's just a sample." They went back a bit, to a pair of double doors. Walker shoved them open and hung over, head down, to peer, came up again.

"Companionway. All clear. Down?"

"Down!" Solo muttered, and led the way swiftly. There was no sign of anyone about. He put his head to a doorway. Nothing. On a bit more and another door, and he heard a murmur. Stooping, he could see through a key hole. He saw directly along the polished length of a table. Glasses and bottles, and a wooden framework to support them against the lurching of the sea, and Green, lounging back against cushions, his head turned to address someone out of sight.

"Take a look," Solo invited. "That's the chap we want. Assume he has a gun and will use it. We want to get in there, fast!"

"Let me," Walker suggested, backing off the width of the corridor. "When ready—I'll go straight through the door."

"Right!" Solo nodded. "You keep down. In and down, flat. We will take care of him. On three. One—two—thee!"

Walker launched himself like a thunderbolt, the door bursting and yielding like so much cardboard. Solo went into a flying dive over his bent back, slapped the polished table with both hands and slid swiftly, heedless of the glassware, his hands outstretched and grasping, to get Green by the throat. He grabbed and squeezed furiously, remembering the foulness this gray little man had been responsible for. He was dimly aware of someone else struggling at his side and the table heeling and canting, and then the fury abated a trifle and he slackened some of his grip.

"Got the gun," Kuryakin grunted, heaving his shoulder against the table edge. "He was holding it in his lap. You can let go, Napoleon. He won't bother us any more."

Solo relaxed his grip altogether now and stared dazedly at the bleak little face. The head lolled limply. The shock, the impact, and the surprise had been too much for Absalom Green. Walker scrambled up from the floor and flexed his shoulders, looked around.

"Hey! What the hell—!" be growled, and started forward. Kuryakin was ahead of him. Miss Perrell sat on cushions against the far wall of the cabin. She sat very still, her head up, her pose unnaturally stiff, but her eyes were alive and blazing.

"Careful, darling," she breathed. Kuryakin looked closer and caught his breath. A fine thread was looped under her chin and drawn up and away to the solid hinge of a port hole behind and over her head. "It's monofilament fishing line," she explained. "You'll have to cut it." Solo came, fumbling for his knife. With care they cut the tremendously strong line and released her head. "Now my hands," she said, and leaned forward. "Mr. Green knows all kinds of pleasant tricks."

Walker came to stare and clench his hamlike fists. "A pity you broke his neck, Mr. Solo," he said very softly. "That was too good for him!"

"You'll be all right?" Kuryakin demanded, and she smiled grimly.

"Give me a moment or two to get the circulation back and I'll be right with you."

"No need. You relax. This is our fight now." Solo whirled in time to see Walker grabbing a stranger, a small man in white drill, picking him up with one hand and cuffing him into silence with the other.

"Steward," he suggested.

"Probably sent along to fetch the owner. But Mr. Green can't come. We'll go instead. Illya, you can hold on here and look after Nan."

"Not likely!" she objected at once. "I'm coming!"

"All right!" Solo shrugged and led the way, moving fast but warily. They regained the upper deck and heard again that greasily self-satisfied voice speaking not very far away.

"—duties, of course. But there are certain limits. I presume you are required to produce some kind of warrant before conducting a search?"

"We have already explained, sir." First Lieutenant Willis was very patient. "We have no instructions to search, just to inspect the log and the articles of ownership, to be satisfied as to your identity. That's all."

"Not my identity, as it happens. I am merely a guest. But I have sent for the owner, and he should be here at any moment. If you gentlemen will step this way. I'm sure there's no reason why we can't do this in a civilized manner.

"Forward cabin, by the look," Walker muttered. "There!" A flood of golden light spilled out from an opened door, a rectangle through which two slim figures moved, and then a third, a huge one. Solo slid forward and halted by that door, as it remained half-open.

"In a moment Mr. Green will be here—"

"I'm afraid he won't." Solo shoved the door open and stood in view. "Mr. Green won't be able to make it. Sorry!"

Beeman whirled around. Just for one moment he lost that fine gleam of urbanity that covered him like a glaze. Hatred gleamed from his eyes. Then, just as swiftly, he had recovered.

"Solo!" The tone was chill dignity distilled. "Are you responsible for this? You fool!"

"Not so foolish as to believe you would honor a bargain."

Beeman's face rippled, indicating the whirlpool of thought beneath. "This man is raving." He turned to Willis. "I imagine he has spun you some fantastic story about a lady being held aboard this craft. She is here, of course!" He extended all the force of his personality now, radiating good fellowship. "I wouldn't be so silly as to deny that. But she is here as a guest. Lieutenant, we are men of the world. I ask you to understand how awkward this could be. She is at present with Mr. Green—"

"Nice try," Solo interrupted. "But no cigars, Beeman. Mr. Green has no say now. But Miss Perrell has. Let her in, Illya. She can still talk, Beeman, enough to tell what the real purpose is of her being here. And as an independent witness—Walker, show yourself to the man." Solo moved to one side to let Walker appear in the light, but he watched Beeman closely. The fat man was tense but far from beaten yet.

"Miss Perrell"—he ducked his head courteously—"and Mr. Walker. As witness to what? I wonder. Miss Perrell appears to be whole and unharmed. But what of Mr. Green? What have you two done to him?" That voice grew hard as Beeman snatched at a straw and turned it into a club. "We can't hear Mr. Green's story, can we? Because you savages have killed him. Murderers!" He revolved on Willis again. "Lieutenant, I insist you carry out your duty as a responsible person. I insist you carry out a search, now, for Mr. Green's body. And that you hold these two men responsible."

Willis looked disconcerted at this twist. He eyed Walker. The young sub-lieutenant shrugged uneasily.

"He's dead all right, Number One."

"That does it!" Willis became firm. "Cox'n, you'd better take a walk back there and check—"

"Hold it!" Solo spoke now, suddenly very tense. "Just a moment. I know this cabin. Illya?"

"That's right. I was just thinking the same thing. We've heard it."

"Yes. Hardwood floor. Table in the middle. Window." He went across to it, to verify that it went straight down to the sea, outside. "This is it, all right." He turned back to the occupants of the cabin. "Keep well away from that table, Beeman. Cox'n Armitage, I want you to do me a favor. Just a little one. I'd like you to get down and take a look at the underside of that table."

"What outrageous nonsense is this?" Beeman roared. "What do you expect to find, a bomb? Do I strike you as the suicide type?"

Solo ignored him, watched Armitage, who looked to Willis for a lead. Willis nodded resignedly and the chief petty officer went down on his knees to lean under and peer. And grunt.

"Blimey, there is something here, stuck up by the leg. A bomb?"

"It's not dangerous to any of us," Solo declared sternly. "Dangerous only to you, Beeman. It is a miniature tape recorder, planted there by the girl you called Marie. The girl you ordered beaten to death, right here in this cabin. And it recorded all that—I've heard it. You see, she took the tape when she left, when she hauled her broken body out of that window and drifted to the beach—"

Beeman exploded into action, moving incredibly faster than seemed possible for a man of his bulk. Nan Perrell went aside like a doll. Walker grunted and fell aside in the opposite direction. Kuryakin was hurled bodily aside as the fat man rampaged through the door and out into the dark. Solo tore after him, scrambling and hopping over the assorted bodies, charging out into the dark, peering about, just in time to see a gross form pose by the rail and then leap down into the sea. Without stopping to think, Solo ran like a hare for the rail, launched himself into a low dive, struck the water cleanly and plunged deep. Kicking, he arched over and shot back to the surface.

"A light!" he yelled. "Give us a light!"

Seconds later he heard Illya on the bullhorn. "Launch ahoy! Man overboard, port side!"

Then, very soon, a white beam split the darkness, and the launch snored capably through the water to pick them up, willing hands hoisted him inboard.

"Thanks," he gasped, "but it's not me you're looking for. There's another man down. I was right behind him, he can't have gone far."

He crouched in the bows, shivering and wet, while a sea man swung the searchlight on the wheelhouse roof and the launch quartered the sea patiently, but there was no sign. After half an hour Woods called him from the wheel."

"Dead or alive, Mr. Solo, he's a mile away by now. We'll never find him in this. She's starting to blow hard. Might as well give it a miss. Scrub around. You need a change of clothing anyway."

The launch put back to Trojan. So did the small boat that had carried the stop and check party. This time the gathering in the Trojan wardroom had a different feel about it. Hope made his own position clear.

"My orders were to render all assistance to you two. I think you'll agree matters have gone a bit beyond that now. I'm radioing a full report back, plus a message from Miss Perrell to her superiors. For now, I propose to put a skeleton crew aboard the yacht and escort her back to Harwich, where the higher ups can sort things out whichever way they think fit. That's for later. Right now I have a different kind of problem. You see, we're just a destroyer. We're not designed to accommodate guests. Or prisoners. Hanged if I know which you are, to be honest. So look here, if you can give me assurance that there'll be no more malarkey, I propose putting you back on that yacht. After all, she's got the space."

"Sounds like fun." Nan Perrell grinned her crooked grin. "A trip on a millionaire's yacht, plus a naval escort. It will be something to look back on while I'm in jail."

"You won't do any time in jail," Walker growled. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I saw that fishing line!"

"You'll get your chance to talk at the proper time, Walker. All right, then, let's get you lot back there and get moving, shall we?"

The three of them gathered in the cabin where it had all started, now silent and a little weary. Solo found a seat and sagged.

"It's all gone cockeyed," he complained, and she stared at him.

"Don't run yourself into the ground, Napoleon. You've done wonders, you and Illya. Green's gone. Beeman's gone. The customs people will take this craft apart and find—"

"They won't find a thing!" Kuryakin disagreed. "Oh, Beeman and Green were smuggling something, sure enough, but I doubt if it's here. If only we could have held Green, made him talk!"

"Sorry about that, Illya. I hit him too hard."

"Now look!" She came to stand between them indignantly. "What about me? You saved my life, remember?"

Solo looked up at her. "You're safe, yes, and we're glad of that. Very glad. You see, as soon as we saw Beeman's note it was obvious that we had blazed a trail back to you that even a blind man could have followed. So it was our fault that you fell in. And to be honest, we never expected to see you alive again. Knowing Beeman's form, we had to assume you written off."

"But you came just the same."

"Because he had given us a clue where to find him, that's all."

A tap at the door interrupted them, brought Walker with a companion, the small steward. Solo saw now that he was Chinese and very woebegone.

"Fu Manchu, here, is a good boy now," Walker chuckled. "Anything you want, just order. He's brought coffee."

The Chinese bobbed humbly. "Name Joe Lee, not Fu Manchu. You want supper, maybe?" He got no offers on that. Kuryakin asked:

"How about sleeping space?"

Lee blinked, recited as if from a map in his head. "This cabin, port forward, belong top guests. Four beds, two this side, two that. Clean and fresh all the time. Starboard forward used only for dinner and company, no sleeping, no sheets but can fix. Two little cabins midships. Two more aft, one for Missa Green. Which you want?"

"We hadn't better disturb Green and the evidence. If you can make up the two midships cabins for me and Illya—"

"That's enough!" Nan Perrell cut in again. "If I could sleep, which I doubt, I am not staying all alone in this cabin. Joe, you make up three of the four here. I'll help you."

Beneath their feet engines started to throb. Lee looked up from the sheet he was smoothing down and sighed. "Go now. Be in harbor soon. Then police come, plenty trouble."

"For everybody," Kuryakin agreed, and added something that made the little man turn his head abruptly and then scuttle for the door.

"Bring breakfast, one bell. Egg-bacon-coffee-grapefruit for everybody, is O.K.?" and then he was gone.

"What did you say to him, Illya?"

"Very wise old Chinese saying, not by Chairman Mao. A wise man stops when he has one hand full of trouble."

"In other words, don't bite off more than you can chew?"

"Something like that. It looks as if we have chewed up a lot more than we can bite off, this time."

"And we can't call out for help, either," Solo pointed out. "Not this time."

"You keep on writing me off," she said, unbuttoning her dress and draping it over the foot of the bunk. "I'm still here, thanks to you. And this, I think, is where you are going to see just what Charles can do, when he tries. We will be taken care of, don't you worry

"I hope you're right," Solo poured a cup for himself and sipped it. "Incidentally, how did you come to get suckered into Beeman's clutches."

"Confession." She sat, extended a leg and began unbuckling her gun straps. "I overlooked the number one rule about phone calls. I got one, at seven-thirty. I was expecting Charles. Instead it was Monty Hagen, from Danby Hall. Would I care to run over and explain about your queer behavior the night before? And—I blush to admit it—I fell for it."

"How do you mean, fell for it?" Kuryakin asked, crossing over and dropping to a knee beside her. "Here, let me help. Your fingers aren't straightened out yet."

"I should have rung back. Obviously. I could kick myself. Especially when I think about it. I mean, when in the world did any of the Danby household ever see daylight before eleven A.M.?"

"So it was a fake?"

"But of course!" She smiled gently, changed legs. "I should have known. Monty would be easy enough to mimic. Anyway, off I went, eyes full of stars about you two. And you may remember that dip in the road, just before the left hand curve away past the turnoff for Beeman's place?"

Kuryakin looked up from his unbuckling. "Don't tell me you went down there to take a look at the wreckage?"

"I'm not quite that crazy, Illya, dear. No, it was better than that. I went sailing down into that dip, into what looked like morning mist. Only it was tear gas. And the road was full of those metal spike things they use to ruin tires. I had a lively couple of minutes keeping myself on the road as all four wheels went flat. And then I was peering, bleary eyed, into the business end of several lethal looking guns. And that was it!"

"Neat!" Solo sighed. "Beeman thinks fast. Rushed you to Croydon, a private plane, on to Dungeness, and aboard. You knew about the note?"

"I watched them write it. I guessed you'd play his game, but I didn't want that. You see, I had already written myself off. I saw him as he really was, and I knew there was not much hope. But now he's gone, and that slimy little man Green, and we're still here."

"Right. Nothing more to do now but pick up the odd ends and hope that Charles will work a miracle or two."

But it wasn't all over, and Solo knew it. As he stretched out on his bunk and courted sleep there were problems still. That damned cube of power, for one. That was the main item, and where was it?

He was still grinding mental gears over that as the yacht went in and alongside the quay the next morning. Trojan had gone alongside first, and young Walker, standing be side them on the upper deck, said in confidence:

"They'll shove a brow over in a minute, for a gangway."

But "they" didn't. Instead, many heads came to peer down at the yacht: then ropes were lowered and men came swarming down, sharp eyed men in the uniforms of customs officers. One, older than the rest and looking harassed, approached the three.

"Miss Perrell, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin?"

"That's us. What can we do for your

"I have instructions to pass you three off just as you are." He made it sound like punishment. "Anything you'd care to tell me, first? I mean, like what we might be looking for?"

"Drugs, possibly," Nan offered.

"Also jewelry," Solo murmured. "Unusual stuff. Small black things, cut into odd shapes."

"You wouldn't just happen to have them in your pocket now, would you, by any chance?"

"I wish I had. It would give me the greatest pleasure to turn them over to you at once, believe me."

"I have instructions to do just that. Believe you, I mean. Oh well, it looks as if we have a right one, this time. You're Sub-Lieutenant Walker, I take it? Right. Nobody leaves this ship until I say so. Nobody—except you three, of course."

Kuryakin took hold of a dangling rope's end and waved for slack. Then he looped and knotted swiftly, held it for Nan. "Sit in this loop, take this one around your back, hold on, and fend off with your feet!"

"Entertainments for the forces!" she murmured, arranging herself. "So far as I'm concerned, they've earned it. Hoist away!"

"She's quite a girl!" Kuryakin declared, watching her exhibitionist progress. "It's a pity we're going to have to knock her down again."