Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair"

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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This bluff worked and the man turned back. April sped across the lawn, around a clump of rhododendrons towards the main gate. Out of sight now, she shed the metal garb, rolled it up, stuffed it into the zipped bag and raced for the wall.

She could have cleared the fence, but the wall was a better bet, this section being screened from the house. Over the wall, a quick survey for direction and on she raced, to where she judged the car would be hidden.

"Ooh—you beauty!" she panted as she reached the sleekly powerful car and eased herself behind the wheel.

She depressed the red switch near the radio panel.

"This is April Dancer—hear me! April Dancer and Mark Slate in vicinity of Dartmoor house called Moorfell. Have vital information and samples for urgent collection. Send nearest helicopter for pick-up from Aston Martin car on moor. I then return to house to aid Mark Slate. This is April Dancer. I wait."

She heard the click-burr of the connectors as the H.Q. relay opened the European circuits and linked them with New York. Then Robbo's voice said: "London H.Q. Hear me!"

"I hear."

"Sama Paru and helicopter already in Dorset is on the way. Will need you in open for pick-up."

"Of course you will," said April. "Am I so dumb?"

"You never were, my dear Miss Dancer," said Mr. Waverly's voice. "Your information and samples urgently required—also your report. Proceed by helicopter to our laboratories outside Le Havre."

"But Mark Slate is back there..." she began.

"I have no doubt that what Mr. Slate gets into, he will find a way out of," said the urbane Mr. Waverly. "Contact me from Le Havre. Good luck!"

"H.Q. out," said Robbo.

"And good luck to you too!" April snarled. She started the engine, blipped the accelerator, rejoicing in the powerful roar, set the gear and put the big car into full stride.

The tires slithered, the suspension protested, the wheel bucked in her hands as the car zoomed over the grass and heather of the moor. She had to hold opposite lock continually to keep the car heading towards the track leading from Moorfell, which she was skirting in a half-circle.

Once on the track she notched up the gears, misjudged the effect of a rain-greased surface and felt the rear-end break away, too late to hold it. Revs were too high, rear wheels sliding, front wheels skittery. She steered into the skid, pulled the handbrake full on and brought the car around in a controlled spin, applied opposite lock, released brake and cut power. The car rocked to a halt, facing the house.

As April geared the car and began turning again, she saw the Jaguar come speeding from the driveway.

"Blast!" She flung another look behind her. The car held two figures. "Thought it might have been Mark." She settled down to a desperate drive.

Desperate it was. The Jag driver knew the road. April did not, but her photographic memory came to her aid. She flashed in a mental picture of the moor road she had glimpsed as Karadin's helicopter had come in to land, recalled the track joining the road, and another road cutting diagonally across to one of the tors.

The Aston Martin zoomed off the track in a controlled power slide—a glorious four-wheeled drift that would, on a race track, have delighted the purists—then bucketed along the road. The Jaguar lost ground.

April glanced up. The sky held that strange golden light which comes often after an apparently approaching dusk. The land was sharp-etched, the air still and clear. Day stood poised on the edge of night. And in the distance, away to her right, she saw a small black speck, too distant to be a hawk, too wingless to be a plane. She flicked the red switch, looked in the mirror. The Jag was two corners behind her.

She drove full bore into the road-junction approach—as if she were going straight on. Then with a skilful toe-and-heel action, she stabbed on the brake pedal, blipped the accelerator, snicked the gear lever into second, released brake and power, held the car into the skid and zoomed at right angles into the diagonal road.

In the mirror she saw the Jag overshoot and slide into a wild skid so that it had to backup. Breathing space was now hers. She could also see the chopper. She turned the radio volume up to full power.

Then the engine cut out—stuttered, roared on. April glanced at the fuel gauge. The needle was juddering against "empty".

"Oh, great!" she exclaimed. "Just great! Come on, beauty—squeeze that tank dry!"

The radio boomed and crackled, but the voice was lost in the noise. Meanwhile the Jaguar was gaining slightly. April conserved gas by an easy throttle. The speed was still around seventy, dropping from ninety.

Inspiration flashed into her mind. She pulled U.N.C.L.E. gum from her pocket and began to chew the saliva-activated explosive.

The radio became clear. "Helicopter to car. Sama Paru to April Dancer. Hear me?"

"Yum-yum-yum!" said April, chewing for dear life and trying to watch Jaguar and helicopter at the same time.

"I do not read," said Sama Paru.

"Yum!" yelled April, dripping saliva.

The car jerked from gas starvation. She looked back, judged the distance, steadied the car, took the now enlarged wad of gum from her mouth and flung it over-arm to the rear of the car.

"Pretty lady like lift?" said Sama Paru. The chopper was now slip-sliding above her. A nylon and metal ladder dropped down from the hatch.

She looked back as the Aston Martin's engine began its last coughing revs. She heard no explosion, only saw the light mist of the energy-release-wave. The Jaguar's front wheels reared up and the whole car swung to one side, rear wheels plowing into turf. Then it careered on to the near-side fender corner, pancaked, and rolled over.

At that moment the Aston's gas gave out. The car stopped with a jolt that sent April's head against the wheel. The helicopter over-ran, swung out, dipped and came back—ladder trailing. April gathered the bag around her shoulders, stood on the car seat, grabbed and leapt upwards.

"Oh—very pretty!" said Sama Paru admiringly.

Then she was nearing the roaring rotors, and all other sound was lost. Sama leaned over to help her inside. He grinned at her, pointing ahead.

"Would that be Mark?"

April peered into the golden light, shading her eyes to focus on the dark ground. She saw a man's figure against a rocky tor, with five silvery-clad figures closing on him.

Mark heard the Aston roar past. He had a busy ten minutes, dropping one guard and wounding another, when the gun jammed. He couldn't reach his U.N.C.L.E. gun from under the gown, so he lifted the wounded man and flung him at the group emerging from the driveway, before speeding out of the hail into the opposite wing.

He reached an office where a woman in a white coat was peacefully sleeping.

"Pardon me!" he said as he stripped off the gown. He looked at the woman again, and shrugged. "Methinks you met the lovely April!"

He heard the guards crashing open doors, left the office, reached the room with the racks full of assorted items and whistled softly. Ideas clicked into his mind, but he had no time to formulate them. He missed the exit door and turned down the slope into a long, glow-lighted basement. It was full of Noddy bikes—little putt-putt scooters beloved by teenagers—and some older types. Clamped above each petrol tank was what appeared to be a reserve oil tank.

Mark recognized this as a container of K.S.R.6. A pipe ran through the bike frame from the container to a plastic water bottle, such as long-distance cyclists carry for glucose, fruit, or even plain drinking water.

"Pressure-filled," he muttered. "One little touch of this button and a solution of K.S.R.6 is sprayed sideways." He smiled grimly. "Imagine a gang of dolly-chicks in K clothing riding through a shopping centre pressing little buttons!" He touched the button. A fine mist spray squirted out. "Oh Gawd! There goes me flipping cash again!"

He spied another slope at the side, checked it, saw that it led up to the rear of the house. The up-and-over door wasn't locked. He swung it open, raced back, grabbed the first Noddy bike, then paused as he heard voices above him.

"It's Miss Ingrid! Looks like she's been drugged! You two—carry her to where Sam and Greco are. We'll get them all out of here."

Mark inspected the ceiling. The floorboards were old nine-inch-thick oak, part of the original house. Wide gaps between them let the sound of voices carry, yet the stoutness of the planks helped muffle footsteps. "We'll get them all out of here," the man had said. Mark glanced around him. "Why not?" he whispered. "What better way?"

Action sped on the heels of thought. He raced around the rows of Noddy bikes, turning on the petrol-tank taps. Soon the odor of loose petrol grew strong, and small iridescent pools oozed over the floor to join with others. Mark tested the compression on the bike he had selected for himself, cast around for a suitable fuse, and found a wad of cotton waste on a workbench.

He kick-started his machine at the foot of the slope, flicking his lighter to the waste. As it flared he threw it as far as he could among the Noddy bikes, then roared up the slope, to emerge into a courtyard. He braked, skidded wildly and went, bucking-bronco fashion, legs lashing air, twice around the yard before he got the surprisingly fast little bike under control. As he passed a doorway, a man in a metal suit came out.

"How do!" said Mark, thrusting out a foot as he went by. The man fell back. Mark zoomed the Noddy bike through an open gateway and on to the moor. The track was actually no more than a footpath and Mark had driven some way along its curving length when he realized it led back to join the main track leading to the driveway. Through the trees he glimpsed silvery figures dashing from the house towards a Land Rover.

He swung the Noddy bike around and headed across the moor to a high section past two of the K.S.R.6 "ranges". He got past these okay, but the little Noddy didn't seem to care for heather, grass and peaty mud jamming up under the mud-guards of its tiny wheels. With a mechanical moan the drive-gear sheared, the engine seized. Mark shot gently off the saddle, to land on his ear.

He glanced back, and saw the Land Rover heading from the driveway and turning in his direction. He raced up the slope towards a large rock outcropping. As he climbed higher he could see down to the road, and for precious moments watched the speed duel between April's Aston Martin and the Jaguar.

"Good girl!" he muttered. Then he heard the helicopter. "Good old Sama!" He glanced back again. "And the hell with you lot!" he said, as the Land Rover bumped over the moor.

With his back to the rock he waited, gun ready. No sense in running any further. This golden light would fade soon, for already the moor was dark with shadow. Once beyond the rock on higher ground, he'd have as much chance as a pheasant against five or six guns. And not only guns. The moors looked lovely in this golden light. Like a woman full of promise, beckoning you to her scented embrace. And two men friends waiting behind the curtains with coshes. Shot, lost, stuck in a bog, or lying with a busted leg. Mark preferred the solid rock at his back and the gun in his hand.

He saw the helicopter sidle down to hover above the Aston Martin, saw the car jerking and slowing. He loosed a few accurately directed shots at the men who were now fanning out to surround him, having stopped their Land Rover on a hummock of soft ground. The range was almost at limit, but one of the men appeared to be hit in the arm.

A burst of fire from four guns spattered bullets near Mark. One or two spanged off boulders, but their range also was difficult. Suddenly came a bonanza! An orange-blue glow from the house basement sent eerie light waves over the darkening moor.

Mark's attackers turned as one man. The Jaguar careered off the road and turned over. The helicopter, ladder swaying, came tilting down towards him. The guards turned again in Mark's direction. The ladder swung down—end trailing backward.

Mark leapt, caught the third rung up, trapeze-spun his body to counteract the whip-lash effect of sudden weight, using the chopper's lift to climb swiftly up the rungs. In these seconds, the guards below him let loose a swathe of gunfire which pitted the rock face at what would have been stomach height. They swung to aim upward, but Sama Paru quickly dipped the chopper out of range.

As Mark reached the open hatch he looked down and back. The house on the moor was alight from end to end. An open truck was speeding away from it.

April had the night glasses to her eyes as Mark clambered into the chopper.

"They got her out," said April. "Sam and Greco too. Poor Ingrid!"

"I love you too," said Mark.

She grinned at him. "Firebug! I presume it was you?"

"Me and a few Noddys."

"A few what?"

"Forget it. Hi there, Sama!"

Sama Paru waved a hand. He was busy with radio contact as the chopper cleared the English coast.

"Where away?" said Mark.

"Le Havre." April tapped the bag.

"Ah! This is where we lose you to the boys in the back room. Do we recap about this little lot on yonder moor?"

"Not now. I'll see you in New York. This thing's only just begun. Sama wants to go to the help of Count Kazan."

"Without me?"

She patted his cheek. "You little boys go play while Momma does some homework."

"When Sama has finished his relay, I'd like to let Jeff know his Auntie's car is safe."

"You know the strangest people. I thought that super car was laid on by your British Special Branch friends?"

"So it was. Jeff's Auntie lives in Exeter. The old lady is a little mean. She doesn't like buying petrol. Did it run dry?"

"It did. Old Lady?"

Mark nodded. "The Duchess—they call her. I think she was a chum of Mata Hari. Jeff likes to make her feel she's wanted. The British S.B. boys don't run to Aston Martins. Besides, Jeff is a favorite nephew and Auntie can't last forever."

"How old is she, for Pete's sake?"

"I'm not sure whether it's seventy-two or eighty-two. Something like that."

"This will look bee-u-ti-ful in a report from S.B. to back up our expenses claim on U.N.C.L.E.!"

Sama Pam heard this last remark as he finished his radio contacts.

"Something else will look bee-u-ti-ful in your report," he observed. "Your London boys have lost Dr. Karadin—and his daughter. The clinic received a fake call in our code and released the girl. Karadin was picked up when he left his helicopter, but the squad car was rammed, the two guards coshed, and Karadin rescued."

"Oh, great!" said April. "Just great! Who runs the security back there?" She glared at Mark. "One of your Jeff's aunts?"

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE WRECKERS

OUTSIDE Le Havre they dropped April at the small heliport, where a car waited to take her to the laboratory.

"You'll contact Mr. Waverly?" said Mark. "And ask Paris to stand by? That will help us keep radio silence."

She nodded. "Watch yourself, lover boy. See you in New York."

"I hope so. And April, me old darling, try to have a quick word with Robbo in London and get him to send on my new gear, will you? I'm fresh out of new weskits."

She laughed. "Shame! Okay, I'll see what I can do. I've some clothes I need sending on too. 'Bye now!"

They watched her drive away. Sama Paru said:

"There goes one exceptional lady."

"Mmm," said Mark. "It's good English you speak, old boy, but deuced mild, if I may say so." Then he shrugged. "Not that I know any English words to really describe April Dancer." His manner became brisk. "Now—how about Kazan? Let's have some grub and take a look at maps while your chopper is being refueled."

"Ah!" said Sama. "The food and some rest are most necessary—but there is a night ban on helicopter flying, so we shall have to rest whether or not we need it."

"But it was dark when we flew in. The hell with bans."

"No, thank you," said Sama. "Choppers are easy targets for police bullets. I received permission to land by saying I had engine trouble over the Channel and could not turn back to England."

"I suppose you know your own red tape best. How about chartering a small plane?"

"By the time we get a plane it will be time to leave here. Kazan is somewhere among the forests back of the hills. A plane would not help us much. Not to worry, mon ami, it is the best way."

Mark didn't really regret the delay. Sama borrowed a tiny Renault car, drove like a demon for some six kilometers to a bistro where he was welcomed like a prodigal son by Madame and her three daughters. One was twelve and about to go to bed. The other two were of a more mature age. It was the most enjoyable night Mark had spent in a long while.

Sama Paru had known the family Lecheron since he was a boy. Adele and Lia shared an apartment in Paris, Adele, the eldest, working as a model, Lia still at University. They were a strangely happy family. Strange, because there was no bickering or jealousies which, in Mark's experience, usually beset families consisting only of women. Papa Lecheron had died two years ago.

Adele and Lia were on holiday from Paris and, apart from their company and the truly excellent meal, they gave Mark and Sama a hot lead in this affair of the Global Globules—as Mark now referred to it.

"Tin dresses?" said Sama Paru. "Tell us again."

Lia giggled. "It is so funny. A lot of the girls—they want to be models, like Adele, you see. But it is not all so easy and big fun like they think. It is very much training and long hours, and many jealousies and back-kicking."

"Biting," said Sama. "Back-biting."

"Ah yes—these English sayings! So, you see, it is all a dream with these girls."

"And no big money just for the asking," said Adele. She shrugged. "Oh! I do not complain. I have plenty of work, but it has taken a long time to become known. These stupid little innocents, they think all the couturieres—and, oh yes, the men—will fall over themselves to offer jobs and mink coats."

Lia roared with laughter. "So when a man chooses many of these girls and offers them big money, they all fall—plomp! They think of gorgeous gowns, and costumes and furs, and what do they model in? Tin dresses!"

Mark and Sama exchanged glances.

"An advertising agency, eh?" Mark suggested.

"Not advertising," said Adele. "They were picked by a—how you say?—a big no-good. He is an agent, yes, but not for the real model business. The fringe man—very nasty."

"But he offered high fees—or payment of some sort?"

"In pieces," said Lia. "First he say: you model these dresses where we tell you. We pay you five thousand francs. These girls—their little eyes go pop and they sign the papers. Like a contract it is, and they receive one hundred francs and their ticket to Lyons or Chartres or Monte Carlo—lots of towns. Then they are paid another hundred when they wear these tin dresses. So they don't have five thousand francs in one big piece like they think."

"To Lia, it is a joke," said Adele. "And to me at first, because always there are these silly girls who call themselves models. But I think it is a bad joke. Some of these girls are in strange towns with little or no money. Some have not returned to Paris. Such business should be stopped, but there is no law against it, only—what is it you say?—expiation?"

"Exploitation," said Mark. "Are these girls trained, or told who are the buyers of these tin dresses?"

"Ah no—not trained," said Adele. "But one or two older girls—not so good girls, you know what I mean?—took these jobs, went away for a time. Training, they said, but they had plenty of money. And they have been taught to ride little motor bikes. I think perhaps these tin dresses might be a new kind of 'mod-gear', like they say in London."

Mark questioned them further, but they knew only a few first-hand facts and a great deal of rumor. He left for a while, saying he needed some fresh air, found a pay-phone and got through to the Le Havre laboratory.

April was annoyed at the interruption.

"This is going to take hours to crack—maybe weeks. Why are you still local?" She listened. "Oh, yes? Well, sorry I sparked off—this is certainly another angle. The chicks in Carnaby Street were a mixture of ga-ga teenagers kidding they were models and some hard-bitten floosies. There's a whale of a market all over for that mixture—a veritable army could be mobilized. This means there must be training and selection centers where the tough ones are picked, probably as leaders or local organizers."

"Separate centers from the distilling and testing and packing centers," Mark suggested.

"Well—those don't have to be very large. Moorfell could produce enough K.S.R.6 for a mammoth spraying fiesta. Any large country house in a quiet area subject to fogs, mists or above-average rainfall would do. But a training and selection center would attract more attention. I'm contacting Mr. Waverly at four a.m., our time. I'll pass this idea of yours to him. Is that all, Mark?"

"For now, for me—it's enough. The idea of thousands of bright young bints welded into a tin-dress army, captained by floosies, riding Noddy bikes through every town in the country scares the sanctimonious hell out of me! Cheerio, darling—be good and clever!"

"Aren't I always?"

"Yum!" He hung up, went back to the bistro, slept for an hour, then kicked Sama Paru awake. The chopper took off at first light. By sunrise it was over the olive hills behind the shimmering sea, slipping and wheeling for Mark to sight a suitable landing area.

They found the spot where Count Kazan had come down. The chopper was in a small clearing, its rotors leaning at an unusual angle. Efforts had been made to camouflage it by lacing leafy tree branches over it, but the blades peeped through enough to attract a searching gaze.

Mark said: "I think I sighted buildings among the trees. That must be near where Kazan last called in."

"Okay—I'll put down on that farm."

The farmer ran up as they climbed out, jabbering furiously. Sama Paru flashed money and the jabbering grew less explosive. When he produced more money, the farmer smiled a cracked smile. Then they conversed like old chums.

At last Sama turned to Mark "Yes, there is a hush-hush building in the woods," he said. Local rumors say it's a Government-research training center, but they are not curious around here." He grinned. "Not while someone at the center lays a wad of folding money in the local kitty. I have arranged transport."

"Comical," said Mark ten minutes later as they proceeded down a dusty-white lane on the back of a donkey. "Dead comical, you are, mate! Transport, you call this?"

"His car is broken down. His farm cart and horse delivering produce—what would you?"

"I would de-louse this brute for a start." Mark scratched several delicate places.

They parked the donkey at the edge of the woods, for Sama Paru had bought information not normally found on maps.

"Expensive, these small farmers," he observed. "How do I describe it on my expense sheet?"

"Local produce." Mark grinned. "If Karadin and his outfit succeed in this Globules affair, all you'll get is a wad of ugly money anyway! What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded as Sama moved, crouching, through the trees.

"Truffle tracks."

"Listen, chum—truffles and caviar come later." Mark hesitated. "Is this part of your pricey farmer's info?"

Sama nodded. "Better to follow his tracks than a clear patch. He says there are booby-traps—trip wires and such—over the main paths into the forest. We follow where he has found truffles. He marks the trees—see?" Sama pointed to a whitish nick in a nearby tree. "The farmer can go right up to the fence without their seeing him."

"So he's been truffle-picking and peeking?"

"Must have—he says lots of the girls sun-bathe. He seemed annoyed that they did it during milking time so he couldn't always get away from the farm. But they do some sort of training or practicing in silver dresses and trouser suits in the morning. They never come into the village. They have their own transport which takes them down to the coast."

"Well organized, huh?"

"It would seem to be so." Sama halted. "Look!" He parted the branches of thick bushes. A fence just beyond the bushes encircled a compound which had been smooth-layered with asphalt.

"Too early," Mark whispered. "Has Count Kazan got all his U.N.C.L.E. field agent's devices with him?"

"He should have."

"You've got yours?"

"Surely."

"Then call him up on the micro-transmitter—see if we can raise him. No sense making war palaver and rushing the dump if we can save time and effort."

Sama Paru operated the transmitter, while Mark used the waiting period by climbing high into a fir tree, from where he could look down on the layout. He used the U.N.C.L.E. micro-camera to good effect, obtaining full shots of the whole area. The early sun slanting through the clearing gave some high definition to his shots.

He rejoined Sama, who nodded, smiling.

"Count Kazan is on his way to join us. He broke out last night. Ssh!" They heard branches creaking. A twig snapped. Bushes away to their right quivered. Both drew their guns as sunlight glinted on a silvery figure.

"Hold it right there, tin-man!" said Mark, pushing through the bushes towards the figure.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Count Kazan. "I am so glad to see you! Have either of you two gentleman got a can-opener?"

They stifled roars of laughter as he stood up, stiffly. His body bulged, perspiration streaming down his face. He was unshaven. Altogether, the elegant Count Kazan was not easy to recognize.

"I am in agony—and you laugh! It is not funny I have had a terrible time!"

"If you had to dress in that gear, couldn't you find one to fit you?" Mark chuckled.

"The suit fit," said Kazan. "They are very cleverly made and will adjust to all normal sizes. But I robbed their piggy bank. The suit is stuffed with money as well as me. There was no other way to carry it."

"Money! French money?"

"World money," said Kazan. "They print it on an underground press. Very pretty it is too. If you get me out of this, I will show you."

"No guards?" said Sama Paru.

"Not until eight o'clock. About thirty women are inside there. The men do not stay at night." Kazan grinned. "Many young girls, but all controlled by some of the hardest-faced witches you ever saw. With them around you do not need guards. Those have been trained by Sirdar the Turk. They are evil and ruthless—as only truly bad women can be."

"But you tamed 'em?" said Mark.

"I gassed the whole flock of little THRUSH birds," said Kazan. "Last night, with my gas gun, I was a busy bee. Then I injected each of the leaders. They will not wake up for many hours yet." He looked at them pleadingly. "Please—my friends—get me out of this before I stifle. The zip has stuck and the lever, she is bust."

The suit was beautifully made, the metal-like fabric bonded to a fine mesh of the same material. This mesh had a two-way-stretch weave. The only vulnerable part was the side zip which ran from thigh to armpit. The suit thus had to be put on sideways. Kazan had so stuffed the money around his body that the stretch was extended beyond normal use. He'd then forced up the zip so hard that he couldn't shift it. The suit was virtually indestructible and could not be torn.

They used Mark's lock-breaking tools to open the zip and soon had Kazan freed. The printed notes, each approximately the size of a hundred-dollar bill, were artistic though not fancy. These bore the THRUSH emblem dead centre with a sun-blaze effect of red-gold on a green background. A purple border at first sight looked like circles with filigree tailings of gold. Closer inspection showed these circles to be miniature imprints of a globe of the world. The denominations were from ten to ten thousand esparas.

"What the hell are esparas?" said Mark. "That's a country I've not heard of."

"The world," said Count Kazan. "Esparas are to be the new currency of the world of THRUSH."

Mark whistled softly. "Kid me not, my French comrade—you have proof?"

"In a file back there is the distribution arrangement for the whole of Europe. I have micro-filmed some."

"Let's go get the others. You feel better now?"

Count Kazan drew a deep breath. "Much better."

"Right. Stow some of this cash in your pockets. Wrap the rest in the suit. Hide that under the bush and let's go blow this thing—fast."

They ignored the dormitory of sleeping girls and the separate rooms of the unconscious overseer women, although they first checked on these females. But they wasted no time on them.

Mark said: "Quick and rough. We've no time to tangle if we can help it. H.Q. has to have this stuff as soon as we can rush it to them."

They were three very experienced wreckers. Files were blown open, contents packed into a few handy-sized boxes which once held banknote paper. They took samples of this and rammed the rest in the basement furnace. Samples of inks and the plates were carefully packed, telephone wires, radar and TV sets and cables wrecked beyond any chance of repair.

The press was a superb piece of machinery controlled by a small computer. Count Kazan complained:

"A beautiful sculpture, the sculptured beauty of a woman, and a beautifully created machine—to me they are all God's work, my friends. It makes me sad to have to destroy this. Did you ever see such perfection of design? Swiss, of course. Where else can you get such craftsmanship? And the computer—American, naturally. Who else could produce such an electronic marvel? Now—we place a small explosive charge here, and here, and there. We insert this metal bar and rip apart the frame and carrier. Mark Slate deguts the computer, crushing its tiny contacts underfoot. Soon it will all be gone—pouff!"

"And pouff to you too!" said Mark. "Set that charge and let's go."

"I need violence," said Kazan. "I want to crush and kill the men who made this necessary. Let us await the men and smash them too."

"They'll be smashed," said Mark. "We've no time to stay and be heroes. Maybe your H.Q. will send you in with the clean-up detail. Right?"

Count Kazan shrugged. "It is right."