“Who needs guards two hundred ninety-nine stories up?” Roger rejoined. “Besides, they have something better than guards.”
“Like what?” Blade questioned.
“Like four defensive emplacements, one on each corner of the roof.”
Roger disclosed. “They function automatically once activated.”
“What type of defensive emplacements?” Blade inquired.
“Lasers at the northeast and southwest corners, and heat-seeking missile-launchers at the southeast and the northwest,” Roger informed them.
Blade stared at the bustling city below. “Are there any other conduits between the roof and Primator’s floor? An air shaft, anything like that?”
“There’s the mail drop,” Roger said. “A big metal chute.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s a chute for depositing mail in,” Roger explained. “It’s used primarily for classified rush communiques, for urgent messages and dispatches which can’t be sent through the postal service, relayed over the phone, or supplied through a computer.”
Blade recalled the instructions Primator had given to the Superior in the audience chamber. “INSTRUCT INTELLIGENCE TO INTERROGATE THEM THOROUGHLY. I WANT THE DATA OBTAINED RELAYED TO ME IMMEDIATELY.” Would Primator want such data delivered by a courier copter instead of through normal channels? “And this mail chute connects directly to Primator’s floor?”
“As far as I know,” Roger said. “It’s right next to the heliport.”
“There’s no other shaft of any kind?” Blade quieried.
“Not that I know of,” Roger responded.
The mail chute sounded promising. Blade hoped the chute was linked to Primator’s internal circuitry somehow, although he considered it to be unlikely. How could a computer, even a thinking computer, read its own mail? Still, he shouldn’t put anything past Primator.
“Is that what I think it is?” Hickok inquired, moving between the two chairs and pointing straight ahead.
Blade glanced up.
There was no mistaking the Prime Complex. As the highest structure in Androxia, the grand edifice reared above the rest like a mountain over a cluster of molehills. In the bright sunlight, its golden radiance was enhanced. The Complex was undeniably magnificent, awe-inspiring, splendid beyond measure.
A small black speaker in the center of the instrument panel suddenly crackled to life. “Androxia Express Number Three, this is the Central Air Traffic Control Tower. You are deviating from your delivery schedule, and you are not conforming to your prescribed flight path. You are also about to enter restricted air space. Explain immediately.”
“I told you so,” Roger commented, grabbing a headset lying on top of the instrument panel. He hastily aligned the headset over his ears and mouth. “What do I say?”
“Tell them you are under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator,” Blade directed.
Roger reached out and flicked a silver toggle on the instrument panel.
“Air Traffic Control, this is Androxia Express Number Three. What’s the problem? I am under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator.”
“Negative,” the speaker cracked. “We have no record of any security authorization for you to land on the Prime Complex. You will abort and return to Central Field immediately.”
Roger flicked off the toggle. “Now what, mastermind?”
“Tell them you received your security authorization at the Intelligence Building,” Blade instructed. “Say you’re carrying the results of the interrogation of the Warriors.”
Roger’s forehead creased in perplexity, his O.D. gleaming. He turned on the silver toggle. “Air Traffic Control, I don’t understasnd any of this. I was handed my security clearance at Intelligence. I was told this must reach Primator promptly, and I was the only one on the helipad at the time. I overheard something about the interrogation results of some Warriors, if that makes any sense. But if you want me to abort, I will do so right away.
Please check and confirm.”
There was a slight pause.
“One moment,” Air Traffic Control said.
Roger switched off the toggle.
“If those jokers check with Intelligence and learn we busted out,” Hickok mentioned, “the jig is up.”
Blade looked at Roger. “Those missiles and lasers on the roof. Will they be activated if we try to land?”
“I don’t know,” Roger said. “It depends on whether they believed my story. They might hold off while they’re checking.”
“Then land! Now!” Blade commanded.
Roger grit his teeth and pulled on the stick, sending the copter into a steep climb, zooming toward the top of the Prime Complex.
“Wheeee!” Hickok cried in delight.
Blade’s muscles tensed as the helicopter swooped upward, closing on the roof. They were approaching from the southwest, and he could see a bulky cannonlike affair, obviously one of the large lasers, perched on the southwest corner. Even as he watched, the barrel of the laser began to shift, to move in their direction.
Hickok had also noticed. “They’re gettin’ our range.”
“Faster!” Blade urged.
Roger pushed the helicopter to its limit, angling even higher. “If we can reach the heliport, we might be safe temporarily,” he remarked. “I don’t think they’ll fire at us while we’re on the roof. There’s too great a risk of an explosion. They’ll probably wait until we lift off again.”
“An explosion from what?” Blade asked. “This copter? I doubt it would put much of a dent in the roof if it’s as sturdy as the rest of the Complex.”
“Not from the copter,” Roger elaborated. “From the refueling tank.”
Blade leaned toward the pilot. “What refueling tank? You didn’t tell us about any refueling tank.”
“Every heliport has a refueling tank nearby,” Roger told them. “Fighting these thermal drafts can make a chopper use up its fuel real fast. The refueling tanks at each heliport are for emergency refueling.”
The courier copter was almost to the roof of the Prime Complex.
Blade’s gaze was glued to the laser. The weapon was continuing to swivel, slanting lower, its barrel resembling a gigantic, elongated tube, tracking the path of the chopper.
“Androxia Express Number Three!” the speaker barked. “You will abort immediately and return to Central Field!”
“Up yours!” Roger muttered.
The chopper swept over the rim of the roof, streaking past the laser on the southwest corner, diving for the heliport.
“We made it!” Roger shouted excitedly.
The helicopter alighted on the heliport.
Blade handed his Gaskells to Hickok, then rose and ran to the sliding door. He yanked the door open and leaped from the chopper, landing on his hands and knees on the concrete heliport. The wind from the main rotor tousled his hair. He saw the metal mail chute to his left. In front of him, about 30 yards from the heliport, was the large oval refueling tank.
To the east, to his right, was the steel door to the stairs.
Move! his mind shrieked.
Blade scrambled to the northern edge of the heliport and dropped to the roof. He circled to the left, to the metal chute. The mail chute was square, about five feet in height, not more than ten inches by ten inches. It was labeled with the word MAIL. He grabbed a small handle near the top, and the door to the chute swiveled open. Moving swiftly, he removed two hand grenades from his right front pocket. He hooked the little finger of his left hand in the door handle to keep the chute door from closing, then quickly pulled the pins and deposited the grenades in the mail chute.
Move!
Blade released the door and whirled, racing toward the refueling tank, mentally ticking off the numbers.
Ten-nine-eight.
Blade pulled another grenade from his pocket as he ran.