"So all we have to do is carry ruddy great bags of silver—at least those who have enough notes left to change into silver?"
"Don't be a fool, Mark."
"Sorry, mate. You've certainly done your homework. So this is Karadin's base and jollop factory?"
"The British one. Important, I think, because the British print currency for a number of countries. And possibly the first, being easiest for Karadin to prove his case to his backers. But make no mistake, Mark—this is global, and their plans must be pretty far advanced."
"Ye gods! The Global Globules! Darling—they won't believe us! And if they do..." He paused and whistled softly.
"Yes," she said. "It doesn't call for much imagination to picture the panic by ordinary people whose wages and housekeeping money is suddenly worthless—the run on all banks and currency issuing centers. Even their vaults aren't safe. Chaos—economic chaos. Would the way be open for a world currency? But that is only a starter."
"Is there an antidote—or whatever the stuff might be called?"
"I wouldn't know." She touched his silvery metal sleeve. "Only this stuff is protection..."
Mark whirled, running to the window as they heard thunder flashes exploding. "The guards are back! More of them than I thought—and three are not wearing metal clothes."
"We'll have to bluff them," said April. "With the face masks pulled up..."
"...And these comical hats. Hold on to that bag, me old darling—I'll cover your getaway." He fumbled under the gown for his pocket. "The car keys."
"Both of us
"No—dammit it, woman, stop being so bloody equal!" He grinned. "And anyway, that bag is bigger than both of us!"
April said: "The metal men are going around that end—we'll go out the front hall. The other three are heading thataway."
They left the room, masks pulled up.
Mark said, close to her ear: "Car radio—red switch on left—push down for open circuit Channel D link with all-Europe H.Q."
She nodded, briefly. Her eyes smiled at him. Then they were in the hall.
The three men had just entered.
"... Where's that old fool Sam?" a dark, thick-set man was saying. "Ah! Ingrid! What's going on here? I couldn't raise the house on the car phone. And what the hell are the guards doing, parading over the moors in their K suits? We've finished tests." He halted, peering hard, obviously noting the difference in coloring of eyes and hair. "You're not Ingrid—"
April Dancer took one pace forward, then a swift side step as the man's hand flashed to a shoulder gun. Her free hand flicked across his eyes, the point of her shoe swinging against the most vulnerable point of his knee. His body came forward and down as his leg gave way, leaving his neck a perfect target. April didn't waste the target. Her hand chopped down. His body pitched forward and lay still.
The other two men had stood back, undecided, and not quick enough to move as fast as their companion. Mark Slate took one of them, crashed him to the floor and got a wrist hold on the second man's gun-arm before the gun was leveled. The gun fired upwards. Mark broke the man's arm, then in a flurry of blows collapsed him.
April was nearing the door, tearing off the restricting gown.
"Come!" she called as Mark picked up the man's gun. The door burst open and more metal-clad figures rushed in.
"Go!" Mark yelled to her. "Go—gal––go!"
CHAPTER SEVEN: PRETTY LADY LIKE LIFT?
THE incoming guards had set off smoke traps in the driveway when their Land Rover swung around at the far end, running over a section of the lawn to miss a Jaguar car parked slantways by the front door.
A veil of white smoke hid the end of the building through which Mark had entered. Two men in metal suits were dowsing part of the drive with hand fire extinguishers—possibly to neutralize other devices. They saw April run out, one arm still in the metal gown, the mask still on her face. Obviously thinking she was Ingrid, they came towards her, calling: "Go back, Miss—go back!" and pointing to the lawn where smoke still wreathed over the grass.
April called: "Get on with your work and mind your own business."
The nearest man hesitated.
"D'you hear me?" April yelled. "Do as I say!" The authority in her voice was made more effective by her own urgency.
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.