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.