“Do you suppose he’s going to dump his stuff in the sea?”
“Not here, not yet. The idea seems to be to strike at Britain and France. And that will suit Thrush fine, of course.”
Solo nodded. It made sense, and from what he remembered of the prevailing sea currents, O’Rourke didn’t have too far to go. Once around the southwest tip of the country he would be in the right drift. And that was no more than a hundred and fifty miles. Not far, for a fast cabin-cruiser.
“Is there any way of stopping the damned stuff, Illya?”
“One way, yes. It’s mentioned in the notes. If the ferment is caught in its first stages, and smothered with an oily film, it inhibits the whole progress of the reaction.”
“High temperature breaks down the molecular reaction, too,” she added, and Solo snorted.
“Now all we need is some way to bring the whole Irish Sea to a slow boil. That should be simple!”
“I was only trying to help!” she snapped
FIVE
“Talk About Burning Your Boats After You!”
WAVERLY WAVED them to a screeching halt a few yards short of Thomond Bridge approach. His craggy face was grim. He spoke briefly and to the point.
“I’ve secured a converted Naval motor-launch for you. It’s fast, but stripped down completely and devoid of cover. It’s fueled, and with reserve, but you’d better minimize your equipment, to save weight. You may have a long run. I’ll describe Princess for you—”
“No need!” Sarah interrupted. “I’m going along with them, and I know that boat like I know my own name!”
“Indeed!” The old man gave her a quick and searching look, then made a brief smile. “Very well, my dear; you should be worth your weight, at that. Off you go then; you’ve no time to lose!”
They had already planned, roughly, what equipment they would need, and it took only seconds to modify that and grab the bare essentials. Sarah scampered on ahead, down the cobbled ramp, leaving the men to follow with a rifle each, spare rounds, and the long-range communicator, which Kuryakin hung around his neck. The powerful engines were already rumbling softly as they cast off and dropped into the stem-sheets.
The launch had indeed been stripped down since its Service days. All that remained of the cabin-cockpit superstructure was a three-piece perspex windscreen that served to break the breeze for whoever stood at the wheel—as Sarah stood now, with the throttle by her right hand and her feet planted on a narrow bridge that ran from one side to the other over the open well where the powerful engine roared. There was a narrow catwalk all around, with a few stout stanchions and a rope rail to cling to, and nothing else. As she thrust the throttle hard over the launch sat down in the water, lifted her bows to shake off the spray and began to shudder strongly.
“Bumpy ride!” Solo shouted across the whipping breeze to his companion. “Not my idea of a pleasure cruise!” Kuryakin had his feet on the engine, his rump on the catwalk and one hand hanging onto the, rope rail. His straw-blond hair flattened in the wind as he nodded.
“This is only the river. Wait until we get out to seat” Solo looked back at the wide wake they were cutting, and felt suddenly very weary, the long hours of ceaseless activity beginning to catch up on him. His thoughts slid into a jumble of confused snatches and highlights.
He had always imagined Ireland as a dream country, all green and quiet and beautiful, a land jogging through history at a placid pace, content to laugh in the sun and take things easy. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had got the wrong impression. He dredged up odd fragments of beauty. The castle itself. The view over the wide Shannon estuary. Sarah—He looked at her now, squinting into the howling wind. She stood with her feet apart and firmly planted on the boards, her hands holding the wheel, her golden hair streaming back in the breeze.
It was hard to believe that she was a laboratory technician and as gadget-crazy as old Illya over there. Tough as whip-cord too, in her own wild way. She was positively enjoying herself now.
And Bridget—He frowned as he cast his mind back to her. Crooked as sin—or simply misled by the over-powering personality of her uncle? There was evidence to show that she was just as clever, in her own way, as the rest of the O’Rourke breed, and it doesn’t take much to divert a brilliant mind one way or the other, if you catch it young enough. Perhaps the shock of her uncle’s treachery would give her that little push to set her back on the right road? It would be a pity to see such a lovely girl go to waste.
All at once the launch heaved, leaped, and hit the water with a violent thump. He tightened his grip on the rope rail. Illya had been right about the sea. They were running now in a sharp swell, white foam crests rising and falling on all sides, the launch booming and plunging as it ran up the watery slopes and leaped and crashed back into the hollows. At the high point of each bounding leap they could just catch sight of land, away to port.
“We’re passing Kerry Head.” Sarah called, waving. Solo stood up by her side, clinging desperately to rope and windshield.
“You ever done this before?” he demanded, yelling against the wind.
“Not as fast as this. Good job there’s not much sea, or we wouldn’t be able to keep it up!” She ducked as the bows smacked into a wave and sent a whipping shower of spray over them all.
He squinted ahead and sighed. Not much hope of finding one cabin cruiser in all this watery waste. But they roared on just the same. In a while she told them they were rounding Blasket Island and heading south across Dingle Bay. Both men were drenched by now, but she was as lively as ever, her face rosily flushed in the breeze. They plunged and surged on, the little launch bucking and rolling in and out of the running wave-crests. All at once she let out a wild hail and pointed forward.
“Tell me what you see, right ahead of us there!”
Solo peered, blinked away a faceful of spray and peered again. It was a long way ahead, just visible as they rode the waves. Black and green, with a yellow him to the superstructure, and a slim mast with a yellow and green pennant. As he described it she nodded, shaking the hair out of her eyes.
“That’s the Princess all right, and we’re catching up on her!”
The two men braced themselves on either side of her, clutching the frail windshield and staring ahead. The cruiser drew steadily closer. They could see a moving figure now on its upper deck. The view was jumpy as their craft lifted and fell over the running sea.
“Look there!” Kuryakin extended his arm to point. “They’ve ditched something over the side. There it goes!”
Solo saw a tiny yellow object bob into view for a moment, then vanish again. He fixed his eye on it. Yellow?
“It’s one of those plastic containers with the stuff in it!” he shouted. “There! It’s floating!”
“What do we do now?” Sarah demanded.
“Head for it. Run up alongside it as close as you can!” He peered frantically around the launch, saw a boathook tucked away down there alongside the engine and dropped down to rake it out. The roaring eased by degrees to a throb and the launch began to wallow and roll heavily as she steered and eased the speed still more. The bobbing yellow thing came close, standing up out of the water like a diseased finger. It bobbed close enough to be reached and edged still closer with the hook. Then Kuryakin leaned hazardously over and seized it, heaved hard, and it came up and inboard. Solo scowled at it.
“Why would they throw it away like that?” he growled. “Why was it standing up in the water like that?” Illya countered. “Heavy end down! Let’s see!” He hoisted, reversing the canister. And they saw. Sarah had spoken of an insert in one end, and there it was. Solo looked, then met his colleague’s bleak gray eyes understanding.