“Explosive charge, and it’s ticking away, Illya!”
“Right. We’ll have to get it out. Hang on to the canister while I check.”
Solo seized the yellow thing between his knees and looked up to see Sarah staring down. “Full speed ahead!” he ordered. “And if you know any good prayers, this would be the time to try them.”
The engine roared into fury again and Solo felt everything grow fuzzy as the vibration transmitted itself through his backbone where it was wedged up against the engine casing. He clung tight, watching Illya’s head stooped low over the mechanism, watching those clever hands touching and testing, then they seized a firm hold, shoulders stiffened with effort, and the deadly insert began to move, to spin. Illya rotated it hurriedly. It came right out, a shiny little cylinder of chrome. He clutched it, heaved and sent it in a glittering curve through the air, to splash into the water far back behind the launch. Then he crossed his hands and stared down at the watch on his wrist.
“Seven minutes since they ditched it,” he muttered.
They waited, both men staring back there. There came a crash like a hammer blow on the bottom of the launch, a dull boom coming immediately after, and back there the running waves suddenly threw up a spout thirty feet high.
“Ten minute delay switch,” Illya said quietly. “And they have two more left!”
Solo laid down the yellow canister gently alongside the bellowing engine and stood, taking up the rifle he had put aside. He peered ahead as he came up by Sarah’s side. Once again they were coming up on the cruiser fast. He tried to get a firm footing, and raised the rifle.
“If they ditch another,” he told her, head straight for it, fast as you can. I’ll see if I can discourage that kind of thing, though.” He saw a moving shape on the cruiser, took careful aim, cursing the swaying launch, and fired—once, twice, three times. The moving figure dropped flat.
“There goes the second one!” Illya called, and Sarah began to swing the wheel. Solo hung on, watching that prone figure, saw it rise and scuttle. He snapped off another two shots but knew that it was worse than hopeless to try and hit anything at this range in these conditions. He put the rifle down and searched the waters for the deadly canister.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know!” Sarah wailed. “I’ve lost it! Over there somewhere!”
They all stared frantically, covering the white-flecked waste with urgent eyes. There it was! She spun the wheel again, the launch heeling hard over to spin about and roar up to it. More urgent prodding and struggling with the boathook as it bobbed close, then again Illya strained over and grabbed, and heaved, and sat with it between his knees, hoisted it over, and began to twist savagely. It resisted his efforts.
“Napoleon! Give me a hand here. They put this one in tight!” Solo stooped and got a grip on it along with Illya. “Okay? Now—heave!” The stubby black cover gave reluctantly, began to spin. Illya waved him back, rotated it with rapid blows of his palms, pulled it free and threw it all in one mighty heave. It arched away, hit the water, and the explosion came in the same second as the splash.
Sarah hit the throttle again, and this time both men stood up beside her with rifles, to watch and wait until that cruiser came close enough for a shot. But the desperate men ahead had seen the weak point of their strategy and took steps to remedy it.
“There goes the third one,” Solo growled, “and we’ll never get to it in time! Give it the gun, Sarah—we’ve got to try!”
He glued his eyes on that bobbing yellow thing and counted the ticking seconds in his mind. The launch howled through the water, splashing foam and bouncing from wave to wave. The deadly thing drew close and she checked speed, swinging the stern around in a hard sweep. Kuryakin crouched by the side, glancing from his watch to the canister, tensing himself. The yellow finger waved, surged close, and then the launch heeled in the trough of a wave, tossing him back off balance. They heard the thing bump against the side and then there was an almighty crash, a shock-wave of sound that nearly deafened them. The launch shuddered and reared up, rolled over and fell soggily back.
Solo, thrown clear by the explosion, caught a breath as he went under, and down, and struggled back to the surface, to blow and stare around, and then strike out for the launch. As he laid hands on it, Sarah’s sleek head bobbed up beside him. He hauled himself up, saw Illya’s head show on the far side. He turned, extended his arm, heaved Sarah spluttering inboard, and saw Illya go in scrambling haste to the forward end, to grab and free a gallon can of fuel from its stowage clip. Dazed for the moment, he stared in bewilderment, then caught on. The launch was settling by the stern now, and it was an uphill struggle to the bows.
“You take that side!” Illya panted. “Dribble it out carefully; we can’t afford to waste any.” Solo nodded, heaved a can out of its clamps, and leaned over as he unscrewed the cap. There was no need to explain more as he saw the surface. It was blood-red for the most part, shot here and there with writhing threads of sickly pink, and it seethed, bubbling and spreading even as he watched it.
He leaned over, his stomach heaving at the sight of it, and sloshed fuel-oil from the can in a thick stream to trap the far edge. The oil-stink came up strongly, but the stuff seemed to spread and cling to the ferment. He sloshed more, treating it liberally, coating that evil red-pink stuff, seeing it bubble. A thin finger of it broke away towards the bows and he scrambled hurriedly to douse it. Snatching a side glance, he saw that the stem of the launch was now under water—water spotted with patches of furiously-bubbling red. Sarah was up to her chin in it.
“I’m going to duck down and take the top off the fuel tank,” she called, and went under with a swirl of bubbles. He kept on sloshing oil until the can hung empty in his hand and the air was thick with the smell of it. But there was the satisfaction of knowing that the red stuff had ceased to bubble and spread in his vicinity.
Down by the stern there were still a few spotty bits, and he started to move that way, but halted as there came gulping bubbles and then Sarah bobbed up, blowing like a seal. Around her the oil from below burst out in concentric rings, seizing on the patches of pink as if hungry for them.
He lifted another can and scrambled over to Illya’s side to lend a hand. Five busy minutes later they were able to relax and gather in the up-tilted bows of the stricken launch, surveying the scene. For yards around the heaving sea was covered with oil-slick, and great masses of lumpy stuff like hideous porridge floated and surged sluggishly in the waves. But it was all quite definitely lifeless and still.
“I think we managed to get it all, Napoleon.”
“What about the first two canisters?”
“They seem to be trapped alongside the engine. Safe enough. Not much danger of them bursting, or corroding away. Not polyethylene.”
“That’s a relief, anyway. I suppose all we can do now is wait for this damned craft to founder under us?”
“I don’t think so. The stem is stove in, and the weight of the engines is dragging that end down, but there should be enough reserve of buoyancy to hold us up.”
“Great! So now we just sit here and wait for that pair on the cabin-cruiser to pick us off at their leisure!”
“It looks like it.” Kuryakin nodded gloomily. “We’ve lost our rifles. There’s not much we can do about it now.” He turned to Sarah with a wry grin. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we got you into this.”
“But you didn’t!” she denied valiantly. “I volunteered! And anyway, we’re not dead yet! Can’t we radio for help? You’ve a radio there!” She indicated the long-range communicator that Kuryakin still had slung on his chest.
“You’re not thinking straight, Sarah,” Kuryakin smiled kindly. “I could call, yes. And help might come, eventually. But we wouldn’t be interested, by the time it got here.”