Kroll pulled back the door and dived out into the corridor. With' Marshall following him, he raced across to where Symington was lying, glanced cursorily at the figure at his feet, then started move down the corridor, the automatic raised steadily in front of him.
Marshall knelt down beside Symington. In the dim light he felt the warm wet patch spreading from the wound just below his left shoulder blade. He turned Symington over, saw that he was breathing in short exhausted pants. Fortunately the bullet had struck him obliquely, channeling out a three-inch-long furrow without penetrating the rib cage. Marshall sat Symington up, dragged him back into the office and propped him against the sofa.
Behind him the emergency door opened and Deborah peered around, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Simon, what's happening?" She gaped down at Symington uncomprehendingly. "You promised-"
Marshall pulled her down to the sofa.
"Stay with him, see what you can do. I think he's all right. Kroll's going crazy. I've got to stop him before he kills the other two."
As he re-entered the corridor Kroll was stepping cautiously down the stairway. Marshall pulled the short-barreled.38 from his shoulder holster. Thumbing off the safety catch, he moved forward after Kroll.
Kroll's helmeted head had just disappeared down the short stairway when a second shot roared out from the floor below. Crighton and the Wren typist were both armed, like Marshall, with COE.38's issued to protect them from hunger-maddened intruders.
He heard Kroll's.45 fire once, followed by two sharper reports from the communications room at the far end. He slid carefully down the steps, searching for Kroll's form among the shadows and angles of the corridor, then heard the soft pad of his rubber soles moving toward the service corridor which ringed the offices and provided a rear entrance to the emergency elevator.
Through the open doorway of the communications room Marshall caught a glimpse of Crighton's brown uniform crouched behind the line of teletypes. He ducked back as the.38 flashed out.
The service corridor led off immediately at his left, turning at right angles around the offices. Marshall edged the revolver forward, barrel pointed at the ceiling. He fired twice in quick succession, then dived across the exposed interval into the shelter of the service corridor.
As he caught his breath he heard Crighton fire again at the staircase and then shout something at the girl, his words lost in the roaring echoes.
Following Kroll, Marshall moved quickly down the darkened service corridor, peering briefly into the first of the offices, a clutter of desks under the dim glow of the single storm bulb over the doorway.
A second empty office and the elevator shaft separated him from the communications room at the far end. He edged carefully around the blind corners of the shaft. Fortunately the emergency doorway into the service corridor was blocked by the TV transmitters. As soon as they saw Kroll open it Crighton and the girl would empty their guns through the thin plywood.
Marshall turned the finM angle around the shaft and to his surprise found it empty. The emergency door was slightly open; a narrow strip of light crossed the corridor.
Stepping over to it, Marshall peered through.
The room was empty. Dull reflections of the TV screens swung slowly to and fro across the ceiling, but Crighton and the girl had gone.
Suddenly, from the main corridor, two shots roared out heavily, followed by a sharp cry of terror, and then, an agonizing second later, by a third shot. The sounds stunned the air. Flashes of light reflected off the glass panels of the open doorway.
Wrenching open the emergency door, Marshall kicked back a table carrying two of the TV sets, ran quickly across the room.
Crighton and the girl lay together in the corridor, Crighton face downward with his head tilted against the wall, hands raised in front of him. The girl was crumpled untidily behind him, unkempt hair over her face, her skirt around her waist.
Beyond them, waiting for Marshall by the staircase, stood the black figure of Kroll, the automatic jutting from his hand.
"Thanks for covering me," he said thickly. He pointed to the office near the stairway. "I was in there. Thought they'd try to make a dash for it when they heard you go around the side."
The drab air of the bunker was stained with sharp sweet fumes that stung Marshall 's eyes. He bent down over the bodies, checked them carefully. A damp strip of handkerchief was clenched in the girl's hand like a dead flower. For a long moment he stared at it, then gradually became aware of Kroll's boots two or three feet away from him.
He started to get up, then saw the automatic in Kroll's hand, leveled at his face. The heavy barrel followed him unwaveringly. Kroll's head was low between his shoulders, his eyes hidden behind the visor of his helmet.
Marshall felt his courage ebbing. "What's happening, Kroll?" he managed to say in a steady voice. He moved toward Kroll, who stepped back and let him pass, training the.45 on Marshall 's head.
"Sorry, Marshall," he said flatly. "R.H."
"What? Hardoon?" Marshall hesitated, estimating the distance to the stairway. Kroll was a few paces behind him. So Hardoon had decided to dispense with him, now that Marshall had served his purpose! He should have realized this when Kroll had been sent to collect them. "Don't be crazy," he said. "You must have your wires crossed."
When he was six feet from the stairway he suddenly dived forward, swerving from side to side, and managed to put his left hand on the stair rail.
Aiming carefully, Kroll shot him twice, first in the back, the impact of the bullet lifting Marshall onto the bottom step and knocking him off his feet, the second shot into his stomach as he toppled around, his great body uncontrollable, his arms swinging like windmills. He stumbled past Kroll, spun heavily against the wall and crashed downward into a corner.
He was about ten feet from Kroll, who waited quietly until the narrow stream of blood meandering across the concrete floor finally reached his feet, then made his way quickly up the staircase.
"Simon!"
The girl was crouched behind the door, fingers over her face. As she saw Kroll she screamed and backed away from him, almost tripping over the recumbent figure of Andrew Symington, half conscious on the floor by the sofa.
Kroll jerked the.45 back into his jacket, then stepped over to Deborah, cornering her behind the desk.
"Where is he?" she shouted at him. "Simon? What have you-"
Kroll knocked her against the wall with the back of his hand, forced her to the floor.
"Shut up!" he snarled. "Crazy yapping!"
He listened carefully to the sounds shifting around the bunker, kicking the girl sharply with his boot when her blubbering interrupted him, then picked up the phone.
As he waited he looked down at Deborah, and his right hand edged back toward the.45. His fingers flexed around the heavy butt, drawing it out.
He searched for the back of Deborah's neck, then noticed the auburn curls tipping forward over her head. They were soft and wispy, more delicate than anything Kroll had ever seen. Like a huge bull entranced by a butterfly, he watched them, fascinated, feeling his blood thicken, ignoring the voice on the phone.
His hand relaxed and withdrew from his jacket.
"All set," he said slowly into the phone. "Just one of them." He glanced down at Deborah. "I'll be about ten minutes."
Lurching painfully, Marshall dragged himself into the darkened communications room, heaved up onto his feet and then slumped into a chair in front of the radio transmitter. For a few minutes he coughed uncontrollably, fighting for air, his body drowning in the enormous lake of ice which filled his chest. As he rolled helplessly from side to side his eyes stared at the blood eddying across the floor below the chair. The trail led back into the corridor, past the two bodies to the stairway. How many hours had elapsed since he had first set out for the transmitter he could no longer remember, but the sight of the bodies revived him momentarily, making him realize that his great strength was ebbing rapidly, and he leaned forward on his elbows and began to switch on the set.