The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T (электронная книга txt) 📗

“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.”

Solo smiled wryly and turned away, dragging out his sodden pocket-handkerchief in a futile attempt to wipe the oil traces from his hands. He stared over the heaving billows without seeing them. Help? Illya was absolutely right. They could call for it, but it would take hours arriving. And they didn’t have hours. At the most, they could anticipate a few more minutes.

His thoughts were curiously mixed. Always, in this hazardous profession of his, one had to face the prospect of sudden demise. It was always in the cards. But somehow he had never imagined it would be this way, miles out at sea and helpless.

His fingers met something foreign in the wet folds of the handkerchief, and he looked down. It was a crumpled and wet visiting card, the legend on it barely legible: DR. MICHAEL O’ROURKE. He curled his lip at it, took it between his fingers and flicked it away, watching as it fluttered and fell into the thin film of oil. King Mike! And the gentleman himself was just over there, only a few yards away, in that cabin-cruiser. He had been badly thwarted in his maniacal dreams of world conquest. He would be seeking appropriate vengeance any moment now. Solo sighed, and swung back to see Illya’s face grow suddenly intent with purpose. It was an expression he knew very well indeed.

“What?” he demanded. “What’s hatching in your mind now?”

“Just a thought. Something she said, about sending a radio-call for help. It reminded me. That trick circuit.”

The blond Russian dabbed at his fringe suddenly and turned on Sarah in tense interest. “Let’s think again about that circuit your uncle wanted you to design for him. Here!” He struggled to reach into his pocket and get the notebook that was still there, wet and compacted. He shook it briskly to free most of the water from it, and began leafing through the soaking pages until he found the place he wanted. “This. Now, what exactly was the idea?”

The two fair heads came close together, peering and muttering, and all at once Kuryakin looked up, blue eyes gleaming.

“Keep an eye on the enemy, Napoleon. I think we may have something!”

The cabin-cruiser had slowed and begun to circle back by now, just in sight from time to time as the waves heaved the stricken launch up and down. Solo watched it, trying to guess which way those minds would be working, over there. Caution would be in order. Not too close, not at first. They might still be armed. But then, by degrees, closer and closer. Make sure they are quite helpless. And then out with the rifles. Target practice.

He felt for his pistol, even though he knew it was futile. He looked to Illya, wondering what was going on in that head, but knowing better than to interrupt the process with time-wasting questions. Sarah seemed to understand, at any rate, to judge by the way she was nodding vigorously. He took his gaze back to the heaving sea.