[Magazine 1966-­07] - The Ghost Riders Affair - Whittington Harry (книги бесплатно без регистрации полные TXT) 📗

Finnish smiled. "You simplify it, but that's the main idea. THRUSH was pleased to aid me in recruiting labor through Mexico, nuclear components through Canada, and the best scientific minds. At first we could take trains only car by car, an engine here, another there. But our atomic—powered elevators have made anything possible!"

Finnish swung out his leaden arm to an oblong table beside his chair. He took up one of the dozens of palm-sized rectangles that Illya and Solo now saw were placed on every table in the room—for instant use by a near sighted man.

Finnish pressed the button on the instrument.

At once a door slid open in a wall and a stout-bodied servant appeared there. He entered, bowing before Finnish.

Solo grinned: "Things were never like this at UCLA, eh, Professor?"

Finnish jerked his head up. He did not smile. "Some beings are mentally inferior, Mr. Solo, born to be servants." He spoke to the waiting hireling: "Serve drinks."

The man left the room, the door sliding open at a movement of Finnish's hand upon the small instrument in his palm. Moments later, the servant returned with decanter, glasses. He poured, served them to Finnish, Solo and Illya.

Finnish leaned forward in his leather chair, gesturing with his glass. "A toast, gentlemen. To my magnificent new society."

Solo shrugged, but drank. "If you're to have inferiors and masters, it looks like the same old rat race, with just different fat rats running things."

"Things will be run as they should be," Finnish said. "Too bad neither of you will live to see it."

Illya held his glass, but did not drink. "Mind saying how you hope to accomplish this take-over of world power?"

"Not at all. If your intellects fail to grasp the potential of underground freeways opening up this hemisphere to me, I'll be glad to explain. Your deaths have been set; you can no longer hope to interfere: Underground trains will carry our nuclear warheads—all traveling, unheard, undetected, deep inside the earth, at more than a hundred miles per hour.

"They will strike simultaneously from beneath! Chicago, New York, Washington. San Francisco. All blown to fragments at the same instant. Can your minds encompass the magnitude of this? The so-called free-world brought to its knees in one mighty operation!"

Illya stood as if considering this for some moments. He sipped at his drink, liked it, smiled vaguely and drank again.

Finnish peered at him near-sightedly. "My plan begins to appeal to you?"

Illya strode about the room, sipping glumly. "Not particularly."

"Then why have you decided to drink with me?"

Illya shrugged. "Oh. I decided I was thirsty. Besides, your plan is shot full of holes. I tell you frankly, Professor, it's not going to work."

Finish sat forward, gray face flushed. "Is that why you smile? You think I can be stopped now?"

"I think so," Illya continued prowling.

"Stand still and talk to me! I could have you killed at this moment!" Finnish cried.

Illya shrugged again. "This might bolster your ego, Professor, but it won't improve your plan. No. I see that as doomed, and you along with it. Unless you call it off now!"

Raging, the rotund man swung up from his chair, pressing the buttons of his signal-sender. The doors slid open and dun-clad soldiers double-timed into the room, armed. They came to attention, stood waiting.

Finnish hesitated, gasping for breath. Not taking his peering gaze from Illya's face, he said, "Now, if you hope for one extra moment alive—tell me why I shall fail."

Illya nodded. He set down his empty glass, then inserted his finger in it, wiped it around the bowl, licked it with delight. "A pleasure. You see, Professor, it occurs to me that the train I rode that night—even if communications failed, once it was within the rock-bound inner crust of the earth—still it sent bleeps out until that instant.

"Don't you see, Professor? They know exactly, precisely, the spot where my train left the earth's surface. They may be confused for a spell. But soon they'll discover the break. Once they do, it's a matter of time—time running out for you."

"Do you think we would have boldly taken two huge streamliners when nothing on earth could hope to stop us?"

"Sorry, Professor," Illya said, his tone saying he was not al all sorry. "It won't work that way. You could have hoped for success, only as long as no one above ground suspected from where you'd strike. They'll find the way down here now and they'll stop you, whether Solo and I live to see that or not."

"Get them out of here!" Professor Finnish's voice rose, cracking. He pressed the small signal sender again, frantically. "Throw these men in the dungeons until the warheads are ready to roll. We'll allow these noble meddlers to deliver at least two of the atomic warheads they're so certain will never be delivered!"

TWO

Solo prowled the dungeon into which the dun-clad guards had thrown him and Illya. This was a breathless cavity holed out of solid rock. He found the small round disc through which oxygen was pumped into the ten by ten foot cave. He pounded his fists against the door, finding this as solid as the walls.

He turned, glancing at Illya. "I'll say one thing. You talked us into a real hole this time."

Illya moved with puma-grace along the walls, tracing his hands along them, listening. He looked over his shoulder, grinned. "Disagree. Maybe what I've done has prolonged our lives. Finnish had us marked for instant death. Now he plans to let us ride prisoners on a couple of those atomic-warhead trains."

"A delightful development," Solo said.

"Maybe not. What's that old Hungarian proverb?"

"There's no place like home?"

"Almost. The one I had in mind goes, 'Where there's life, there's a way out.'"

Solo scowled at the small air opening in the wall. "I hope you find that way out quickly, Illya. They're flooding this place with that gas again. We're on our way to being zombies."

"How do you know?" Illya pressed against the wall, staring at him.

"They're doing it all right. That nerve gas is odorless, colorless, tasteless, but it's being pumped in here right now instead of oxygen. I'm getting that headache and eye-burn. That's the first warning And this time, old friend, we're fresh out of any antidote for it."

Illya straightened slightly. "Maybe one of these will help."

Solo's eyes widened with relief and wonder when Illya took one of the fountain-pen sized oxygen flasks from his jacket pocket. He extended it. "Just press the nozzle, as our friend the professor did."

Solo grinned incredulously as Illya produced another oxygen flask and fitted the nose cone against his own nostrils.

"Where'd you get these things?" Solo said.

Illya grinned. "Got dozens of them while I was at it. They looked like the handiest little gadgets we could collect in a place like this. They were all over Finnish's room. He had to have them were he could grab one quickly. Didn't you notice?"

"I noticed. But how did you get away with them? It's a wonder you didn't get us killed on the spot."

Illya smiled. "I figured the odds on our escaping weren't too good anyhow. And there's one good thing about being in a room with a half-blind man—he's not continually watching every move you make."

Solo exhaled. "But he warned you that he had closed circuit television cameras fixed on you."