The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно без .TXT) 📗

The half-scuppered launch was drifting now away from the oil-slick. Not quite clear of it, but almost. And the cabin-cruiser was edging in closer, cautiously. Solo could distinguish two figures standing by the midships guard-rail, staring. One had binoculars. The tall one, that would be King Mike. Solo pointed his pistol, aiming very high, and fired. The watchers ducked nervously back, but they needn’t have worried; they were well out of range.

Kuryakin looked up at the shot. “Are they that close?”

“Close enough for them, too far for me. How’s your department?”

“I think I’ve got this. It’ll take a minute or two more, and some luck.”

Solo saw now that he was tinkering with his personal transceiver, with the cover off and poking at its entrails with a tiny screwdriver. “You’d better duck down and let us cover you,” he advised. “They’re due to start target practice any time.”

As if they’d heard the cue, the enemy opened fire. Solo could see the pair of them distinctly, O’Rourke standing free with his feet spread and belly to the rail, Trilli more professionally bracing himself against a stanchion, but both intently holding rifles. He had heard angry shots wail by many times before but never in such a desperate position as this. The two rifles spoke again, one right after the other. A bullet thunked into the hull of the launch just below them; another screamed from the water no more than a foot to the right. Getting close, he thought. And they had all the time in the world to perfect their aim.

“That’s that!” Kuryakin lifted his head. “If it works!”

“What are you going to do, give them a farewell oration?”

“A farewell message, yes. I’ve cut out the audio circuits, and shorted some of the resistors. It should give enough power, if only for a brief burst.” Flying steel ripped a long yellow splinter from the woodwork close to his head. He gripped the little instrument tightly. “It ought to work. Watch those two.”

Three pairs of anxious eyes concentrated on the cabin cruiser, which was now almost close enough for a pistol shot. The two prominent figures still held weapons, took time about their aim, steadied themselves against the rail.

“Now!” Kuryakin muttered, and pressed hard with his thumb on the transmit button.

In that instant they saw the two threatening figures suddenly jerk and stiffen. There was a jet-puff of smoke from O’Rourke’s chest, a lesser one from Trilli’s. Two muffled explosions sounded, across the water. Then those two men buckled, dropped their weapons, folded like dolls over the rail, hung there a long moment, and then slid and fell into the sea.

“That’s the most beautiful double act I ever saw!” Solo gasped. “What the hell did you do to them, Illya?”

“It was the old visiting card routine, Napoleon. Sarah gave me the clue. Apparently Uncle Mike had an eccentric habit of presenting his visiting card only to very special people.”

“That’s right. He gave me one.”

“Well, King Mike isn’t the sort of man to do anything without a very good reason. So it was obvious, when I added it to that trick circuit. Those cards are plastic explosive, each one with a trigger-circuit incorporated in it, a radio-frequency circuit. Each circuit is slightly different from the rest, and each one numbered. King Mike had a special transmitter with a selector-switch, so that he could pick any one, and explode it. That’s all in the diagram. All I did was adjust my communicator to a broad band that would blow them all at once, you see?”

“I get it. The old man had a wallet full of them. And Trilli had one. And—hey! Wait a minute! He gave me one of those cards, too!” Solo slapped instinctively at his breast-pocket—then, remembering, cast a frantic glance over his shoulder at the oil-slick where he had pitched the card. He saw a great leaping wall of smoky red flame come whooshing across the waves at them as the scattered oil burst into eager blaze.

“Let’s get out of here!” he yelled and flung himself into the sea, the other two only split seconds after him. Imagination made the sea seem hot. For a few frantic seconds they swam as if it were boiling, then they slowed and turned to look back where the flames were licking around the hulk of the launch.

Solo blew water from his lip and glared at his colleague. “Just as well I decided to toss that card away, wasn’t it? You might have said something about what you were up to!”

Kuryakin shrugged in the water. “It never occurred to me that King Mike would give you one of his cards.”

Solo looked back to the burning relic and snorted. “Talk about burning your boats after you! What do we do now?”

“At least,” Kuryakin said, “the fire will take care of any further hazard from the ferment. It is destroyed by high temperatures.”

“I don’t exactly thrive on them myself. I suppose we’d better head for the cruiser and thumb a ride.”

They turned and began swimming for the cabin cruiser, but they had hardly gone a dozen strokes before they heard a by-now-familiar explosive sound and the water ahead of them was lashed into sudden foam.

Solo snorted again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Irish mothers must give their boy-babies a shotgun in the cradle instead of a rattle.”

“How many would there be in the crew?” Kuryakin asked Sarah.

“Only two—helmsman and deckhand. I’ve an idea. You two have done all the clever things so far—now it’s my turn.” She unfolded her plan, and they didn’t care for it at all, but they had nothing better to offer, so she won out. “Don’t be too far away, now,” she warned, and set off to swim towards the idling craft with much unnecessary splashing and agitation. The two men watched anxiously, then set off in very quiet pursuit. They saw a brawny figure lean over the stern and take aim. At the very last moment, when they were both expecting to hear the sound of the shot, she lifted her head and began to yell.

“Help! Help! It’s me—Sarah! They’re after me!”

The man in the stem hesitated, leaned forward to peer. Solo muttered, “She’s made it. It’s up to us now.”

He inhaled an enormous breath, set his aim on the midships ladder, and went under, swimming strongly in that direction, keeping on until he felt certain the top of his head was coming off. And then, thankfully, he could make out the wavering black bulk of the cruiser just ahead. He surfaced, blowing hugely and ready for anything, just in time to see Sarah approaching the ladder, and a man on board turning to lower himself a step or two, and to crouch, to extend a hand to help her out. A wave lifted itself between them, went on to hoist her up. She reached for that helping hand, clung to it, struggled on to the bottom rung, then the next, got a good grab on the side-rope, and then, bracing her feet against the side of the cruiser, she surged back and out, heaving with all her weight.

The helpful one yelled as his one-handed grip tore loose, hampered as it was by his ardent desire to hold the shotgun in that same hand. The scene seemed to hang for a moment in slow motion, the helmsman describing an arc over her head, her hand wrenching free of his, then darting out to catch the falling weapon. As he struck the water with a mighty splash, she went up the rest of the ladder like a cat and threw herself flat on the deck.

Solo made for the ladder hurriedly, glanced up to see a familiar double-muzzle aimed at him from over the bows, and dived fast. He came up in time to hear Sarah’s weapon speak loudly, saw that the menace from the bows no longer threatened, grabbed the ladder and went up as fast as he could, across the narrow deck and into the cover of the wheelhouse, where Sarah was busily stuffing fresh shells into the captured weapon.

“You won’t need that,” he panted. “Let me keep him busy with mine.”

“It’ll take the pair of us,” she argued. “He’s got plenty of cover up forward, and we’ve got to keep him busy, to give Illya a chance.”