The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 27

“Bumpy ride!” Solo shouted across the whipping breeze to his companion. “Not my idea of a pleasure cruise!” Kuryakin had his feet on the engine, his rump on the catwalk and one hand hanging onto the, rope rail. His straw-blond hair flattened in the wind as he nodded.

“This is only the river. Wait until we get out to seat” Solo looked back at the wide wake they were cutting, and felt suddenly very weary, the long hours of ceaseless activity beginning to catch up on him. His thoughts slid into a jumble of confused snatches and highlights.

He had always imagined Ireland as a dream country, all green and quiet and beautiful, a land jogging through history at a placid pace, content to laugh in the sun and take things easy. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had got the wrong impression. He dredged up odd fragments of beauty. The castle itself. The view over the wide Shannon estuary. Sarah—He looked at her now, squinting into the howling wind. She stood with her feet apart and firmly planted on the boards, her hands holding the wheel, her golden hair streaming back in the breeze.

It was hard to believe that she was a laboratory technician and as gadget-crazy as old Illya over there. Tough as whip-cord too, in her own wild way. She was positively enjoying herself now.

And Bridget—He frowned as he cast his mind back to her. Crooked as sin—or simply misled by the over-powering personality of her uncle? There was evidence to show that she was just as clever, in her own way, as the rest of the O’Rourke breed, and it doesn’t take much to divert a brilliant mind one way or the other, if you catch it young enough. Perhaps the shock of her uncle’s treachery would give her that little push to set her back on the right road? It would be a pity to see such a lovely girl go to waste.

All at once the launch heaved, leaped, and hit the water with a violent thump. He tightened his grip on the rope rail. Illya had been right about the sea. They were running now in a sharp swell, white foam crests rising and falling on all sides, the launch booming and plunging as it ran up the watery slopes and leaped and crashed back into the hollows. At the high point of each bounding leap they could just catch sight of land, away to port.

“We’re passing Kerry Head.” Sarah called, waving. Solo stood up by her side, clinging desperately to rope and windshield.

“You ever done this before?” he demanded, yelling against the wind.

“Not as fast as this. Good job there’s not much sea, or we wouldn’t be able to keep it up!” She ducked as the bows smacked into a wave and sent a whipping shower of spray over them all.

He squinted ahead and sighed. Not much hope of finding one cabin cruiser in all this watery waste. But they roared on just the same. In a while she told them they were rounding Blasket Island and heading south across Dingle Bay. Both men were drenched by now, but she was as lively as ever, her face rosily flushed in the breeze. They plunged and surged on, the little launch bucking and rolling in and out of the running wave-crests. All at once she let out a wild hail and pointed forward.

“Tell me what you see, right ahead of us there!”

Solo peered, blinked away a faceful of spray and peered again. It was a long way ahead, just visible as they rode the waves. Black and green, with a yellow him to the superstructure, and a slim mast with a yellow and green pennant. As he described it she nodded, shaking the hair out of her eyes.

“That’s the Princess all right, and we’re catching up on her!”

The two men braced themselves on either side of her, clutching the frail windshield and staring ahead. The cruiser drew steadily closer. They could see a moving figure now on its upper deck. The view was jumpy as their craft lifted and fell over the running sea.

“Look there!” Kuryakin extended his arm to point. “They’ve ditched something over the side. There it goes!”

Solo saw a tiny yellow object bob into view for a moment, then vanish again. He fixed his eye on it. Yellow?

“It’s one of those plastic containers with the stuff in it!” he shouted. “There! It’s floating!”

“What do we do now?” Sarah demanded.

“Head for it. Run up alongside it as close as you can!” He peered frantically around the launch, saw a boathook tucked away down there alongside the engine and dropped down to rake it out. The roaring eased by degrees to a throb and the launch began to wallow and roll heavily as she steered and eased the speed still more. The bobbing yellow thing came close, standing up out of the water like a diseased finger. It bobbed close enough to be reached and edged still closer with the hook. Then Kuryakin leaned hazardously over and seized it, heaved hard, and it came up and inboard. Solo scowled at it.

“Why would they throw it away like that?” he growled. “Why was it standing up in the water like that?” Illya countered. “Heavy end down! Let’s see!” He hoisted, reversing the canister. And they saw. Sarah had spoken of an insert in one end, and there it was. Solo looked, then met his colleague’s bleak gray eyes understanding.

“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.