by Simon Latter
"You've done all this?"
"Not yet. You set off the bang-bangs and disturbed me."
"Is this stuff dangerous?"
"In concentrated form—yes, I'd say it is." She pointed to the end wall. "There are gowns and mob-caps—like surgeons use, only in this weird metal stuff. Masks and gloves too."
"How much time have we?" Mark asked as he hurried to fetch the clothing.
"Until the guards come back, and as much time as we can make." April was turning valves and watching dials. "I don't know how long this thing will take for pressure to build up."
Mark took out his slim pigskin case. "I need a smoke. Have one?"
"Not now."
He put the case on the porcelain bench top near the vat and lit up. They helped each other on with the metal clothing, leaving the masks looped under their chins.
"You were quick," said April. "Your old-boy-pals act paid off, huh?"
"Thought you hadn't been in contact?"
"I mean Mr. Waverly. Good car?"
"Spot on. The plane was a bit ropey on one engine, but we made it. I cut off the moor road, risking a smashed axle or some such point. We've only to scoot around this place and on to the track leading to the road. Then we can make for Plymouth or back for the plane at Exeter. Might need gassing up."
"Or if in a hurry, call the French choppers."
"Looks as if the noble Count has bought it."
"Dead?"
Mark shrugged. "Surrounded by figures in this metal gear last time we heard of him. THRUSH hijacked his chopper. But Sama Paru is around some place. Isn't this blasted thing cooking yet?"
April grinned. "Hungry?"
"Don't remind me—I am!" He plumed smoke. "So you managed to get Papa out of here. Nice work."
"Thanks. Seems you did a neat job in Regent's Park."
They smiled at each other.
"You're gorgeous," said Mark. "Nice holiday?"
"Delightful! I think supper's about ready." She laughed. "Those guards must have wondered whether to stay or come back here."
"Would they have heard the bang-bangs?"
She shrugged. "Possibly—but even so, they'll take time to get back. Pull up your mask and stand by."
Mark said: "There's a release valve this side. I'll ease it off if you strike trouble."
"Here goes!" April pushed home the container. In her eagerness to ram it hard enough to perforate the sealing and so lock the container to the filler valve, she tilted it slightly off-center. A stream of fluid hissed over her hands and the porcelain-topped bench. Mark spun the release valve, but the injector had ceased.
"Timed flow," he said, screwing up the valve. "Try again."
April took another cylinder. This time she made no error. The hissing of the injector stopped. The container jerked back in her hands. She shook it gently, inspected it. "One more for luck." She filled another, collected a handful of taps, put these and the containers in the bag, zipped it up, then turned to see Mark staring at the bench.
"My God! This stuff's a killer—look at my case! Or what was my case." The pigskin had dissolved into a gooey mess, shriveled away from the metal frame.
"Neat K.S.R.6," said April, spreading her gloved hands. "It sprayed all over these; but they're okay."
"Car-iss-ima! What will it do to the human skin?"
"It isn't intended for use on skin, but people in constant contact with it must wear this type of clothing."
Mark nodded. "It jells, darling—it jells. Clever girl! Those chicks in Carnaby Street gave you the lead?"
April smiled. "I'd like to go down to posterity as a genius, but no—not as simple as that. I thought the dresses intriguing. I couldn't see why they were being modeled so publicly, because they weren't on sale. Then I saw Dr. Karadin and a silly little bell started ringing in my wee head. Years ago he had this thing about the Parsimal Theory—I won't go into that now—but he also had a very, very big thing about a world currency. He belonged to a wealthy family, but some collapse of the currency in which their wealth was invested wiped out his inheritance."
"So he became a fanatic on the subject? That's understandable. It ain't funny to see all your buy go down the spout."
"That's true. But he made a lot of trouble for himself. Professors in politics, or those who interfere in political issues, are not very popular. Yet he was a brilliant scientist. I think he still is." She stared at Mark. "What is worse than a brilliant scientist who becomes a nutcase?"
"Two ditto scientists."
"One is enough to devise a bomb."
"And if that one defects with his nasty little secret..."
"… and finds someone who not only believes in him and his work but guarantees him a fortune and—say—a world currency?..."
Mark grinned. "I'd better empty my teapot!"
"Teapot?"
"Weak joke. An old British custom. They can't abide to throw away old teapots. They keep 'em and stuff 'em with money for their holidays or a rainy day. Yes—I don't need a diagram to see the connection." He paused, gazing at April as he said slowly: "That's what happened to my cash paper money—and yours! Holy Hannibal—wotta jolly old carve-up!"
"But not Dr. Karadin's cash in its" — she flicked the gown—"in its cozy metal protection."
"Nor Suzanne's with her little purse ditto."
April grinned. "So you put the bite on her for lunch?" Then seriously tapping the vat: "This is neat K.S.R.6 in here. It stands weakening to around a thousand to one."
"A thousand to one what?"
"Rain water, or specially softened water. It is designed to be spun out under pressure and is so constituted that it remains in miniscule globules."
"You should put that to music. So we are surrounded by miniscule globules. Why then does not our skin peel off?"
"In that diffused solution it doesn't affect the skin. As the moisture dries out, a vapor is released from each globule. This vapor has an affinity of reconstitution with banknote paper and the ink used to print it. The dosage can be varied for each country, according to types of paper and ink. The vapor penetrates clothing, purses, wallets, through cracks in doors or safes, is carried into banks, shops—anywhere. All paper money will absorb it—some parchments or heavy quality paper also can be affected. Once the vapor reaches your money it at once reconstitutes itself and, in the process, turns your lovely crisp notes into an ugly, indistinguishable mess."
"So all we have to do is carry ruddy great bags of silver—at least those who have enough notes left to change into silver?"
"Don't be a fool, Mark."
"Sorry, mate. You've certainly done your homework. So this is Karadin's base and jollop factory?"
"The British one. Important, I think, because the British print currency for a number of countries. And possibly the first, being easiest for Karadin to prove his case to his backers. But make no mistake, Mark—this is global, and their plans must be pretty far advanced."
"Ye gods! The Global Globules! Darling—they won't believe us! And if they do..." He paused and whistled softly.
"Yes," she said. "It doesn't call for much imagination to picture the panic by ordinary people whose wages and housekeeping money is suddenly worthless—the run on all banks and currency issuing centers. Even their vaults aren't safe. Chaos—economic chaos. Would the way be open for a world currency? But that is only a starter."
"Is there an antidote—or whatever the stuff might be called?"
"I wouldn't know." She touched his silvery metal sleeve. "Only this stuff is protection..."
Mark whirled, running to the window as they heard thunder flashes exploding. "The guards are back! More of them than I thought—and three are not wearing metal clothes."
"We'll have to bluff them," said April. "With the face masks pulled up..."
"...And these comical hats. Hold on to that bag, me old darling—I'll cover your getaway." He fumbled under the gown for his pocket. "The car keys."
"Both of us
"No�
��dammit it, woman, stop being so bloody equal!" He grinned. "And anyway, that bag is bigger than both of us!"
April said: "The metal men are going around that end—we'll go out the front hall. The other three are heading thataway."
They left the room, masks pulled up.
Mark said, close to her ear: "Car radio—red switch on left—push down for open circuit Channel D link with all-Europe H.Q."
She nodded, briefly. Her eyes smiled at him. Then they were in the hall.
The three men had just entered.
"... Where's that old fool Sam?" a dark, thick-set man was saying. "Ah! Ingrid! What's going on here? I couldn't raise the house on the car phone. And what the hell are the guards doing, parading over the moors in their K suits? We've finished tests." He halted, peering hard, obviously noting the difference in coloring of eyes and hair. "You're not Ingrid—"
April Dancer took one pace forward, then a swift side step as the man's hand flashed to a shoulder gun. Her free hand flicked across his eyes, the point of her shoe swinging against the most vulnerable point of his knee. His body came forward and down as his leg gave way, leaving his neck a perfect target. April didn't waste the target. Her hand chopped down. His body pitched forward and lay still.
The other two men had stood back, undecided, and not quick enough to move as fast as their companion. Mark Slate took one of them, crashed him to the floor and got a wrist hold on the second man's gun-arm before the gun was leveled. The gun fired upwards. Mark broke the man's arm, then in a flurry of blows collapsed him.
April was nearing the door, tearing off the restricting gown.
"Come!" she called as Mark picked up the man's gun. The door burst open and more metal-clad figures rushed in.
"Go!" Mark yelled to her. "Go—gal––go!"
CHAPTER SEVEN: PRETTY LADY LIKE LIFT?
THE incoming guards had set off smoke traps in the driveway when their Land Rover swung around at the far end, running over a section of the lawn to miss a Jaguar car parked slantways by the front door.
A veil of white smoke hid the end of the building through which Mark had entered. Two men in metal suits were dowsing part of the drive with hand fire extinguishers—possibly to neutralize other devices. They saw April run out, one arm still in the metal gown, the mask still on her face. Obviously thinking she was Ingrid, they came towards her, calling: "Go back, Miss—go back!" and pointing to the lawn where smoke still wreathed over the grass.
April called: "Get on with your work and mind your own business."
The nearest man hesitated.
"D'you hear me?" April yelled. "Do as I say!" The authority in her voice was made more effective by her own urgency.
This bluff worked and the man turned back. April sped across the lawn, around a clump of rhododendrons towards the main gate. Out of sight now, she shed the metal garb, rolled it up, stuffed it into the zipped bag and raced for the wall.
She could have cleared the fence, but the wall was a better bet, this section being screened from the house. Over the wall, a quick survey for direction and on she raced, to where she judged the car would be hidden.
"Ooh—you beauty!" she panted as she reached the sleekly powerful car and eased herself behind the wheel.
She depressed the red switch near the radio panel.
"This is April Dancer—hear me! April Dancer and Mark Slate in vicinity of Dartmoor house called Moorfell. Have vital information and samples for urgent collection. Send nearest helicopter for pick-up from Aston Martin car on moor. I then return to house to aid Mark Slate. This is April Dancer. I wait."
She heard the click-burr of the connectors as the H.Q. relay opened the European circuits and linked them with New York. Then Robbo's voice said: "London H.Q. Hear me!"
"I hear."
"Sama Paru and helicopter already in Dorset is on the way. Will need you in open for pick-up."
"Of course you will," said April. "Am I so dumb?"
"You never were, my dear Miss Dancer," said Mr. Waverly's voice. "Your information and samples urgently required—also your report. Proceed by helicopter to our laboratories outside Le Havre."
"But Mark Slate is back there..." she began.
"I have no doubt that what Mr. Slate gets into, he will find a way out of," said the urbane Mr. Waverly. "Contact me from Le Havre. Good luck!"
"H.Q. out," said Robbo.
"And good luck to you too!" April snarled. She started the engine, blipped the accelerator, rejoicing in the powerful roar, set the gear and put the big car into full stride.
The tires slithered, the suspension protested, the wheel bucked in her hands as the car zoomed over the grass and heather of the moor. She had to hold opposite lock continually to keep the car heading towards the track leading from Moorfell, which she was skirting in a half-circle.
Once on the track she notched up the gears, misjudged the effect of a rain-greased surface and felt the rear-end break away, too late to hold it. Revs were too high, rear wheels sliding, front wheels skittery. She steered into the skid, pulled the handbrake full on and brought the car around in a controlled spin, applied opposite lock, released brake and cut power. The car rocked to a halt, facing the house.
As April geared the car and began turning again, she saw the Jaguar come speeding from the driveway.
"Blast!" She flung another look behind her. The car held two figures. "Thought it might have been Mark." She settled down to a desperate drive.
Desperate it was. The Jag driver knew the road. April did not, but her photographic memory came to her aid. She flashed in a mental picture of the moor road she had glimpsed as Karadin's helicopter had come in to land, recalled the track joining the road, and another road cutting diagonally across to one of the tors.
The Aston Martin zoomed off the track in a controlled power slide—a glorious four-wheeled drift that would, on a race track, have delighted the purists—then bucketed along the road. The Jaguar lost ground.
April glanced up. The sky held that strange golden light which comes often after an apparently approaching dusk. The land was sharp-etched, the air still and clear. Day stood poised on the edge of night. And in the distance, away to her right, she saw a small black speck, too distant to be a hawk, too wingless to be a plane. She flicked the red switch, looked in the mirror. The Jag was two corners behind her.
She drove full bore into the road-junction approach—as if she were going straight on. Then with a skilful toe-and-heel action, she stabbed on the brake pedal, blipped the accelerator, snicked the gear lever into second, released brake and power, held the car into the skid and zoomed at right angles into the diagonal road.
In the mirror she saw the Jag overshoot and slide into a wild skid so that it had to backup. Breathing space was now hers. She could also see the chopper. She turned the radio volume up to full power.
Then the engine cut out—stuttered, roared on. April glanced at the fuel gauge. The needle was juddering against "empty".
"Oh, great!" she exclaimed. "Just great! Come on, beauty—squeeze that tank dry!"
The radio boomed and crackled, but the voice was lost in the noise. Meanwhile the Jaguar was gaining slightly. April conserved gas by an easy throttle. The speed was still around seventy, dropping from ninety.
Inspiration flashed into her mind. She pulled U.N.C.L.E. gum from her pocket and began to chew the saliva-activated explosive.
The radio became clear. "Helicopter to car. Sama Paru to April Dancer. Hear me?"
"Yum-yum-yum!" said April, chewing for dear life and trying to watch Jaguar and helicopter at the same time.
"I do not read," said Sama Paru.
"Yum!" yelled April, dripping saliva.
The car jerked from gas starvation. She looked back, judged the distance, steadied the car, took the now enlarged wad of gum from her mouth and flung it over-arm to the rear of the car.
"Pretty lady like lift?" said Sama Paru. The chopper was now slip-sliding above her. A nylon and metal ladder dropp
ed down from the hatch.
She looked back as the Aston Martin's engine began its last coughing revs. She heard no explosion, only saw the light mist of the energy-release-wave. The Jaguar's front wheels reared up and the whole car swung to one side, rear wheels plowing into turf. Then it careered on to the near-side fender corner, pancaked, and rolled over.
At that moment the Aston's gas gave out. The car stopped with a jolt that sent April's head against the wheel. The helicopter over-ran, swung out, dipped and came back—ladder trailing. April gathered the bag around her shoulders, stood on the car seat, grabbed and leapt upwards.
"Oh—very pretty!" said Sama Paru admiringly.
Then she was nearing the roaring rotors, and all other sound was lost. Sama leaned over to help her inside. He grinned at her, pointing ahead.
"Would that be Mark?"
April peered into the golden light, shading her eyes to focus on the dark ground. She saw a man's figure against a rocky tor, with five silvery-clad figures closing on him.
Mark heard the Aston roar past. He had a busy ten minutes, dropping one guard and wounding another, when the gun jammed. He couldn't reach his U.N.C.L.E. gun from under the gown, so he lifted the wounded man and flung him at the group emerging from the driveway, before speeding out of the hail into the opposite wing.
He reached an office where a woman in a white coat was peacefully sleeping.
"Pardon me!" he said as he stripped off the gown. He looked at the woman again, and shrugged. "Methinks you met the lovely April!"
He heard the guards crashing open doors, left the office, reached the room with the racks full of assorted items and whistled softly. Ideas clicked into his mind, but he had no time to formulate them. He missed the exit door and turned down the slope into a long, glow-lighted basement. It was full of Noddy bikes—little putt-putt scooters beloved by teenagers—and some older types. Clamped above each petrol tank was what appeared to be a reserve oil tank.
Mark recognized this as a container of K.S.R.6. A pipe ran through the bike frame from the container to a plastic water bottle, such as long-distance cyclists carry for glucose, fruit, or even plain drinking water.
