Yvonne was pressed against Illya's shoulder. Her body shook.
Solo said. "Yvonne."
She turned, seeing he held one of the chute packs ready to harness it upon her.
"Oh, no," she whispered. "It does not matter about me. I am nobody."
"I got you in this," Solo said. "I'm getting you out of it. Now. Hurry! We've got no time to argue about it."
Her head tilted. She stared beyond his shoulder at the Eiffel Tower taking black shape directly ahead in the distance, seeming to hurtle toward them on its collision course.
She looked at Illya's battered face, at Lester slumped beside her, at Solo. Finally, her eyes brimming with tears, she nodded.
Solo harnessed the chute on Yvonne. He pushed open the door of the copter. She hung a moment on the brink. Then she hurtled outward, plunging downward.
Solo and Illya stared after her a moment as she careened over and over in space. Suddenly the lines of her chute streamed outward on the wind, the striped nylon whipped in the wind. Her skirts and the chute filled with air, and she went floating, sails and skirts like bright balloons in the sunlight.
The radio speaker crackled. "Solo? Are you still there, or have you abandoned the ship like a good little rat?"
"I'm here," Solo said.
"Why don't you jump? What's left, Solo? One chute? For three? You have little time left to choose the one worthy to live." Maunchaun's voice dripped sarcasm. "It will be a fearful, fiery death. You might live for some moments after the copter strikes the girders of the tower. I don't envy you your death, Solo."
Solo said nothing.
He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of the chute. He nodded at Illya, who worked swiftly with him, tightening until he was securely harnessed in it.
"Minutes left to you now, Solo." Maunchaun taunted.
Solo didn't even bother listening any more. He reached out, took the handcuffs chain-linked to the metal band at Illya's waist. He clicked one handcuff about Lester Caillou, the other to his own wrist. He secured his hand to the re1ease clip of the chute, thrust open the copter door.
"Hang on," he said.
Caillou and Illya clasped their arms about him. For one moment Solo stared at the huge black tower erupting through the trees toward them.
Below, the town stirred, aware of the small machine bearing toward the tower.
Solo thrust outward, leaping into the air, jerking on the ripcord at that instant.
As they leaped, Illya threw the handful of friction-bomb pellets with all his strength against the instrument panel.
For one moment longer the small plane held its unwavering course directly toward the upper reaches of the Eiffel Tower. Then it erupted in mid-air, fragmenting in blooms and plumes of fire. The parts of the plane flew wildly, like bright pinwheels.
The chute opened, jerking hard against the weight of the three men. It puffed tense and filled with air, staggered aimlessly across the atmosphere, dancing, bobbling, and finally righting itself, plummeting downward.
Solo heard Illya's relieved laughter. Then he heard Caillou laugh, too, and his heart leaped because he knew for the first time that Caillou would make it––to the waiting doctors and to full recovery.
They had won.
Solo heard more wild laughter, and realized, almost with a sense of shock, that the laughing was his own. It poured out of him.
They rocked earthward, laughing in triumph and the sheer wonder of being alive.
On the concourse below, an incredible crowd was gathering form, coming from everywhere, converging beneath them. Staring down, they saw that most of them were tourists, with cameras clicking.
The Brainwash Affair Page 8