The floor of the truck was hard and equipped with painful bumps that took their toll as the truck heeled around a corner before striking the road. Solo knew he had only the scantiest chance of ever seeing daylight and fresh air again. Hopwell had put plenty of muscle into the roping, and Louise was no help. He squirmed desperately, begging her pardon silently for being rough but intent on getting his hands close enough together so that he might reach the knife that was stuck to his right forearm. The only way was to hug her tight, and she was a buxom girl. The truck took another bend violently, and he rolled, cracking his head on the hard floor, but the jar had helped. He gripped his own fingers, heaved savagely, got his fingertips to the haft of the knife and breathed all the way out so that he could gain an extra inch. Then he had it. Seconds more and the nearest rope was in pieces. Hauling back, he slit the sack enough to get his nostrils to the gap and suck in a much needed breath. He didn't know whether he was being observed or not, and this was no time to worry. He enjoyed the breath, then used the knife fast, got himself out of the sack, and was able to look around.
The truck was empty of everything but a spare fuel can and the bodies. The back wall was blank. The twin doors had tiny windows. He peered out just in time to see the main road intersection slip backward into the night. He knew where he was now, for what good that was. Turning to the other sack, he got busy with the knife and had Illya free. The Russian agent was barely conscious, his eyes glazed.
Solo went back to his vantage point by the small windows, sparing only a moment to grab a sack and spread it, not very effectively, over Louise's nude body. "Got to get you to a doctor," he mumbled, "among other things. Got a lot to do and nothing to do it with."
Kuryakin sat up weakly. The truck swung into another sharp curve, and he rolled over again, grunting painfully. Through the windows Solo saw a high wire fence and then the scattered debris of construction, the tall gray ghosts of buildings. The truck halted, began to back up and around, and he saw double gates standing open. Just beyond were the low roofed sheds of temporary offices and haphazard piles of girder strip and wooden boxes. On beyond those again stood the gaunt white bulk of multistory block, and beside it the fragile looking skeleton frame of a monotower crane. The truck shuddered to a stop. Solo tensed as he heard doors slam at the front of the truck and then Rambo's giant voice.
"You be dragging one out, Hoppy, while I talk to this feller, see what he wants us to do."
Kuryakin sat up, groaning, and Solo hissed him to silence urgently, listening to the approaching footsteps. He gathered himself by the door, and as it clicked and swung open for Hopwell to lean in, he struck, hard and savage, with both hands and all his might. Hat, head and shoulders went down with a crack against the steel stripped floor; then Solo leaped catlike right over him and turned to do what battle he could. But there was no need. One touch of the sagging body told him that.
"What now, Napoleon?"
"What else? It's crazy, but I'll have to play it by ear. Give me a hand to get his jacket off and then we'll stuff him in the sack."
Within minutes Hopwell's body was roped, and Solo, with the hat jammed on his head and the garish jacket in place, stooped and took hold. "I'll deliver this. You follow up, stay out of sight until we get an idea going. Right?"
He got a good grip, hoisted, grunted with the strain, and went plodding away with Hopwell's limpness sagging over his shoulders and his head well tucked down to avoid recognition. He heard, now, a high pitched squealing voice that had to be Wendig. He sounded Welsh and bad tempered.
"Only two of you? What does that fat fool think I am, a magician? Who's going to take the crane?"
"I can handle that bit," answered Rambo. "Done it before."
"All right, get going! Is that it?"
Solo staggered close, spun round to peer, saw Rambo striding away to the foot of the crane, met the bright little eyes of the foreman staring.
"This is one of them, yes." He stooped and let the sacked body fall to the ground, and stretched up gratefully. "Now what?"
"Hmm! I can't do six different things at once, can I? You know how to feed a mixer?"
"Sorry, no idea."
"That's a great help you are, then. Hell!" Wendig swung around, his face screwing up into a scowl. "I'll have to do that bit myself. Hey!" He put his head back and squealed up into the darkness. "You let the hooks down here, right away!" He spun around again. "You stay there a minute." Seconds later two spotlights flared into life, aimed up at the building and the crane. Wendig came back, striking a switch that set the mixer grinding loudly.
"You'll have to go up with the hooks," he said, "and that!"
"I what?" Solo stared at him, "You must be joking!"
"Damn and blast it, man!" Wendig squealed furiously. "I haven't got the time for playing about. I haven't got six arms, see? I have to make the mix, all ready. Your mate is on the crane. Somebody has to ride up there with that and disconnect it so that the hooks can come back down for the next one. I can go and get that, easily enough, as soon as I've got a mix going. But somebody has got to go with the hooks. You!"
Solo gulped, stared up at the looming building. Black rectangles of windows stared at him blindly from gray walls festooned with a spider web of scaffolding. He shifted his gaze to the unlikely frailty of the crane, with the great jib stretching out and the cluster of concrete blocks at the other end to balance the weight. He swallowed again as out of the gloom came two massive and grit crusted hooks on the end of twin chains. The chains and hooks fell swiftly, swayed toward him, then halted a moment, to drop the last few feet and sprawl right alongside the sack.
"All right?" Wendig demanded. "Up you go, then!" Unwillingly, but unable to see any way out of it, Solo stooped and grabbed the gritty hooks, jamming them under the rope loops, wide apart. Reluctantly he set his feet by them, clutched the chains, and heard Wendig shriek out.
"Hey, up there! You take him up nice and steady, now. Put him down by that stair well, all right?"
Rambo's reply was a monstrous bellow of laughter. The links came taut, and Solo groaned as his weight grew large and the sagging burden lifted and buckled. He clung frantically, watching the ground fall away. The gray face of the building slid down and past like a nightmare. Then, with added height, the unfinished top of the building was below him, a pattern in stark black and white like some scene from an abstracted hell. The upward surge stopped abruptly, and, all at once Solo was weightless as the load ran down and the pockmarked surface there seemed to leap up.
He came to a spinning, swinging halt about a foot above the surface, drew a deep breath, and then Rambo let him go, let him fall the last short bit with a bone shaking thud. He crashed, pitched forward, put up his arms to save himself, rolled to the edge of a patch of black shadow, hung there for one awful second, then tumbled over. The drop was no more than three feet but it was enough to shock him and rasp his elbows and knees into agony. The crane whirred again, and here came the sack, slithering and sliding, to fall into the hole with him, knocking him staggering again. Once more Rambo laughed.
"Cast her off, Hoppy. Want them hooks for the next one." Solo squinted up under the brim of the hat, up at the spidery structure of the tower and the jib, until his eyes found the cab with its windows, no more than ten feet down from the cross member which carried the jib. He got a glimpse of Rambo's face and toothy grin. He fumed inwardly, turned, and caught his foot in what appeared to be a U shaped length of stout steel rod. Crouching, he investigated and found it was solidly rooted in the previous layer. He turned to fumble with the limp sack, disengaged a hook, slipped it under the U piece and over, linking the beak into the chain itself. A moment later he had done the same with the other one. All in the dark. Rambo couldn't see. He stood cautiously, backed away, then made a sign, threw his hand up in the air—and prayed that Rambo would be as heavy handed as before.
He heard the motors howl, saw the chains snap taut—and sing! And then grate against an impossible strain. Up
there the motors screeched up into overload and then beyond into destruction before the safety cutouts could save them. Solo stared up in fascination as the long jib bowed down, its cables quivering and lashing, the cluster of counterweights at the other end dancing lazily upward. And then down again. Time seemed to congeal into a crawl. Rambo shouted in fury. The cables lashed and spoke like huge harpstrings. The spindly monotower whipped, sighed, groaned and then gave off a crack like a cannon. And buckled. And fell, snapping like a carrot at its weakest point, just below the cabin.
Solo shrank, wrapped his arms about his head and fell flat on his face, half-stunned by the gargantuan scream and cry of destruction, cringing from the infernal barrage of shearing, bursting nuts and bolts. Under him the concrete shook as the jib, canting sideways, slammed into the top of the building.
Daring to peer up, Solo saw the twisted framework of the tower immediately above him. There came the squeal and spang of some strip of metal driven to destruction, and a bulleting rivet head smashed into the concrete in front of his face, struck a trail of sparks, and wailed away into the night. Then the silence rushed in, thick and cold.
TWELVE
IT WAS QUIET. Too quiet. Beyond the ringing in his head, Solo could hear the stillness. He scrambled up, heaving away the metal bar across his back. What a hell of a mess! He drew a deep breath, spat out some stone dust, set off to wander drunkenly to the edge of the surface, tripping and stumbling over chunks of wood, treacherous loops and hooks of wire, odd split levels in the concrete, and he came to a fragile looking barrier of scaffold tubing. He clung and craned over, stared down.
Still it was quiet. Away down there among the toy-sized objects he saw three spreading triangles, the yellow of sand, red of gravel and white of cement, and the tiny red mixer at their common focus. But it was still and silent. Perhaps Wendig had gone away! Solo pondered that a moment, his brain lurching loosely around in his skull. Turning, his eye caught a glint of light. Up there. A window swinging in the breeze. The crane cabin! What about Rambo? Solo aimed himself at the spot where the great box column of the crane leaned against the roof and started towards it.
Just here the scaffolding had been warped and smashed aside. He picked his way around it, leaned out and laid his hand on the main angle steel.
"Climb up," he told himself. "Got to check up. Make sure. Finish it off properly." He nodded at this sound piece of reasoning and had to take hold of his head to stop the nodding from going on indefinitely. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took hold, and started to climb. After the first strain, it was simple enough. All he had to do was to lean on the girder, stretch out, hold, bring up his feet, stretch out again. Engrossed in this, he suddenly realized that something was moving besides himself on the flat concrete, and he held still to watch, frowning gently.
It was Wendig. The thick chested bare headed foreman seemed to come from nowhere, out of a dark shadow. He glared around savagely, twisted back for a look up at the wreckage, ran heavily out into an open area and swore. After a string of profanity that made Solo shake his head, he stooped and caught up an eight foot length of aluminum pole.
"Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "Where?"
Before Solo could decide whether to reply, another shadow came out into the light on Wendig's heels. This one had a shock of fair hair that was almost white in the floodlights, had dirt and sweat on its face, white dust down the side of its sweater and pants, and it stood still now, panting and watching Wendig. Solo stared, then grinned delightedly.
"Why, there's Illya!" he murmured, went to lift a hand to wave and the movement almost dislodged him from his perch. He clutched again, tight.
"You calling me?" Kuryakin said, and Wendig spun around. "Who the hell are you?"
"One of the people you were going to bury in concrete."
The burly foreman froze for just one breath, then launched himself in murderous attack, moving fast, swinging the metal tube. Kuryakin ducked and fell aside, lashed out with a foot, and Wendig plunged on, full tilt, into a concrete edge. Squealing, he turned and came back. Kuryakin ran heavily across the open flat and stooped to grab a length of some thing to use as a weapon. Wendig tore after him, hoisted his tube and hammered down with it. Kuryakin met it, fended it, and the short length of timber he had found shattered and broke, and he went down and back from a numbing blow on his shoulder. Wendig squealed again, charged in, hammered down, and the metal tube clanged on the concrete as his target rolled frantically out of the way.
The foreman was thickset and enraged but nimble on his feet. He came around again, crouched a moment, then charged, but now he was learning caution. This time he wielded the scaffold tube at waist level like a stout spear. Kuryakin backed away cautiously, then deliberately came forward and grabbed the thrusting end and hung on. Wendig heaved back, snorting. Kuryakin set his feet, but he was outclassed for weight. Wendig dragged him, shaking the tube furiously. All at once Kuryakin reversed his tactics, shoved forward violently, and Wendig went tottering back, completely off-balance, falling and unable to regain stability because Kuryakin was shoving. A frantic look over his shoulder told him the end was near, the edge of the building very close. With a squeal he threw away the pole, scrabbling to check his fall. Kuryakin tried to brake too, but too late. The pole clanged aside. Solo saw the pair of them clump together in a tangle of clutching arms and go to the brink in a crazy waltz.
They struck a scaffold pole fence, and it creaked, yielded, and then Wendig was going—up in the air and over— screaming as he fell out of sight. Kuryakin went over too, until his legs, desperately crooked, caught at the pole and he hung there, swinging. Just for a moment; then he grabbed upward with one hand, then the other, heaved and writhed and managed to get himself upright. Then, with a convulsive leap, he flung himself back on to the safety of the concrete, staggered forward, and went down on his hands and knees.
Solo nodded to himself happily, then remembered his own errand. He looked up. Got to fix Rambo. Not far, now. He began to climb again. The girder gave way to locking plates, then another girder, and then the base of the cabin. A door, but it was shut, and it would have meant forsaking the girder and launching out into the emptiness in the middle of the square. So Solo decided against that, decided instead to go on up the outside and look into the swinging window. He applied his abraded fingers with care, heaved until his head came up level with the dark opening, and peered in. Breathing. A grunt. Then a huge hand on the end of an arm like a beam came out of the dark and took him by the throat.
"Waited for you," a deep chested voice growled. "Heard you coming up the steel. Got you now, mister!"
Solo tried to shake his neck free and the pressure went on until he felt his face going blue. Blood pounded in his head, and his lungs ached.
"You done me, mister. I'm all smashed up inside. But you're going with me. We is going to sing Hallelujah together, you and me!"
That grip was evidence that Rambo meant every word. Solo had no free hands to tackle it. He was suspended on the underside of an angle. To let go meant to fall. His wits churned. If he didn't let go and do something he was dead anyway. His lungs were bursting. Far away, over the thunder, he heard a voice.
"Napoleon, what are you doing up there?"
There was nothing else to do. He let go both hands, clamped them on the massive arm that was choking the life out of him and let his whole weight fall on Rambo's arm. Something had to go. Something did. He felt himself go sluggishly backward and then down, caught a glimpse of a dark face, gleaming teeth and staring eyes as Rambo was dragged bodily out of the window. And then he fell. The white concrete came up to meet him, and he had one brief flash of Illya's amazed stare, directly below. Then the smash of impact and merciful darkness.
This time I'm ready dead, he thought. It's happened at last! and there was a certain sadness about it. But not for long. Aches began to report themselves, from his hands, his knees, the small of his back and his throat, and he sighed and decided there was
nothing else to do but to wake up and start all over again. He stirred, tried to raise himself, and there was an arm across his neck. Rambo's arm, but Rambo would never need it again. He struggled free, sat up, worked his head and neck gingerly and saw Illya near by, curled up and sleeping soundly.
"Hoy!" He reached over and shook, firmly. "Can't sleep here!"
"Not sleeping. Dying. Look." Kuryakin opened one eye accusingly. "Next time you hurl yourself off somewhere, shout a warning, eh?"
"Should know better, man like you. Never stand right under. Always back off a little. Anyway, can't die here, up in the air. Got to go down."
"How?"
"You came up," Solo reasoned. "So must be possible to go down again. Come on, show me."
Kuryakin stirred, sat up stiffly, managed to get to his feet on the third try and stood looking down. "Come on, then!"
"Oh!" Solo realized he was still sitting, put out a hand, shoved the inert bulk of Rambo's shoulder carefully aside and made it to his feet. He waved Illya to lead on, and all at once his mind became pinpoint clear, completely detached from his battered body. Hopwell, gone. Wendig, gone. Rambo, gone. Who was left? He thought carefully while his automatic arms and legs descended a stairwell into gloom, down, and around, and down, and around, moving in blackness, into the glare from windows and into blackness again. Who now? Well, there was still Green. And Beeman. Somebody else. Groping, he came up with the name Louise, remembered who she was and that started something else to mind. The small truck. Sacks. He watched his shambling form come out on to the level, into the reflected glare from the lights, and urged himself to get with it again.
19 - The Power Cube Affair Page 12