19 - The Power Cube Affair (8 page)

"That sounds like him," Solo grinned. "What do you fancy for lunch? There's a fair stock of supplies, and Illya is a fine short order cook."

She wasn't very interested in food. Instead, she made Solo show her exactly where and how they had found Guard and what they had done.

"It's hard to imagine," she said, "now that you've cleaned it all up. Stone floors don't leave traces. I shall have to get Charles to let me hear that tape for myself."

"I wouldn't," Solo advised. "It's not nice, nor necessary for what you'd learn from it. We've told you all the bits that matter."

"Will you stop trying to protect me?" She eyed the room, then looked out of the window. "Do you suppose we could find the actual place on the beach where she died?"

"We can try. Johnny described it fairly well."

"Please," she said, and Solo exchanged resigned glances with Kuryakin. They went out of the beach side door onto a small platform and then down a flight of wooden steps to the narrow concrete strip which ended just a yard beyond the house. She paused a moment to take in the scene, the headlands on either side, the sea, which was far out now.

"Your man certainly likes to be isolated," she said, as they started to walk. "I gathered he was that type, just talking to him. We are all isolated, of course, from each other, but very few of us dare to face that fact. And don't quote Donne at me!"

"No man is an Island—why not?"

"Donne was talking in terms of responsibility. We have to feel some kind of responsibility for each other, or civilization would perish. But we are in fact, each one of us, isolated from the other. Napoleon, do you think I am morbid, actually wanting to see the very spot where Mary died?"

"Let's just say I don't see how it will do any good."

"But it will. It will help to keep me aware of the hard facts of life. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't just a game, that people do get killed, and that it could be my turn any time I get careless."

"It's a point," he agreed, then halted to raise an arm. "I think that must be it. A hollow in the pebbles where he crouched to watch, and there's the water line at high tide."

Solo had to admit, if only to himself, that there was an unreal sense about this business. Here, with a breeze gently tugging at her little girl dress, the bright sunshine striking highlights from her pale blonde hair, it was hard to imagine that Miss Perrell was standing, then crouching, at the very spot where one of her colleagues had coughed up blood and died an inglorious death. Still harder was it to believe that John Guard, involved purely by chance, had been immediately attacked and left for dead. That kind of thing didn't fit this beach, the quiet sunshine. Miss Perrell stood up, looked out to sea, then turned and came back to him.

"That will do it," she said. "Let's go back."

They went up the slope to the concrete wall, and she scrambled up, disdaining his help, then stood and looked down at him.

"Wait a bit," she said, and he waited. The breeze tweaked at her skirt, so that he saw for a moment the glitter of the buckle on her thigh strapped holsters. "I want some stones," she said, "About so big," and she indicated with a finger and thumb something the size of a tennis ball. "I think about ten or twelve. Pass them up."

He shrugged, gathered up stones for her until she was satisfied, then climbed up to join her, took some of them. They started walking back to the steps.

"Aren't you going to ask why?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

"That I will. You'll see."

They halted at the foot of the steps. She moved to the upward edge of the concrete and arranged the stones in a row, about six inches apart, right on the edge.

"Let's go and eat now," she suggested, and led the way lip the steps. Music met their ears as they went inside.

"What on earth—?"she tilted her head to listen to the cascade of interwoven sound. "I'm sure I know that, but not in that form."

"Bach," Kuryakin explained.

"But that's keyboard music. Heavens, I used to play this thing once. They are ringing it!"

"Haven't you ever heard the Swingle Singers?"

She hadn't and was most intrigued. All through the meal she and Kuryakin talked music, and Solo got the impression that she was rather put out by the depth and range of the Russian agent's knowledge.

She's obviously interested in music
, he thought,
but Illya's making her sound like a stumbling amateur, and she doesn't like it a bit
. Guard had four Swingle albums in his record collection, and by the time they had been played Miss Perrell had had enough.

"Leave the washing up a moment," she said, pushing away from the table. They followed her out on to the little balcony. She indicated the stones; then with a smooth movement she drew one of her guns.

"Target practice," Kuryakin guessed. "You're not giving yourself much of a mark to shoot at, are you?"

"You two said you'd seen weapons like these before, but have you used them at all? Care to show me?" She offered one gun to Solo, who put up his hands in rejection.

"I'm no expert. I've handled one, yes."[1]

Miss Perrell sat on the top step, braced her forearm on a knee, took careful aim, and fired. There was a quiet pop and then the delayed whip crack sound far ahead of the muzzle. Down there a chip of concrete sprang away in dust by the side of the center stone, close enough to stir it.

On her second shot it leaped away into the sunshine with a howl. She opened her palm and handed the gun to Solo.

"Let's see you," she said. He took it, shrugged as he examined it.

"I said I'm no expert, and this thing isn't intended to be accurate. The slugs are miniature rockets, which throws the customary trajectory all cockeyed. For one thing, they take off slow but accelerate past the sound barrier within the first few feet. The real virtue of the thing is the hitting power. As you know, the impact value derives from half the mass times the square of the velocity, so there's quite a clout at the far end. Still, if you insist!"

Kuryakin, elbowed on the balcony to one side, hid his grin. He knew what was going to happen next. Solo wrapped his hand around the weapon gently, gazed at the patient row of stones, and took seemingly casual aim. The gun spoke softly but fast—six snap cracks of sound—and from the end of the line six stones sprang smartly into the air, spraying dust.

"Not bad at all," he said, handing it back to her, "once you get the hang of it."

He thought he had never seen before such naked hate as was in her eyes at that moment. She took the gun and smacked it into its place.

"Don't I get a try?" Kuryakin complained, and she wheeled on him.

"All right, so you're both pretty smart with guns. But there are other things. Come on inside!" She led the way with hard angry steps. The two men shook their heads at each other and followed. She seized the table, sent it rolling away from the center of the room with a vigorous shove, then turned on Kuryakin again.

"Your turn," she said, "and this time we'll see how good you are with no weapons at all." She put fingers over her head to a button or two, grasped her hem and hoisted, took the dress up over her head and off.

"Goods in the window," Solo murmured, moving to the table and hitching his hip on it.

"You said one tends to lean on gadgets, to get fat and slow." She peeled off the holsters, laid them on the table, then stared at him. "Fat and slow?"

"I was quoting John Guard," Solo defended. "And he had a point, but it didn't refer to you. Just what are you trying to prove?"

"That I am not the weak and defenseless female you think I am." She wheeled away, trod to the center of the room and faced Kuryakin. She kicked off her sandals and now was wearing only a sheer body clinging garment of some kind in black cobwebby stuff. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He saw her chin come up and out as she challenged his colleague, and seeing the pair of them like this he realized there was very little difference between them in height, weight or reach. The difference was entirely in the arrangement of adipose tissue.

"You can have me," she said flatly. "All you have to do is come and get me—if you can!"

Illya was wary. "Suppose I don't want you?"

"Then I am going to get you. I mean it!"

"You're a fool. This is a stone floor. You'll get hurt."

"Save the excuses for when you need them." She crouched and spread her arms in readiness. Kuryakin sighed, unbuttoned his coat and half-turned to shrug it off. She sprang instantly, one arm flashing up and down in a neck chop that should have finished him there and then, except that he rolled with it and away from it and came up as far as one knee with the coat off and clear.

"Lesson one," she said. "Don't be careless."

"Thank you," he said, flexing his neck carefully.

She came in fast then, darting out a hand. He reached past it with seeming ease and clamped on her wrist. She whirled and ducked, twisted, coming in to get his arm over her shoulder, ready to throw him away. Only it didn't happen like that. Before she could heave he had brought his arm across and under her chin, together with her wrist. Then she heaved. And grunted. And heaved again. Illya merely stood there and let her use up her strength. After a few fruitless moments of that he lifted his unused left hand, chopped her smartly in the ribs, and shook off her grip on his right hand. Then he slapped that hand smartly between her shoulder blades and sent her reeling to her knees. She was up again in a flash.

"Care to try that again?" he asked mildly, and offered his right arm.

She snarled, flung at his offer, grabbed, went past and around him, bringing her other arm under and around and over and clasped both hands behind his head in a classic full nelson.

"What do you say now?" she hissed.

"You want a speech?" He raised one hand to touch her elbow and she clamped on more pressure savagely. He sighed, shifted his feet just a fraction, then squirmed suddenly, snapping his arm down hard, smashing his elbow into her midriff powerfully. He turned to watch her double up and whoop for breath, clutching her stomach. Then he put both hands on her shoulders, pushed, and sat down hard on the stone floor. The thud brought a grunt from her. She went to rise instantly, and he sat her down again, hard. Solo winced, watched her try again and go down again, wallop! She shook the hair from her face and glared at Illya.

"Let me get up!"

"So that you can make an even bigger fool of yourself? All right." He stood back. She tucked long legs under, crouched, came up with a rush, her left hand flailing across in a chop at his jugular, right hand stabbing stiff fingers for his solar plexus. Her chop met his forearm and skidded harmlessly, her dig was foiled by his down cutting palm. He spun, extending a toe to sweep her feet out from under, and again she sat, this time with such force that she was momentarily stunned by the impact. Now there were tears in her eyes, but she gathered her long legs for another try.

"Your head is almost as hard as this floor," he observed, then tensed as his alert eye caught the twinkle from a slim knife she had plucked from somewhere.

"Damn you!" she choked, coming in. He went straight to meet her, to get inside the point, hit her hard in the ribs, grabbed the dangerous wrist and twisted. Still in the same forward impetus he jarred into her with a shoulder, snaked his free arm around and up and got a good handful of her hair. Then he bent her back over his knee.

"Now," he said, very quietly, "drop it or I'll break your arm." She panted violently but let the blade go. Still holding her bent, he stared into her tear filled eyes.

"You're a fool," he told her. "A dangerous fool. Some amateur has been giving you lessons."

"A karate black belt?" she choked.

"An amateur, just the same. At fighting. He taught you some tricks, in some gymnasium or other. He didn't teach you the most important thing of all, which is to estimate the enemy accurately. You chose me. You made your mistake right there. Napoleon is more civilized than I am."

"Do I have to listen to this lecture?"

"Yes, or be partly bald for the rest of your life. Which won't be a long one if you persist in giving warnings. That's a silly thing to do. In a game it's right to give warnings, to play by the rules, even to lose your temper. But not in fighting. In a game, you win or lose. In fighting, you win or you're dead." He released her and stood away. She came upright panting hugely, stretching the flimsy suit she wore. Then, quick as a flash, she turned to the table, to grab at her guns. But they were now in Solo's care.

"You don't want to do that," he told her gently. "What good would it do you? For one thing, you'd have to explain to Charles." He waited a moment, then replaced the two weapons in the thigh belts and pushed them over the table to her. "Here. Take them. Use them on the enemy some time."

"A moment." Kuryakin came to stand by her shoulder. "Get that cat suit off, first."

"What?" She stiffened, and Solo could have sworn he saw fear in her face. "What for?"

"There's a bathroom in there. Off you go. Run a hot bath and have a thorough soak. You'll be as stiff as a board to morrow if you don't." He reached for her dress, handed it to her. "Go on!" She went.

"That was murder," Solo murmured. "The perfect squelch. And she could be damned good, too."

"She is good," Kuryakin retorted. "She almost had me with that knife. Where did it come from?"

"Search me. I didn't see it until she was holding it out."

"I don't suppose she would tell us if we asked. The trouble is"—Kuryakin took up his discarded apron thought fully—"she was trying to show off. If it had been some thing serious, an enemy, she would have reacted in a different way entirely. Here, you dry while I wash."

The chores had been done and coffee was bubbling by the time she came back, looking very humble.

"I don't like to say this," she said, "but I must. I have to thank you two for opening my eyes today. I must seem pretty dreadful to you, all brag and blow!" She looked around. "And you've washed up. I feel utterly useless."