Gwen screamed softly. Then loudly. She stared at the snakes with her eyes bugging and her wide mouth open in the scream. She was on the verge again. “Jesus,” she said. “Oh jesus—jesus—jesus!”

  Nick slapped her across the face. Hard. His hand stained the fair skin. He pointed her toward the door and gave her a push. “Get out! You’ll find a coverall in the bedroom. Put it on. Now. Go!”

  He smacked her smooth fleshed, resilient fanny and left a handprint there too. “We’ve got work to do,” he told her. “A lot of work. Don’t fail me now! Hold out a little longer, until we win this thing, and then you can have the damnedest case of hysterics the world ever saw!”

  Gwen was too sturdy a girl to wear any of Lady Hardesty’s things under the coverall. She would just have to freeze, she said as she stepped into the garment and zipped it up. She had made no comment about Serge’s body or the still snoring Lady Hardesty.

  Gwen sank into a chair and looked at Nick. “What now? There’s very little time.”

  “You are telling me?” Nick had found a pair of scissors in a drawer and was busy snipping at the beard of Serge. “Rummage about,” he told her, “and see if you can find some glue or paste. I’ve got to grow a beard in a hurry.”

  A few minutes later she came back with a bottle of ordinary library paste. She nodded toward the woman on the bed. “She keeps a scrapbook, of all things. Pastes clippings in it. There are lots of pictures of her as a movie star and—”

  “Who cares!” He snatched the bottle of paste from her and went into the bathroom. “We’ve all got our vanity, you know. She’s got enough for everyone in the world.” He began to paste the Russian’s beard on his own prominent chin. Into the mirror he said, “You learn anything since you’ve been here? Anything that will help? Or have they had you tied up in that room all the time?”

  “Not all the time. They knocked me out with some sort of dope and flew me straight here from Barrogill Moor. My ankle wasn’t broken, as you can see—only badly sprained. They fixed it up for me. They were rather kind, at first. Then she took over!”

  Nick was shaping the beard on his chin. It didn’t have to be too good a job. Just good enough to fool a guard for a few seconds.

  “Then she had them put you to the snake torture—and you talked.”

  A long silence. He finished pasting on the beard and went back into the bedroom. Gwen was still sitting in the chair, staring at the unconscious Lady Hardesty. “Yes,” she said. She did not look at Nick. “I talked. I told them you were heading for London. I—I couldn’t take the snake! It got down between my legs and was going to crawl—”

  She broke off and put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  Nick patted her on the shoulder. “Christ!” he said. “None of that! No time for tears. Don’t blame yourself. I don’t.

  In your place I would have talked too—loud and fast. Now tell me what you’ve learned about this place.”

  Gwen straightened in the chair and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry about that. I’m all right now. And I’ve learned a lot about the setup here, quite a lot. Some I’ve actually observed, some I have to extrapolate, but I have a special knowledge in this field and I’ve used my eyes. After they— they tortured me the first time I was sent back to the prison. I was allowed exercise and I saw and understood a lot more than they thought I did. If you can find a paper and pencil I’ll make a sketch for you.”

  Nick went to the desk. Over his shoulder he said, “I thought you were more than just another agent! Travers never let on, though.”

  “Yes. I hold the rank of Colonel in M5A—that’s a special branch of the Special Branch. The A is for atomic. I’m an expert in counter-defense for missiles. That’s why I was assigned to you—if we did make it to Blackscape they thought I might be of some use.”

  Nick handed her paper and pencil and grinned. “Okay, Colonel. Be of some use now. And make it snappy. You draw and talk and I’ll keep busy.” He went to a closet and began searching it. They both needed outer garments of some sort—not only for protection from the cold and wind, but for purposes of disguise.

  “I’ve toured some of your missile sites in the States,” Gwen was saying, “and these are very like. Pendragon is using obsolete missiles, really. I’d guess they’re your Titan I, or close to it. He has three of them left—three silos. The hatches open up and out, like gates, instead of sliding aside as the more recent ones do.”

  “I saw the slits in the concrete,” said Nick. He found a couple of parkas and tossed them into the room with a grunt of satisfaction. “There. We won’t freeze and the hoods will mask our faces pretty effectively. Go on, baby. How deep is the complex—and most important of all—how do we get into it?”

  She was spread out on the floor, not far from the dead Russian, drawing on a piece of paper. “I’d guess the silos themselves go down about 160 feet. Maybe deeper. The control and communications center will be in a separate chamber, probably ball-shaped, and will be about halfway down and connected to the silos by a passage. There will be an escape hatch somewhere, in case of fire or explosion.”

  His smile was grim as he squatted beside her to look at the sketch. “There’s going to be fire and explosion, all right. If we can make it down there! But tell me about the escape hatch—it interests me gready Does it go up or down?”

  “Probably up. They’ll have steel doors which can be sealed hermetically, and they’ll have blast walls and baffles. I see what you’re getting at Nick but I’m afraid the escape hatch is designed the wrong way for us.”

  “Yes. We won’t be coming back up! There will be nothing to come up for, or to. Except bullets. If anyone is alive up here then.”

  He glanced toward the supine and naked figure of Lady Hardesty, still snoring on the bed. He went to throw a sheet over her. “I’m playing a crazy hunch,” he told Gwen. “This is an island, after all. A rocky island and there must be a lot of caves in those cliffs. I’m betting there is another escape hatch, probably for big shots only, that leads down and out to the ocean somewhere.”

  “Let us pray,” said Gwen. She smiled at him. She was quite recovered now.

  Nick was still holding the long scissors. He glanced at them, and then at Lady Hardesty. “If she could talk I’d make her tell us,” he said regretfully. “But I’m afraid I overdid the booze a little bit. But we’ll see. Go on.”

  He had found a roll of adhesive tape in the bathroom and now he began to wrap the base of the scissors to make a handle, a hilt. It wasn’t Hugo, his favorite stiletto, but it would have to do. Really not bad. The shears were long and thin and very sharp.

  “There is probably a crew of six to eight men always on duty in the complex,” Gwen said. “I watched them changing guard one day and I’d guess at eight.”

  “Any idea where they’ll be? I mean will they all be in the control center, or scattered around?”

  She creased her white forehead in a frown. “With a shot so imminent they’ll probably be scattered around—say two officers in the control center, especially if they have closed circuit TV, and two men with each of the birds. They’ll be making final adjustments.”

  Nick was testing his improvised dagger. The ball of tape made an adequate hilt. The crude weapon lacked the balance of his stiletto and would be no good for throwing.

  He knelt beside Gwen to study the sketch again. He traced it with a finger.

  “All the silos are connected? That means we can’t seal off any of the men, the Druids working down there! We’ll have to fight them all!”

  She nodded. “I know. The passages can be sealed off, but that would prevent the first explosion from triggering the other missiles.” Her wide mouth was touched with grim understanding. “I take it that well only have time to blow one bird before—before something happens to us.”

  Nick stood up. He lit one of Lady Hardesty’s cigarettes and stood staring down at the sketch, smoke leaking from his nostrils.

  “You’re so right,” he said finally. “We’ll probably have time to blow one missile—period! At least it’s all we can count on. We’ll just have to fight them all! I’ll handle that end. Now—are you sure that one missile blown will ignite the other two, blow them also?”

  Gwen frowned. “I can’t be sure. No one could. But they should go—if the connecting passages are left open.”

  Nick said: “Okay. We’ll count on that. Now we come to the dirty part—those missiles will be armed, right? With fifty megaton warheads?”

  She shook her head. He could see doubt and fear in the slate-blue eyes. “That’s what we can’t really know until it happens,” she said softly. “The birds will be all ready for launching, naturally. That means the hydrogen warhead will be in place! But this type of missile is built to arm the warhead after the launch! An automatic device does that. But maybe Pendragon’s scientists have altered that, modified it. There is no way of knowing, Nick.”

  Nick Carter whistled softly. “Talk about Russian roulette! If they are armed and they blow that will release—” He stopped abruptly.

  Gwen picked it up. “You might as well finish it, Nick.

  Face it. That will release 150 megatons! Everything in a radius of a hundred miles will go.”

  He stared at her grimly. “You mean circumference?”

  Gwen’s smile was sad and stricken. “No. I mean radius.” Then, strangely lapsing into her Scots for the moment, she added, “That means the bairns will die, Nick! Thousands of poor innocent babies!”

  Nick extended a hand and pulled her from the floor. “All right,” he said harshly. “Let’s go! Remember that you are to obey orders stricdy and to the letter. If you get caught or shot or hurt I won’t be able to stop and help you. You’ll be on your own. That understood?”

  “That is understood.” She was very grave now. She took a step closer to him. “Nick?”

  “What?” He was in the act of pulling on a parka. He kicked the other one toward her. “Put that on.”

  She ignored the parka. “Nick—I want you to kiss me! If those missiles are armed and if the blast is enough to trigger them—well, there will never be another chance!”

  He swept her into his arms. Her lips were soft and sweet and very, very cold. Even then he could not resist twitting her a bit. “I thought you didn’t like me to touch you? You were huffy enough about it before.”

  Gwen didn’t look at him. “I—I’ll tell you about that. If we get out of this.”

  Nick grinned at her. “You do that. Now, Colonel, let’s get on with it! I enjoyed kissing you. There is nothing I would like better than to stay here and see what it leads to —but unfortunately there is a little matter that takes precedence. Three birds to blow up. So, in the slang of my native country, leave us get with it!”

  He handed her the cigarette lighter and told her what she must do. Her pallor increased but she merely nodded. Nick put the taped shears in the pocket of his parka, along with the big gold watch Travers had given him.

  They went to the front door and Nick unlocked it with the key taken from Konstantinoff’s body. He left the key in the lock.

  At the last moment he saw that Gwen Leith was trembling. She clung to him. “I’m afraid,” she whimpered. “Terrified! Oh, Nick, how can we do it? How can we hope to get away with it—just two of us! Oh, God! I’m so afraid!”

  Nick Carter pushed her gentiy out the door into the orange tinted corridor. “The French have a word for it,” he said gendy. “Two words. Toujours de I’audace! In plain English—guts! Always guts! Come on, baby. Let’s go feed the birds a little plastique!”

  Chapter 12

  UNDERKILL

  It was pitch dark. The stars had vanished and it had begun to rain, coming in fitful squalls, the heavy drops driven like bullets by the fury of the wind. They trudged with heads down toward the low concrete building housing the entrance to the missile complex. Nick had memorized the sketch Gwen had made. If she was anywhere close to the facts they shouldn’t have much trouble getting around—if they got past the first guards!

  The guards always went in twos. They carried tommy guns. Nick could imagine they had orders to shoot first and inquire later. To kill at the first hint of anything wrong!

  Yet they had to get past them! Nick was counting heavily on the parkas for that. They were both wearing the hoods, with the drawstrings pulling them tightly about their faces —on a night such as this it would appear natural enough. Nick was hoping that he would be mistaken for the Russian and Gwen for Lady Hardesty. His beard showed just enough through the hood. He had taken the silver star from Serge’s coverall and pinned it to the collar of the parka. For what psychological value it might have. The Druids were a quasi-military organization and well trained.

  They were close to the building now. Nick’s hand closed on the taped shears in his pocket. But he could only handle one man. It was up to Gwen to take the other one. If only her nerve didn’t break! She had been through a lot.

  They were outside the heavy steel doors now. “This is it,” Nick whispered. “You okay?”

  Her answer seemed to come from far away, a thin echoing whisper. “Yes. I’m all right.”

  “Come on.”

  He pushed open the doors and they went into a brilliantly lighted foyer. It was white tiled and barren. A desk in one corner. Behind the desk was a Druid in the white coverall uniform, wearing the two chevrons of a corporal. Near him lounged another guard, a tommy gun slung from his shoulder by a web belt. There was another tommy gun on the desk.

  Nick muttered a phrase in Russian, to build the illusion. He whispered. “You take the one at the desk!”

  She nodded, her face concealed by the parka hood.

  The man behind the desk shoved a large ledger toward them. “Good morning, sir. You’ll want to sign in?”

  “Da,” said Nick. He moved toward the desk, sidling a bit to the side as Gwen came level with him. He turned to face the guard who was standing. “A bad night, eh? Nasty out there.” The guard was wearing a heavy parka and Nick knew it would have to be the throat for a quick kill! The man was wearing too many clothes for his makeshift dagger.

  “Sure is,” agreed the man. “Nasty. I—” Nick moved like a tiger closing in for the kill. The guard’s eyes widened and he tried to bring up the tommy gun. Nick heard the snick of the lighter just as the shears came out of his pocket. The man behind the desk screamed in mortal agony.

  N3 batted down the tommy gun with one fist. He closed on the guard, bulling in with his weight, and put the shears hard and deep into the man’s throat. Blood spurted. The man’s eyes goggled and he dropped the tommy gun and tried to pull the steel from his flesh. Nick pulled the shears over and across, using his great strength. There was no cutting edge on the shears, but the man’s throat ripped like tissue paper. Nick grabbed the tommy gun and pushed the dying man away from him in the same motion. He whirled.

  The little foyer was filled with smoke and the smell of roasted flesh. Gwen was leaning against the desk, retching. The Druid lay behind the desk, his face a burnt charcoal mask of agony. The lighter lay on the floor.

  Nick pushed Gwen roughly toward the rear of the foyer. “Get going!”

  She nodded, turned and ran. Nick started after her, then saw a movement from the corner of his eye. The napalm blistered guard was moving, threshing about in his death agony, but with purpose in his movement. Nick ran back, the shears ready, but he was too late. Just as he reached the man he saw it—the metal button, like a starter button on a car, set into the floor beside the desk. The man’s hand came down on it.

  Somewhere in the building a gong began to clang. Nick cursed and turned and ran after Gwen, checking the tommy gun over as he went. The alarm was out. Now everything depended on speed!

  Gwen was waiting for him at a door which led to a spiral iron staircase screwing down into the solid rock. Nick pounded past her. “Come on, damn it!” His feet rang on the iron treads.

  They reached a short transverse corridor carved out of the living stone. At the far end a massive steel door was beginning to close. It was moving slowly but inexorably. Nick ran for it, only one thought in his mind. To get through before it closed! If Gwen made it, fine. If not—

  He flung himself at the shrinking aperture. The tommy gun caught and held him. He turned sideways and freed die gun and squeezed through. The door moved in. Gwen was still on the other side. Six inches. He seized her by the front of the parka and pulled her through the opening by main strength. The door shut with a hollow little sound.

  Nick had meant to blow the door mechanism, to freeze the door, but there was no time now. He had to get to the duty crew before all the passages were sealed off.

  More iron stairs led downward. They went pounding down them. Still no sign of the crew. No sign of anyone. Nick was puzzled. They went down four levels and reached another transverse corridor. To their left a passage sloped away at a gentle upward slant. Lights were burning at the end of it. To their right was the launch tube. The missile stood there, its red painted sides cold and glistening with moisture.

  Nick hesitated, his eyes on the tall rocket. Gwen was panting at his side. “1 don’t understand this,” he grated. “Where are they? We should have run into trouble before now!”

  Gwen pointed suddenly. “Nick! A man—back there m the passage. Come on!” She began to run down the transverse passage. “I think I know—when they heard the alarm they all headed for the escape hatch! One man stays behind to set an automatic closing device. Hurry or he’ll seal off everything!”

  Nick pounded past her. He thought gingerly of the detonators in his heel and hoped all this running wouldn’t jar one of them into explosion. Not until the job was done! He couldn’t afford to die yet!

  They reached a turn in the corridor. At the far end a white clad figure was fumbling in a large metal box set on the wall. Beyond him an iron ladder led up into a square hole in the ceiling of the passage.