This variety of Hindustani is not commonly known to Westerners. Much of its vocabulary is taken from Arabic and Persian. But April had learned Arabic as a child when her father was serving in the Middle East, and later in India found it comparatively easy to learn Urdu, which was spoken by the Moslems. No doubt Karadin and his organization bosses considered that such documents, if written in Urdu, would not require any higher security than a stout steel file cabinet. That this was unlocked would be due only to the abrupt departure of Karadin from the office.

April searched around for a container of some sort, and soon found a leather-capped zipper shoulder bag next to fishing tackle in the far corner. The bag smelled fishy but was clean and dry. She stowed the papers into it, as well as a. sample of letters from some British manufacturing chemists referring to supplies. She stowed her own purse in it as well. She was about to zip up the bag when she heard footsteps.

She opened her purse, took out the lipstick and moved to one side as the door opened. A small dark woman came in, a mannish-looking woman with cropped hair, wearing a white coat and slacks. She looked at the open file cabinet, closed it, took keys from her pocket and locked it, muttering:

"Oh, really, Carl—you panic too quickly, you poor darling!" April closed the door. "Yes, doesn't he?" she said quietly. The woman gasped and whirled around. She was in her thirties, dark-eyed, fine drawn, with crows feet of tiredness or strain pouching her eyes. She leapt to the desk, hand reaching for the drawer nearest her. April dropped the bag and leapt just that shade faster. She had the drawer open, fended off the woman with the other hand, using the woman's own impetus to spin her off-balance, to crash against the wall.

April took out the gun, snicked off the safety-catch. It was a Voegler automatic with silencer.

"Thanks," she said. "I thought there must be one some where, but I hadn't got around to looking for it." The woman moved. "No, dear—don't try it." The gun spat. The bullet plucked the shoulder seam of the woman's white coat and thudded into the wall.

"Mmm—quite accurate," April observed. "The next one will hurt you, so please—no heroics, huh?"

The woman's face had paled, her eyes scared. "I've heard that your sort of woman is ruthless. That you even like killing. But it won't help you to kill me."

April smiled. "I wouldn't dream of killing you. I said hurt you—ping, ping in nasty juicy places––unless you are sensible." She frowned quizzically. "My sort of woman? Now I wonder what that means?"

"I've heard all about you. Why, he even admires you—though he admits you're dangerous."

"Ah! That's men for you—two-faced, aren't they? Funny thing, Bertha, but I admire Carl darling too."

"My name is not Bertha."

"Is it not? It suits you though." She paused. "So what do we do now, Bertha?" She slid the swivel chair clear of the desk. "I think you'd better come and sit down." She waggled the gun as she added sharply: "Come on, now, Bertha—my sort of woman is very short on patience."

The woman came slowly at first, then with a little shrug of resignation moved swiftly to the chair, sat down and looked up at April, who had hitched one thigh on the desk corner. They both heard the sound of the helicopter taking off, growing louder as it passed overhead. Tears filled the woman's eyes.

"So he's gone to his daughter?" said April softly.

The woman's hands covered her face. "Damn her!" she said huskily. "Damn her, damn her, damn her—the little bitch!" She lowered her hands and glared at April. "And damn you too!"

"Good for you!" said April. "Let's have a good damn all round. Damn the project, damn the organization—damn everything except that which binds my man to me. Is that it, Bertha?"

The woman lowered her gaze, began fiddling her fingers, locking and unlocking them, surveying them, flexing them.

"My name is Ingrid."

"Nice. Swedish?"

"My mother was. I shan't tell you anything."

"Who cares?" said April airily. "What would you have to tell anyway? I doubt if you know the whole story." She looked shrewdly at Ingrid. "A biology degree, a career- woman complex, perhaps a doting mother who hated men. A few rather boring jobs. Then suddenly the charming Dr. Karadin—the secret research work, the close contact, the sweet, sad fire of suddenly discovered passion expressed through the experienced doctor. The togetherness, the seeming fulfillment, the promise of fortune and a future shared—and a ready-made daughter in a package deal."

Ingrid's eyes stared widely. "How could you know all that? How could you?"

April shrugged. "Right?"

"Almost to the letter. In God's name—how?"

"You are legion," said April sadly. "Oh dear heaven, yes—you are legion! We could have a long, cozy, girlish chat, but there's no time, and I'm afraid it would bore me. Because, dear Ingrid, your sort do bore me."

"We can't all be as hard as you. You're some sort of agent, aren't you?"

"Mmm—some sort."

"You must live an unnatural life."

April laughed. "What is natural?—the tiger in a cage or in a jungle? The cloistered nun or the cluttered housewife? The prissy missy or the supercilious spouse? The idealistic teenage infant or the mature and marvelous mother? We are them all—you and I—each in our own way—past, present or future. So spare me that guff about being unnatural. Would you like to tell me how many guards are left in this house?"

"He's gone, so what does it matter?"

"That's a fair conclusion. Maybe he'll come back for you?"

"He won't. He'll get her away—out of danger. Not me." She shivered. "I've got to look after myself now. I've done nothing wrong."

"Well, if you have—it's got to be proved."

"I don't know exactly what the globules are for. They will certainly neutralize sulphur in the air." She glanced up, eyes clear now. Intelligent eyes. "But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Yes, dear—a lot more."

She nodded slowly, then smiled. "There's only Greco and Prodder and me here. There are five guards out on the moors searching for you."

"Prodder?"

"You shot him, didn't you? The switchboard operator."

"Only to sleep," said April.

"Well, he's sleeping. I've given Greco first aid, but he needs a doctor."

"All in good time. How long have you worked here?"

"Nearly two years. It's been—it was—the most wonderful time of my life. Until she came over from France six months ago. Then he had a lot of money. That luxurious house in London—and these tough men always about the place."

"Did you ever see Sirdar the Turk?"

"So you know about him too? Yes, he stayed here for about a week. A horrid man."

"Anyone else?"

"Quite a few visitors. Important men. Some foreign, some American, and a few British, who came to see the range experiments."

"So Carl put on a show for them?"

"Well, yes, he had to. You know what this country is like. You need lots of permits and licenses—things like that. So they send these inspectors and officials. It was a great joke to Carl. He'd say: 'Come along, darling, let us put on our magicians' act for these earnest little men.'"

"But not using the Urdu formula?"