April was nearing the door, tearing off the restricting gown.

"Come!" she called as Mark picked up the man's gun. The door burst open and more metal-clad figures rushed in.

"Go!" Mark yelled to her. "Go—gal––go!"

CHAPTER SEVEN: PRETTY LADY LIKE LIFT?

THE incoming guards had set off smoke traps in the driveway when their Land Rover swung around at the far end, running over a section of the lawn to miss a Jaguar car parked slantways by the front door.

A veil of white smoke hid the end of the building through which Mark had entered. Two men in metal suits were dowsing part of the drive with hand fire extinguishers—possibly to neutralize other devices. They saw April run out, one arm still in the metal gown, the mask still on her face. Obviously thinking she was Ingrid, they came towards her, calling: "Go back, Miss—go back!" and pointing to the lawn where smoke still wreathed over the grass.

April called: "Get on with your work and mind your own business."

The nearest man hesitated.

"D'you hear me?" April yelled. "Do as I say!" The authority in her voice was made more effective by her own urgency.

This bluff worked and the man turned back. April sped across the lawn, around a clump of rhododendrons towards the main gate. Out of sight now, she shed the metal garb, rolled it up, stuffed it into the zipped bag and raced for the wall.

She could have cleared the fence, but the wall was a better bet, this section being screened from the house. Over the wall, a quick survey for direction and on she raced, to where she judged the car would be hidden.

"Ooh—you beauty!" she panted as she reached the sleekly powerful car and eased herself behind the wheel.

She depressed the red switch near the radio panel.

"This is April Dancer—hear me! April Dancer and Mark Slate in vicinity of Dartmoor house called Moorfell. Have vital information and samples for urgent collection. Send nearest helicopter for pick-up from Aston Martin car on moor. I then return to house to aid Mark Slate. This is April Dancer. I wait."

She heard the click-burr of the connectors as the H.Q. relay opened the European circuits and linked them with New York. Then Robbo's voice said: "London H.Q. Hear me!"

"I hear."

"Sama Paru and helicopter already in Dorset is on the way. Will need you in open for pick-up."

"Of course you will," said April. "Am I so dumb?"

"You never were, my dear Miss Dancer," said Mr. Waverly's voice. "Your information and samples urgently required—also your report. Proceed by helicopter to our laboratories outside Le Havre."

"But Mark Slate is back there..." she began.

"I have no doubt that what Mr. Slate gets into, he will find a way out of," said the urbane Mr. Waverly. "Contact me from Le Havre. Good luck!"

"H.Q. out," said Robbo.

"And good luck to you too!" April snarled. She started the engine, blipped the accelerator, rejoicing in the powerful roar, set the gear and put the big car into full stride.

The tires slithered, the suspension protested, the wheel bucked in her hands as the car zoomed over the grass and heather of the moor. She had to hold opposite lock continually to keep the car heading towards the track leading from Moorfell, which she was skirting in a half-circle.

Once on the track she notched up the gears, misjudged the effect of a rain-greased surface and felt the rear-end break away, too late to hold it. Revs were too high, rear wheels sliding, front wheels skittery. She steered into the skid, pulled the handbrake full on and brought the car around in a controlled spin, applied opposite lock, released brake and cut power. The car rocked to a halt, facing the house.

As April geared the car and began turning again, she saw the Jaguar come speeding from the driveway.

"Blast!" She flung another look behind her. The car held two figures. "Thought it might have been Mark." She settled down to a desperate drive.

Desperate it was. The Jag driver knew the road. April did not, but her photographic memory came to her aid. She flashed in a mental picture of the moor road she had glimpsed as Karadin's helicopter had come in to land, recalled the track joining the road, and another road cutting diagonally across to one of the tors.

The Aston Martin zoomed off the track in a controlled power slide—a glorious four-wheeled drift that would, on a race track, have delighted the purists—then bucketed along the road. The Jaguar lost ground.

April glanced up. The sky held that strange golden light which comes often after an apparently approaching dusk. The land was sharp-etched, the air still and clear. Day stood poised on the edge of night. And in the distance, away to her right, she saw a small black speck, too distant to be a hawk, too wingless to be a plane. She flicked the red switch, looked in the mirror. The Jag was two corners behind her.

She drove full bore into the road-junction approach—as if she were going straight on. Then with a skilful toe-and-heel action, she stabbed on the brake pedal, blipped the accelerator, snicked the gear lever into second, released brake and power, held the car into the skid and zoomed at right angles into the diagonal road.

In the mirror she saw the Jag overshoot and slide into a wild skid so that it had to backup. Breathing space was now hers. She could also see the chopper. She turned the radio volume up to full power.

Then the engine cut out—stuttered, roared on. April glanced at the fuel gauge. The needle was juddering against "empty".

"Oh, great!" she exclaimed. "Just great! Come on, beauty—squeeze that tank dry!"

The radio boomed and crackled, but the voice was lost in the noise. Meanwhile the Jaguar was gaining slightly. April conserved gas by an easy throttle. The speed was still around seventy, dropping from ninety.

Inspiration flashed into her mind. She pulled U.N.C.L.E. gum from her pocket and began to chew the saliva-activated explosive.

The radio became clear. "Helicopter to car. Sama Paru to April Dancer. Hear me?"

"Yum-yum-yum!" said April, chewing for dear life and trying to watch Jaguar and helicopter at the same time.

"I do not read," said Sama Paru.

"Yum!" yelled April, dripping saliva.

The car jerked from gas starvation. She looked back, judged the distance, steadied the car, took the now enlarged wad of gum from her mouth and flung it over-arm to the rear of the car.

"Pretty lady like lift?" said Sama Paru. The chopper was now slip-sliding above her. A nylon and metal ladder dropped down from the hatch.

She looked back as the Aston Martin's engine began its last coughing revs. She heard no explosion, only saw the light mist of the energy-release-wave. The Jaguar's front wheels reared up and the whole car swung to one side, rear wheels plowing into turf. Then it careered on to the near-side fender corner, pancaked, and rolled over.

At that moment the Aston's gas gave out. The car stopped with a jolt that sent April's head against the wheel. The helicopter over-ran, swung out, dipped and came back—ladder trailing. April gathered the bag around her shoulders, stood on the car seat, grabbed and leapt upwards.

"Oh—very pretty!" said Sama Paru admiringly.

Then she was nearing the roaring rotors, and all other sound was lost. Sama leaned over to help her inside. He grinned at her, pointing ahead.

"Would that be Mark?"

April peered into the golden light, shading her eyes to focus on the dark ground. She saw a man's figure against a rocky tor, with five silvery-clad figures closing on him.