In their fan of vision stretched part of a console: TV screens, radio and radar dials, switches, colored lights. Above the console was a light-glowed map—not contoured––a linking chart of all major towns, many smaller but important centers, with Washington D.C. as the radial heart. Next in size of markings came New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, and an outer perimeter of symbols linking these with the main points.

There was to be no wrecking—that had been a clear order, and a difficult order too; for this meant having to attack personnel only. C.I.A. and F.B.I. boffins must have clued on to this fantastic desert set-up, perhaps not too hard a task, once the area had been hair-lined in their checking sights. Yet it was the sort of thing that could go undetected for a long time until someone broke through to beam the concentrated forces of detection upon it.

It would be simple then to make a frontal assault—a press of men, a blaze of guns, a few grenades even—and all this pretty-pretty, grimly efficient center would go... kerump!

Then they would have to piece it all together again to find out how the place ticked and why, and how the hell all this could be assembled and operated under, or nearly under, a lot of noses. Still, Mark sighed, no wrecking; just seal off the area and shut out all the highly efficient communication aids.

Keep the finger off the button, he thought grimly. Don't call us—we'll call you. And two of them were valiant. Two volunteers—you and you! Heads close, turning, eyes gazing through the mask visors. Clear and steady, a glint of the buccaneer, a flash of the bright high spirit. Ready when you are. A reaction gaze—okay, here we go!

They went in—guns hissing. Three of the four men inside went staggering out, crumpling cold. Then the gas guns were empty. April and Mark leapt, silent, ruthlessly slashing.

One—a big man—half gassed, flung out his hand towards along, slim red lever at the right of the console. April swung her body, throat-chopped, then saw the danger. Her supple hands locked on to the reaching fingers, spread them upward and back, tiny bones snapping with a twig-like sound; then the man's arm was whipped up, his shoulder socket wrenched out. As he spun away, a slashing blow across the nape of the neck dropped his head down against the steel of a tubular chair.

Mark's victim was the man who had come out of the door—short, powerful, with ape arms, thick-chested, a mauler-fighter, his gun half-clear of its holster. He almost went down under Mark's attack, recovered, whirled, and snatched up a metal bar—one of several leaning in a corner, slotted bars which were part of some sort of frame. Mark anticipated a swing, but it didn't come that way. The man hunched and lunged the end of the steel bar into Mark's guts.

April turned as Mark sagged and the bar was swinging up to crash down upon his skull. She fired almost before she stopped turning. The bullet smashed into the man's wrist. The bar dropped on his shoulder, bounced to the floor.

Mark, retching, full of pain, rolled to one knee, hand clawing for his gun. He fired upward. The bullet went into the man's open mouth and out the top of his head. He slammed back, to fall on the stack of bars in the corner.

April saw the danger as Mark's hand tried to free his mask. Urgently, close to his ear, she said: "This way—hold on to me." She helped him past the huddled figures to the door at the far end, opened it, and pulled and pushed him into the lobby, then flung open the front door. Sweet night air flowed in as Mark flopped to the porch, ripping off his mask. He was violently sick. April pulled off her own mask, sucking in the air gratefully.

Recovering at last, he said huskily: "Thanks."

"Yes," she said. "Thanks."

He grinned, white teeth in a white mask of face.

"No wrecking? Not including us!"

She smiled. "So the man said."

"Better shut the door—or that inner one. Light can be seen."

They went inside for the air had already helped the air-conditioning to clear the gas.

"Well, well!" said April. "Will you lookee here!"

"Bonanza! Very grand!" Recovering swiftly now, he went along the console, closely inspecting all its parts. "Luck we've had, me old darling—you see?"

April nodded. "I just saw. Two cameras—for relaying operators' image to waiting multitude, no doubt—and obligingly switched off. These TV links must have taken years to set up."

"They can't see us," said Mark. "Can they hear us?" He checked again. "No, all incoming." He flicked tabs on the console. "This is Detroit standing by. This is New York standing by. This is Los Angeles standing by." The voices went on and on.

April said: "Tapes. An answering service in reverse."

"Could be. In fact is. Clever girl! While the tapes run they know the circuit is okay and the spray outfits are ready. You read?"

She nodded. "Near enough. See the screens? All the main business sectors in each town on that colored chart."

"Remote-control cameras, ranging through forty-five degrees, but—what would you say?—six feet from street level?"

"Between four and six feet. That would be the spray height." She looked more closely at one. "You can't watch all screens at once. See this—see how the camera is lined on certain points of a street? Look—street signs, an awning over a club doorway, a street light."

"We could expect that," said Mark. He surveyed the room more closely. "But this can't be all. It's the main control, but there are no screens relaying the magic-eye alarm system outside here."

"No, Mr. Slate," said a familiar voice through a hidden speaker. "You are quite right. Do come in."

The floor suddenly slid from under them. They fell on their sides and were jostled along a few feet before they plunged down, to bounce jarringly on a wrestling mat eight feet below.

Dr. Karadin, a large swarthy man and four metal-suited figures were grouped around them.

"Good evening," said Karadin. "What a terrible nuisance you two are!" He turned to the swarthy man. "Now, Mr. Sirdar, they are all yours. Let us have no more mistakes." He walked away to steps lowered from the roof and climbed up to the control room.

CHAPTER TWELVE: RESOLVEMENT

THEY were in an oval room, low-ceilinged, not large, with five doorless openings leading from it. There was a glimpse of several short passages curving away in different directions.

Sirdar left the four metal-clad men to do the muscle work. All were big and knew their job. If only there had been one each, April and Mark would have taken a chance. As it was, they daren't risk an offensive.

"To the lay-in." Sirdar strode off. The men hustled their captives into a passage, post two rooms containing bunk beds, ending in a narrow room with coffins stacked around the walls, a plinth in the center.

Sirdar took a coffin, lifting it like it was a matchbox, measured it against Mark, then laid it on the plinth. He took another to April, measured and placed it next to that. While the men held them captive, Sirdar stripped off belts and packs, and tossed these against the wall. From a shelf he took two rolls of muslin. He worked fast and expertly, winding the muslin tight around their bodies from shoulders to ankles. After he'd fixed the last tie of muslin he gave a signal. The men stepped back.

April and Mark began to sway, off-balance, unable to move their feet. Sirdar laughed as he put one massive hand around each of their throats. He rocked them back and forth like mummified dolls.

"Ah no! No mistakes this time, eh?" He looked at April. "Sirdar is patient. Sirdar waits for his time. Now it comes. Once, you defect Sirdar because he does not believe any woman could be so quick and strong. So this time I make no mistake." He shrugged. "Is a pity. With you I could have had fun. My men also. But—what is one woman?" He held Mark at arm's length, drew April close to him, kissed her full on the lips. Then he jerked back with a howl of pain, thrusting her away. She fell against one of the men, who caught and held her.