She came up like a cat from a launching pad, all paws slashing. In the confined space, April could not wholly evade the hurtling body, but she gripped the arms, pinioning the clawing hands away from her eyes and face. Lucy's feet beat like the tattoo of the paws of an hysterical monkey into April's thighs on their way floorwards. April swivelled away, releasing the arms, but had to get clear to avoid injury from those leather-heeled shoes. Lucy at once slammed in punches with surprisingly hard little fists.

April decided enough was enough and went to work — coolly, scientifically, with slashing hands, palm edges, palm flat, curved knuckles, and an occasional forearm smash. In a few minutes she had Lucy cowering, sobbing, gasping — visibly frightened and aware that this lightning exhibition of unarmed combat, female style, could just as easily be killing her instead of giving her the hiding of her life.

It was a bitter defeat, made worse by the final indignity. April took one of Lucy's arms, pulled, levered and expertly heaved. Lucy's body again somersaulted to the floor. She lay there, face down, for a few minutes before slowly easing up to hands and knees. April picked up the parasol and jabbed the blade into Lucy's high-raised rump. Lucy collapsed with a howl of pain.

April snapped off the dagger, put it in her purse, then leaned against the bulkhead, calmly using comb and compact.

Lucy groped to one side for support to assist her in rising. Her hand pressed on a lever which April had missed in her inspection of the bulkhead. The whole section slid open, revealing a roller-loading channel leading to a white-painted sealed hatchway.

When she realized what had happened, Lucy quickly moved the lever back. As the section closed she climbed slowly to her feet. Her hands smoothed straggling hair back from her eyes, straightened her clothes.

"I've broken a couple of straps," she said. "Do you have a safety pin, dear?" She giggled. "Well — whatever came over us? It must be the heat."

They stared at each other for a long, cool minute before April passed her the safety pin.

"Yes," she said. "The heat."

Lucy Padrack smiled. "Sweet child! One day I shall kill you — very slowly."

April Dancer smiled back. "But of course, darling!" She closed her purse and walked away.

CHAPTER FIVE: DECOY AND LINK

APRIL didn't tell Mark about the cat-fight with Lucy Padrack, nor did she need to tell Mr. Waverly the details. She had found the bugging device in her cabin, disconnected it, extracted the guts, then replaced it. So, providing she used a low-pitched voice, she was able to contact H.Q. in comparative freedom.

April said: "Mr. Waverly, I may have boobed. I don't think I've done any harm. I certainly discovered some thing I previously had missed." She told him about the bulkhead. "But this occurred after I had acted as shown in Case File Eleven in our advanced training course, psychiatry section."

"Just a minute." Mr. Waverly's phenomenal memory needed a twitch. "Ah, yes! Well, this sort of thing is bound to happen sooner or later, Miss Dancer, especially where efforts to obtain the subject's confidence were not successful. There is a large amount of feline instinct built up which triggers off this type of outbreak. In the absence of logical links, you could not help but react instinctively. But, knowing this woman, her background and current connections, there is no doubt she will try to kill you. She is at present justifying herself before the act. So be on your guard."

April was relieved. "I thought you'd bawl me out for allowing personal feelings to override my judgment."

"It discovered the secret hatch, did it not? It has released you from the need to maintain a friendly front with the Padracks. Which, incidentally, did not produce much information, did it? So what have you lost? It also sharpens your own reflexes because when you uncover more of what is undoubtedly an affair of considerable proportions, you will know exactly what to expect from Lucy Padrack, and act accordingly."

"Thank you, sir. That makes me feel better."

"I was aware of your frustrations, Miss Dancer. You cannot always be reporting melodramatic events. We already have been through many months of wearisome research. Mr. Slate and yourself have made handsome progress."

She frowned. "I don't see how."

"Little things, Miss Dancer, little things — like little babies — grow astonishingly fast. So innocent, yet swiftly so full of exciting promise. For example: the report about innocent little boats. Did you know that many thousands of these boats have been imported into this country? That a new sport of coracle crafting is enjoying boom success in certain areas, especially along the Pacific seaboard? That there are now clubs and a central organization? All very sporty and chummy. And there are even tiny outboard motors designed to be attached to these innocent, fun-making little craft."

"Gosh—I didn't know all that, sir!"

"Nor did we until your report aroused our interest. Now we discover that certain individuals, believed to have THRUSH connections, occupy key positions in the central organization and in most of the clubs. Our little baby has grown to a very nasty-sized thug. So proceed with your assignment, Miss Dancer. Eschew emotion, if you can, but allow that a portion of it makes us all tick."

She laughed softly. "Yes, sir, I will."

"I think you will find it easier to contact me after the next twenty-four hours. I shall be aboard a certain naval vessel somewhere in your locality. Liaison between Count Kazan, Sama Paru and Mark Slate, yourself and myself will then be far better."

April tried not to show surprise. Mr. Waverly did not expect his top agents to be surprised, let alone reveal this emotion.

"I expected you might find that necessary," she answered quickly. "Is Randy Kovac promoted to field student?"

"Not exactly. He is with Sama Paru to obtain experience, but he also is there to prove to us and to himself that high-flown theories worked out on paper are not necessarily helpful to an agent in the field."

"In other words — you're going to make him convict himself out of his own mouth, or burn his own fingers, or break his own neck?"

"That will be quite enough clichés from you," said Mr. Waverly briskly. "It really is a lazy way of speaking. Do try to break the habit. Goodbye, Miss Dancer."

Count Kazan's luxury launch came, at bow-creaming, hull-slapping speed, from somewhere out of the heat-shimmering horizon to cross Island Traveller's wake and enter Providencia harbour two hours before she tied up. Lars Carlson in a dark wig and saucer-sized sun glasses could be seen swabbing the deck and carrying out chores while remaining within earshot of the radio. His master, the lordly Kazan, looking more like a millionaire than any millionaire could afford to look, strolled in arrogant splendour along the quay.

Mark observed all, and cussed all, with steaming intensity. As the rest of the labour crew, apart from the seamen, also were sweating and cussing, no one asked him for his particular reasons. They had lost the land wind when Island Traveller moved to her berth in the harbour beneath the hills. The heat was a glaring whip flaying eyes, heads and bodies as they laboured to winch up cargo from the holds.

Mark saw April Dancer, like a cool, green, iced lollie, waiting by the gangway. He even cussed her gently, though admitting she couldn't help it if she looked good enough to eat. Or could she? That lime-green dress against the golden skin, dark hair shining, thighs and buttocks contoured by the thistle-light material. Goddam it, she didn't have to stand just there, did she? You bet she did! No woman is going to miss a chance like this. Mark swore savagely as he heard the comments from the men around him. Do women really know what is said at these moments? Or are they too full of their own mental reflection of themselves!