He sprang up and went to the hitch, unfastening it as quickly as he could. He made the rounds of all the trailers, detaching them from the cars, glad they weren't parked in a line or neat rows, but were scattered about. With one eye on the open barn door he worked desperately until they were all unfastened. Then he took the next step, holding his breath as he hoped for Thrush overconfidence to play to his advantage as it had so often.

He peeked into a car, checking the ignition, and almost let out a yelp of delight. The key was there in the ignition and waiting to be turned.

'Tm coming, Napoleon," Illya muttered. He began his ace play.

All of the cars were perched on the incline that led to the barn hill, and headed in various directions. Illya slunk about among them, looking for what he needed. When he found it, it was a messy pile of old garden stakes, long enough and sturdy enough for his purpose. He carried them to the car, flicked the key to start the motor, then jammed one of the stakes down on the accelerator as he wedged the other end of it up under the dash panel. The motor whirred to life. He put the car in gear, released the handbrake, gave the wheel a turn, and let it go. It moved fast, driving itself forward in an uncontrolled motion that would eventually slam it against a trailer.

Illya scrambled to another car, turning on the head lights for added effect and tying the wheel with some rope he found so the car would run in a big circle. He broke the stake shorter this time to give a speed of about ten miles an hour instead of the mad dash of the first.

He saw that car off, and then another.

Running a panting race, he got them all going, aware of shouts from the barn but ignoring them until he had all the cars mobile. He tooted the last two horns to add to the confusion, sending up a violent blast of noise.

He waited for only a moment to survey the chaos he'd made, the cars roaring under their jammed accelerator power, some in forward, some in reverse. It wouldn't give him much time, but some. He sprinted for the end of the barn and the door and the hatchet he knew were there, dodging inside the wild automobile corral he had created. Thrush men poured out of the barn yelling and shouting but afraid to go among the cars to stop them.

He gained the ground floor door, scaled the ladder to the main floor, and took his bearings. Napoleon was facing him, eager-eyed at the bedlam. Illya's hand touched the hatchet and he raised it up. He'd have one shot only. Saturn and Dundee were sticking close to Napoleon but only one other guard remained. His shot had to go to the rope that suspended his friend, and cut that rope.

Mustering all the years of training he'd put himself through, he raised his arm and heaved the hatchet. It whizzed through the air in its arc and he hardly dared watch its flight. It hit - a direct hit! The rope snapped and Napoleon fell to the floor with a hard thump.

Solo was startled by the fall, but not completely. He'd expected some kind of manna from heaven as soon as the commotion began outside. His feet hit the floor and he went slamming onto his back. He couldn't roll be cause his feet were tied, but as he hit he struggled up and worked to unbind his ankles. The pain on his chest was infuriating, making his hands tremble, and Dundee pulled at him to hinder his escape.

Then Dundee wasn't pulling anymore. He had fallen over, a hole in his chest, a look of disgust on his face, dead. Solo saw the fleeting shape of Illya in the shadows, a Thrush rifle in his hands.

Solo was free. He went into a fighting crouch, jabbed his fist deep into Saturn's middle, and the man crumpled like a puppet; he hardly made a sound going down.

Leaving the bewildered guard to Illya, Solo raced to pick up some ink bottles. He got two Blacks and one Red and rushed to Gloryanna, burying them safely under the hay bales so they couldn't break. He went back, jerked up another Black and opened it, pouring the liquid on his shoulder and chest where the fire burned. It had seemed an unquenchable fire but it was quickly and astoundingly out.

The Thrush guard fell at a burst from Illya's gun. Illya was soon beside Solo. Solo panted, "Ink bottles. Black is the counter chemical, Red is the destroyer. Remember!"

He snatched up the dead guard's gun and together he and Illya crossed the stage and took up places beside the big doors. Galaxy had crumpled in a heap beside Gloryanna, seeking protection anyplace she could find it.

Solo and Illya set up a deadly fire, shooting into the men who were jockeying the cars to a halt. They called out numbers to each other. "One down – two – three - four down!"

"What did you create out there?" Solo yelled to Illya.

'Pandemonium," came the answer.

Solo gloried in the sight. Three cars were still on the go, headlights bouncing, but they wouldn't be rolling much longer because their paths would soon be crossed by a parked trailer. Too many Thrush figures were on their feet, and potshooting from the barn wasn't going to clear them out.

"Care for a closer range?" Solo yelled again.

"Lead the way!"

Solo squeezed off some rounds to force the Thrush men to duck and hurled himself away from the door, down the barn hill slope, dashing for a stalled car. He came up hard beside it and sprayed his bullets about like a madman as Thrush heads popped up to take aim. Illya scrambled into the shelter of a trailer and pumped off measured shots.

This was still getting him nowhere, Solo realized. He picked up another fallen Thrush gun, checked for ammunition and found plenty. He sprinted out of hiding, running to intersect the last mobile car. He caught it on the driver's side and leaped onto it, clinging like an Indian on the side of a horse, bouncing with it, clutching the steering wheel with the two fingers of his right hand that also held the rifle. He managed to keep from colliding with a trailer, gave the wheel a sharp turn, then dropped to the ground and yanked the door open, struggling into the driver's seat.

He kicked Illya's jammed stake away so he'd have control of the car and drove it into the Thrush gunfire. The windshield shattered even as he ducked. He was up again, the rifle pointing through the broken glass. Letting go of the wheel, he gunned the motor and sped forward, blasting at Thrush figures all the way. Another man fell. Illya was working steadily on a big one.

It was all madness. Solo's car careened about barely guided, spitting fire and dust and bullets like a maddened dragon. Illya carefully picked off any Thrush who couldn't stand the suspense and tried to run.

In short minutes the Thrush men gave up in horror, taking to their heels in a flight for the road. Solo rammed the car after them, setting its course to collide with a tree far down the field. He opened the door, stamped once more on the accelerator, and rolled from the car. He hit the ground and came to his feet, rifle ready.

There was no more need to fire. The few remaining Thrush men were possessed of demons, the car roaring behind them. They would run until they reached town.

Solo returned to Illya. They laughed together as they went to the barn. Gloryanna met them standing up but Galaxy stayed where she was on the hay bales, and her eyes when they touched Solo's were dark, deep, and helplessly inviting. Her face was suddenly that of a misguided girl instead of the confident woman she was.

"Keep an eye on that one," Solo told Illya. "She does the fastest swivel in town."

Galaxy stopped the bit she had started, giving up the hope of luring them into believing she was a dupe.

Gloryanna tried to hug both Solo and Illya at once. Then she concentrated on Illya. "How did you ever manage it? A few hours ago you were barely walking and now you've saved us all."