Without warning a bright flare of light snapped open like the burst of a bomb. A voice — Simian's voice, flat, uninterested — said, "You called, Mr. Carter? How do you feel? Are you receiving me all right?"
Nick turned his head toward the voice. His eyes were dazzled by the light. He squeezed them hard, then opened them again. The big, bald eagle's head filled a vast screen at the far end of the room. Nick caught a glimpse of leopard-skin upholstery as Simian leaned forward, adjusting the controls. He saw a blurred stream of objects moving past the man's left shoulder. He was in the Lincoln, traveling some place.
But the main thing Nick saw was
light.
It bloomed behind Simian's ugly head in all its glory! Nick wanted to shout his relief at the reprieve of time. But all he said was, "Where am I, Simian?"
The huge face smiled. "On the top floor of the Medical Center, Mr. Carter. In the RODRIC Room. That stands for Rocket Directional Guidance Control."
"I know what it stands for," snapped Nick. "Why am I still alive? What's the name of the game?"
"No game, Mr. Carter. The games are over. Now we're in deadly earnest. You are still alive because I find you a worthy opponent One who could truly appreciate the finer points of my master plan."
Killing wasn't enough. Simian's monstrous vanity had to be stroked first "I don't make a very good captive audience," Nick rasped. "I bore easily. Besides, you're more interesting than any plan you could cook up, Simian. Let
me
tell
you
a few things about yourself. You can correct me if I'm wrong..." He was talking rapidly, loudly, trying to keep Simian from noticing his shoulder movements. His effort to see his watch earlier had loosened the knots that held his right arm and he was now working desperately at them. "You're bankrupt, Simian. GKI Industries is a paper empire. You've swindled your stockholders of millions. And now you're in debt to the Syndicate because of your insatiable lust for gambling. They agreed to help you win the moon contract They knew it was the only chance they had of getting their money back."
Simian smiled thinly. "Correct up to a point," he said. "But it's not just gambling debts, Mr. Carter. I'm afraid the Syndicate's back is against the wall."
A second head moved into the picture. It was Reno Tree, in ugly close-up. "What our friend here means," he rasped, "is that he took the Syndicate to the cleaners with one of his boiler plate operations on Wall Street The mob kept sinkin' more dough into it, tryin' to get their original investment out. But the more they put in, the worse it got. They lost millions."
Simian nodded. "Quite true. So you see," he added, "the Syndicate will pocket the lion's share of any profit I make from this little enterprise. It's unfortunate, because all the original spadework, all the brainwork was mine. The sabotage campaign to discredit Connelly Aviation, the Apollo disaster, even beefing up the original GKI police force with Syndicate hoods — all my ideas."
"But why destroy Phoenix One?" demanded Nick. The flesh around his wrist was raw and the pain from his effort to loosen the knots sent shock waves of agony up his arms. He gasped — and, to cover it, said quickly, "The contract is practically GKI's anyway. Why kill three more astronauts?"
"To begin with, Mr. Carter, there's the question of the second capsule." Simian said it with the bored, slightly impatient air of a corporation head explaining a point to some troublesome stockholder. "It must be destroyed. But why — you will undoubtedly ask — at the expense of human life? Because, Mr. Carter, GKI's factories need at least two years to regear for the moon project As things stand now, that's the strongest argument NASA has for sticking with Connelly. But public revulsion at the massacre to come, you see, will
demand
a delay of at least two years..."
"Massacre?" His belly crawled with the knowledge of what Simian meant Three men dying was not a massacre; a city exploding in flames was. "You mean Miami?"
"Please understand, Mr. Carter. This is not just a wanton act of destruction. It serves a twofold purpose — turns public opinion against the moon program and also destroys the original evidence." Nick looked blank. "The evidence, Mr. Carter. In the room you occupy. The complicated directional tracking equipment. We can't have that lying around afterwards, can we?"
Nick shivered slightly at the chill he felt creeping up his spine. "There's also the tax angle," he rasped. "You stand to make a tidy profit from the destruction of your own Medical Center."
Simian beamed. "Of course. Two birds hit with one rocket, so to speak. But in a world gone mad, Mr. Carter, self-interest approaches the level of a sacrament." He glanced at his watch, the chairman of the board once again winding up an inconclusive stockholders' meeting, "And now, I must bid you adieu."
"Answer me one more thing!" Nick shouted. He could make the line slip a little now. He held his breath and made a single effort, wrenching at the ropes. The skin tore at the back of his hand and blood oozed warmly over his fingers. "I'm not alone here, am I?"
"That would look like we had been forewarned, wouldn't it?" smiled Simian. "No, of course not. The hospital is fully staffed and has the usual complement of patients."
"And I'm sure your heart bleeds for us all!" He began to shake with helpless rage. "All the way to the bank!" He bit the words off, spitting them up at the screen. The line slipped more easily because of the blood. He struggled with it, trying to force it over his knuckles.
"Your anger is pointless," shrugged Simian. "The equipment is automated. It's already been programmed. Nothing that you or I say can change things now. The moment the Phoenix One lifts off the launching pad at Cape Kennedy, the automatic guidance equipment in the Medical Center will take over. The spacecraft will seem to go out of control. Its auto-destruct mechanism will jam. It will come hurtling down into the hospital, spewing its millions of gallons of volatile fuel over central Miami. The Medical Center will simply melt, and with it, all the incriminating evidence. What a terrible tragedy, everyone will say. And two years hence, when the moon project finally gets under way again, NASA will award the contract to GKI. It's as simple as that, Mr. Carter." Simian leaned forward and Nick caught a glimpse of coconut palms blurring past his left shoulder. "And now goodbye. I'm switching you over to the program already in progress."
The screen went dark for an instant, then shimmered slowly back to life. The huge Saturn rocket filled it from top to bottom. The spidery arm of the gantry had already folded to one side. A wisp of steam rose from the nose cone. A series of superimposed numbers flowed past at the foot of the screen, recording elapsed time.
There were only jour minutes and thirty-two seconds left.
The blood from his torn skin had clotted on the line, and his first efforts tore the clots loose. He gasped at the pain. "This is Mission Control," a voice drawled on the screen. "How's it look to you, Gord?"
"Everything's A-OK from here," a second voice replied. "We're go for P equals one."
"That was Flight Commander Gordon Nash replying to a question from Mission Control, Houston," the announcer's voice cut in. "The count is now three minutes, forty-eight seconds to lift off, with all systems go..."
Sweating, he felt fresh blood ooze from the back of his hands. The rope slid easily over the lubrication it provided. On the fourth try he was able to work it over one knuckle and the widest part of his twisted palm.
And then suddenly his hand was free.
"T minus two minutes, fifty-six seconds," the voice announced. Nick closed his ears to it. His fingers were stiff, hampered by pain. He tore at the stubborn cord with his teeth.
Seconds later both hands were free. He loosened the rope around his neck, pulled it up over his head and went to work on his ankles, fingers shaking with strain...
"In exactly two minutes, the Apollo spacecraft, renamed Phoenix One..."'
He was on his feet now, moving stiffly toward the door that he saw illuminated in the spillover from the screen. It wasn't locked. Why would it be? And there were no guards outside. Why would there be? They were all gone, rats who'd deserted the doomed ship.
He hurried along the deserted hall, surprised to find Hugo, Wilhelmina, Pierre and family all in place on his person. But then again, why not? What defense would they be against the holocaust to come?
He tried the stairwell first, but it was locked, then the elevators — but the buttons had been removed. The top floor was sealed off. He hurried back along the hall, trying doors. They opened into empty, deserted rooms. All except one, which was locked. Three hard raps with his heel tore the metal loose from the wood and the door flew back.
It was a control center of some kind. The walls were lined with TV monitors. One of them was on. It showed the Phoenix One on the launching pad, poised for takeoff. Nick swung around, looking for a telephone. There was none, so he began switching the remaining monitors on. Various wards and corridors of the Medical Center shimmered into view. They were crowded with patients. Nurses and doctors could be seen moving along the hallways. He twisted the sound volume up and reached for a mike, hoping that his voice would reach them, warn them in time...
Suddenly he stopped. Something had caught his eye.
The monitors clustered around the one that showed the rocket on its launch pad — they were recording various views of the Cape Kennedy Moon Port, and one of those views, Nick knew, was not open to regular TV cameras! The one showing the top secret interior of the Launch Control Blockhouse.
He plugged the mike jack into the corresponding number on the console. "Hello!" he yelled. "Hello! Do you receive me? Launch Control Blockhouse, this is the GKI Medical Center. Do you receive me?"
He realized what had happened. Simian had gotten some of his directional engineers to build a secret two-way link with the Cape for use in emergencies.
A shadow moved across the screen. An incredulous voice barked: "What the hell's going on here?" A face blurred into close-up focus — a grim, lantern-jawed military face. "Who authorized this linkup? Who are you?"
Nick said: "I've got to get through to General McAlester — without delay."
"You'll get through all right," the military type rasped as he snatched up a telephone, "right through to J. Edgar Hoover. Gratz here, Security," he barked into the receiver. "Hold the count. There's something screwy going on. And get McAlester over here — on the double."
Nick gathered saliva back into his dry mouth. Slowly he began to breathe again.
* * *
He sent the Lamborghini hurtling along palm-lined Ocean Avenue. The sun shone brightly out of a cloudless sky. The homes of the wealthy swung past behind their discreet hedges and wrought-iron fences.
He looked like a handsome, carefree playboy out for a mid-afternoon spin, but agent N3's thoughts were steeped in vengeance and destruction.
The car radio was on. A voice was saying, "...a pinhole leak in the Saturn propellant tank has caused an indefinite delay. We understand they're working on it now. If the repair work takes the Phoenix One past the 3:00 p.m. launch deadline, the mission will be scrubbed for twenty-four hours. Stay tuned to WQXT Radio for further developments..."
That was the story that he and McAlester had decided on. It would keep Simian and his crowd from getting suspicious. At the same time it would keep them nervous, on the edge of their chairs, their eyes pinned to the TV set until Nick could reach them.
He knew they were in Palm Beach — at Cathay, Simian's seaside villa. He'd recognized those coconut palms fanning past the financier's shoulder as he'd leaned forward in the Lincoln to adjust the closed-circuit TV controls. They were the palms that lined his private driveway.
N3 hoped he would be able to beat the special AXE mop-up crew to the scene. He had a personal score to settle.
He glanced at his watch. He'd left Miami an hour ago. A planeload of guidance control engineers were now winging their way south from Cape Kennedy. They would have exactly forty-five minutes to disengage the complicated electronic nightmare that Simian had constructed. If it took longer than that, the mission would be scrubbed until tomorrow. But then what was a twenty-four hour delay compared to the flaming destruction of a city?
Another plane, a small, private one, was on its way north at this moment, and Nick's best wishes — as well as a couple of fond memories — went with it. Hank Peterson was flying Joy Sun back to her post at the Kennedy Space Port's Medical Center.
Nick reached down, driving one-handed as he slipped Wilhelmina from her hiding place.
He entered Cathay's grounds through an automatic gate which lifted when the Lamborghini passed over a treadle. A tough-looking type in a green uniform came out of a kiosk, did a double take, and came running toward him, tugging at his service holster. Nick slowed. He stretched his right arm out, shoulder high, and squeezed the trigger. Wilhelmina bucked just a trifle and the GKI guard thudded face forward into the ground. Dust billowed up around him.
A second shot sounded and the Lamborghini's windshield shattered, raining glass over Nick. He hit the brakes, opened the door and dived out in one smooth motion. He heard a gun roar behind him as he rolled and another bullet punched into the dust where his head had been. He spun a half-turn, then reversed the spin and came up shooting. Wilhelmina bucked twice in his hand, then twice more, coughing gutturally, and the four GKI guards coming around both sides of the kiosk went sprawling as the slugs struck home.
He swung around in a half crouch, left arm protecting his vitals in the approved FBI manner, the Luger held low, ready. But there was no one else. The dust settled on the five bodies.
Had they heard the shots in the villa? Nick measured the distance with his eye, recalled the sound of the surf and doubted it. He walked over to the bodies and stood looking down at them. He had aimed high, resulting in five terminal cases. He chose the largest and hauled it into the kiosk.