The doors to the control tower and the passenger buildings were open; figures were running through them towards us, wildly waving their arms. The parking lot held six cars, none of them military or police.
Perhaps they did not really think we would try to land there after all the foofaraw, or perhaps they had been delayed for some reason.
Trish used her pencil flashlight to light our path as we ran. We got to the cars well ahead of the people from the buildings. Moreover, these at first ran towards the plane; they did not know we were in the parking lot until a few minutes later. The six cars were a Hillman Minx, two Volkswagens, an MG, a
Facel-Vega, and an Aston-Martin DB4. All were locked and none had keys in the ignition locks.
I smashed in the window of the Aston-Martin and reached in and unlocked the door. Then I raised the hood and, while Trish held the flashlight, went to work with screwdriver and pliers. It took only a minute to jump the wires, but by then we could hear voices, muffled by the wind and the rain. I completed the connections, put the hood down gently, and we scrambled into the car. At that moment, a pair of headlights swung around the corner of a building at the far end of the street which ended at the gates of the airport.
A man yelled, “Here! I say! What do you think you’re doing there?”
Five men ran towards us. I put the car into gear and took off with a squealing of tires. Wet as the pavement was, the rubber burned. There was a pinging sound as we went through the open gates. A hole appeared in the windshield between us. I shifted to second. A second car had appeared behind the first down the street. In my rear view mirror I could see a pair of headlights come on in the parking lot.
Trish was busy taking the automatic from my pocket and laying it on the seat beside me, breaking open the .22, and assembling it.
Flames spurted from alongside the first auto heading for us. I began swerving but had little room to maneuver because the hundred-yard gap between us was narrowing swiftly. I was doing 60 mph by then, and the oncoming cars were probably doing 40 mph. It swerved away when I did. The driver had acted defensively; he must have thought I intended to crash him or was playing “chicken” and he did not want a head-on crash with an impact of 100 mph.
In any event, we both skidded. I compensated properly but the Aston-Martin continued to turn, moving forward also and spinning around its vertical axis. The other also turned. Like two waltzers, or iceskaters, we passed each other, our fronts missing by an inch or so. As we did so, Trish fired her automatic three times.
She said, “I think I got one! A hand flew up and dropped a gun out the window!”
Our car ended its whirl pointed in the right direction, so I just kept on going.
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The second car must have put on its brakes. It was skidding but the driver apparently got off the brakes in time to regain control. Jets of fire leaped from its side as it went by. And then we were past each other.
Trish, looking through the rear window, said, “The first car has stopped; it’s headed away from us. So’s the other one. They’ll have to turn around. But the one that was in the lot—it’s coming. Watch out!”
The warning was not for me but for the third car. Its driver had tried to stop it when he saw the roadway blocked by the two vehicles. He skidded and slammed into one of the cars, their two sides, right and left, colliding, according to Trish. The lights of one went out.
I took the corner with a minor skid, straightened out, and was on my way for a straight shot for six blocks. I had to go through the “Square.” I was on A66, my immediate destination was A594, leading westward out of town. The six blocks were traversed with no sign of pursuit. Since I slowed down before taking the corner, I did not skid much. Several cars honked angrily as I flew by. I was splashing water on both sides as if I were a motorboat trying for a speed record. Pedestrians, hearing me at a distance, raced for the sides of buildings, against which they flattened themselves. Their efforts to avoid getting hit were successful but they could not dodge the spray. I could imagine the fists and the curses. They were lucky they did not get run over. And, for all I knew, the pursuing cars would hit some.
Just before I turned the next corner for a shot at the central part of town, two cars came in sight behind us. One had only a single headlamp working.
A policeman stepped out of a pub and blew his whistle hysterically. I kept on, and he jumped back into the doorway as a blanket of water rose to cover him. I almost lost control again rounding another corner and then I was two blocks away from Market “Square.” Trish, leaning out of the window, emptied a clip at the pursuers. The lead car swerved, and she exclaimed that she must have shot the driver. But it straightened out and flames jetted in reply from both sides of the car. As far as I knew, no bullets struck our vehicle.
Then I was roaring into the “Square“ but double-clutching to gear down. At the end of the “Square” a large white board sign with the word ARNISONS shone in my beams. I swung left and, again, could not keep from skidding. Fifty miles an hour was too much for wet pavement and such an abrupt movement.
As the car’s rear end described its arc, my headlights passed across the black letters on the white plate.
A594 KESWICK. This sign was on a black and white pole on a triangle of cement between three roads. A
watchtower stood on the triangle behind the signpost.
The beams swung past that and illumined the front of the Midland Bank, and the car’s rear went over the curbing of the triangle and struck the road sign. The pole bent with a crash; the car slid off it and continued on down A594, past the bank and headed westerly.
I was lucky not to blow a tire or overturn. The pole must have damaged the side of the car, and I had been thrown against my seat and shoulder belt towards the right. She had been pressed against the door.
The first car to follow us was not as lucky. It was about 40 feet behind us and going, I estimated at 60
mph. I don’t think the driver was familiar with this town, otherwise, he would have been more cautious.
It skidded, too, and went up over the curb of the island, completely bent the pole under it, and smashed broadside into the tower. Its lights went out, and I did not see it again.
The car behind it did not try to turn. It put on its brakes and skidded on down the street past the tower and out of sight behind the bank. However, it must have turned around swiftly, because a minute later I saw its lights a half-mile behind me.
The third car, which I presumed was driven by some of the airport personnel, did not appear again.
A594 bent slightly southwest out of Penrith and then, near the Greystoke Pillar, a monument, turned northwesterly. Between Penrith and the village of Greystoke was a stretch of five miles with only farmhouses on either side of the road and not many of them. The road was excellent, a Minister of
Transport motorway. Despite the driving rain and wind, I was going at 80 mph and occasionally at 90. I traveled this fast only because I knew the road well. I was hoping that my pursuers had no local men among them.
Although I kept most of my mind on the driving, I could spare some for thinking about the situation.
Those men had fired at me with intent to kill, not just to warn. It did not seem likely that Caliban’s men would shoot at me if he knew his cousin was with me. Moreover, Caliban wanted to handle me personally.
Noli knew where the gold was, or where it had been. He wanted the elixir, however, and he needed me alive to tell him how to get it. Or did he? If he had Clio—I felt cold then he could get the secret out of her. And so there was no reason for him to keep me alive except for personal vengeance. But he knew how dangerous I was and may have decided to let the torture go for an assurance that I was no longer a threat to him.