Suddenly the Captain reappeared on deck, as a second boat rocked out on its davits, and he ordered Schneider in along with several people Suzie recognized as her fellow passengers.
Then Mac pointed and shouted. Suzie looked up.
Something fat and stubby-winged appeared in the distance, growing larger. "Everybody lie down flat and hold onto something," Mac commanded. "And pray as hard as you ever did in your life."
Suzie had to look over the side of the boat, and as she did so she was the only one to see clearly what happened.
The rocket struck high, well above the waterline, but directly in the center of the ship, aft of the bridge. For an instant there was only a ragged hole. Then from the depths of the ship came a puff of flame, and a wave of concussion pounded her face. It was followed by a muffled roar, and a billow of fire swept up from a great tear across the center of the ship. A moment later it had broken in half and was already starting to sink. Of the men who had stood on her decks a few seconds before Suzie could see nothing. Part of a shattered lifeboat hung from one burning rope, and as she watched, her eyes fixed on the horrible scene by shock, the rope parted and dropped the wrecked prow of the boat into the water.
A series of explosions came now from both halves of the hulk as the waves rose swiftly around them. The motor of the little lifeboat chattered desperately as it drove away from the sucking swirl of water that tried to pull them down with the ship.
At last the great bubbles stopped and the roiling surface calmed. And only wreckage remained, gummed and surrounded in a wide and spreading black oil slick—the life blood of the ship, gushing forth as she sank into the endless night below.
Section I: "The Sailor Told Me Before He Died..."
Chapter 1: "A Dollar A Round."
Chapter 2: "An Awfully Big Haystack."
Chapter 3: "What Did You Expect—Big Ben?"
Chapter 4: "You Know A Party Named Kropotkin?" Section II: "They Built Themselves A Monster Wheel..."
Chapter 5: "Neu-Schloss? Where's That?"
Chapter 6: "I'll Show You A Magic Trick."
Chapter 7: "Sing For Us, Rameses."
Chapter 8: "A Message From Space." Section III: "Round And Round Went The Monster Wheel..."
Chapter 9: "This Is Your Submarine—Keep It Clean."
Chapter 10: "Island Ho!"
Chapter 11: "Get Those Intruders!"
Chapter 12: "Head For Home, James!" Section IV: "Is There No Way Of Stopping It?"
Chapter 13: "The Highest Con In The History Of The World."
Chapter 14: "We'll Have To Ditch!"
Chapter 15: "Accidental Misfire."
Chapter 16: "Dauringa Island Calling The World!"
Section I: "The Sailor Told Me Before He Died..."
Chapter 1: "A Dollar A Round."
The cablegram from Capetown was addressed simply UNCLEHQNYC. It arrived in the east-side Manhattan offices of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement on a Tuesday morning, and was brought directly to the desk of Alexander Waverly. The message was terse and cryptic:
IMPORTANT BUSINESS DEAL. SEND NEPHEW IMMEDIATELY. PHOTOGRAPHS FOLLOW. MACKENDRICKS.
Waverly read it again. The return address was the Voortrek Hotel, Capetown, South Africa. The meaning of the cable was clear enough, but...He touched a panel at his elbow.
"Do we have a file on anyone named MacKendricks who might be sending us a report from South Africa?"
The voice answered immediately. "Yes, sir. A Mr. MacKendricks has supplied us with information from several quarters of the world almost a dozen times in the last fifteen years. I'll bring his file in."
"Very good. And page Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin."
"Yes, sir."
The little pistol looked like a toy made of stamped tin, and felt like one in his hand as Napoleon Solo leveled it at the brightly-lighted target fifty feet away. Trigger's a little stiff, he thought as he squeezed it gently. There was the slight jar of the hammer striking, a burst of fire from the vents along the barrel, and a puff of heat over his hand, arm and face. With a sound like a starched handkerchief being ripped, amplified many times, a faint trail of smoke zipped out of the gun and ended half way to the far wall. The noise echoed around the concrete walls of the basement range for a few seconds before vanishing into the acoustic tile.
The range master squinted through the little spotting scope. "Not bad," he said. "Five ring at seven o'clock."
Napoleon squinted. A terrible shot, considering his usual accuracy. He consciously relaxed his hand, which had tensed to receive the recoil which had never come, and centered his sights on the blank circle.
Another sharp spitting shot, and another puff of heat. And the laconic voice saying, "Seven ring at six o'clock."
He was shooting low; time to apply Tennessee windage. He drew a careful bead a couple of inches above the distant bullseye and fired a third time. This time there was a pause as the rangemaster searched the target. "Just outside the five ring at one-thirty."
Napoleon set the safety, lowered his right hand and flexed his fingers after laying the weapon on the bench. A soft voice spoke behind him.
"I see you found the new toy. What do you think?"
He turned to see Illya, hands in the pockets of an acid-stained lab smock, regarding him and the Gyrojet pistol.
He started to speak, but Illya continued: "Tell me on the way upstairs. We have been summoned to Mr. Waverly's office. Save the rest of the magazine," he added as Napoleon started to reach for the rocket pistol. "At a dollar a round, someone else can use the practice."
In the elevator, as Napoleon ran a quick comb through his hair and straightened his tie, Illya said, "I tried the Gyrojet as soon as it came in. A good idea, but the pistol is quite inaccurate."
"Accurate enough," said Napoleon, as he checked his appearance in a polished metal panel. "Even at fifty feet all three of those slugs would have connected. And at close range accuracy wouldn't matter."
"But at close range it has no striking power," said the Russian. "It takes twenty-five feet for the rocket projectile to achieve maximum velocity. I prefer the more traditional 9 mm parabellums we use."
"There's no recoil at all," said Napoleon. "If the barrel were longer, or the burning time shorter, it'd be more accurate."
"The whole reason for a gun," said Illya flatly, as the door slid open and they stepped out, "is to put a little piece of metal exactly where you want it when you want it there. Anything that fails in this purpose fails as a gun."
"But suppose you want to put it there without attracting undue attention," said his partner. "The rocket pistol is a lot quieter than an ordinary gun. And suppose you wanted to shoot something underwater—the Gyrojet works as well there as in the air."