picked up a large white piece of cardboard andtapped it meaningly. There were two broad lines on it, running side byside through other smaller lines and shaded patches, and there wasalso a thick black arrow pointing to one particular place on it.
The chart was easy to understand. Chris Travers recognized itimmediately, and his heart seemed to stop for a moment as he did.
Their first step had been the dirigibles: their second was a blowwhich paled the other into insignificance. And Chris told himselfdesperately:
"It can't go through! It can't!"
The lines on the cardboard were a detailed map of the Panama Canal;and the black arrow pointed unerringly to its most vulnerable,unguarded and vital point, the Gatun Spillway, which, if wrecked,would put the whole intricate Canal hopelessly out of commission.
* * * * *
Istafiev was speaking again, in low, terse tones, oblivious of thedesperate resolve forming in Chris's brain.
"Only one of the dirigibles had been destroyed. Well, it iss too bad,but not fatal to the plan. The ZX-1 can hamper our country'soperations when she strikes, but if the ZX-2 were also in action, theywould be hampered much more--perhaps fatally. It iss not serious. Sowe go ahead. Now, Kashtanov, for the last time, the scheme of wreckingGatun Spillway iss this:
"Note, here, the small golf course. That iss your landing space. Youknow its location: a mile, perhaps, from Gatun Dam and the spillway.At night, there iss no one near it or on it. You drop down to the golfcourse from seven thousand feet: the helicopter motors are muffled,and no one will hear you come. Some of the stretches of the course aresecluded and hidden by the surrounding jungle; choose one of these toland on. Well, that iss easy.
"The spillway iss about midway in Gatun Dam: its channel has been cutthrough a hill. You come along the side of this channel right up closeto the spillway--close, remember!--and leave the box there. The rangeof the rays, you know, iss two hundred feet: set them to fire oneminute after you leave the box. They will destroy the seven gates ofthe spillway and also part of the dam and the hydro-electric station.Gatun Lake will then empty itself; the canal will be half drained; thepower will be gone--it will take half a year to repair it all. TheZX-1 can fly up to the east coast, thanks to Zenalishin'sfumbling--yess; but these American fleets are massed in the Pacific;they will have to go around South America to reach the Atlantic--andthat will take weeks.
"And in that time the Soviet has crossed the Atlantic uncontested andhas paralyzed the heart of America, her eastern states. Ah, it issmagnificent!"
* * * * *
But Kashtanov's thoughts were elsewhere. Peering hard at the chart, hesaid:
"I have a minute to get clear, eh? Well, I can do that; but won't thewater sweeping through from Gatun Lake after the spillway is wreckedcatch me?"
"No. You run up the hill the spillway channel is cut through; it isshigh ground, and the golf course iss on high ground. No one will seeyou coming or going, naturally, and the box iss not big enough to benoticed at night. The noise of its equalizers will be covered by thewater coming through the spillway. It iss--what they say?--fool-proof.You cannot fail, Kashtanov. And--" he broke into swift-flowing, liquidRussian, his swarthy face lighting up, his arms waving, one of themslapping the other's back.
"Stop the dramatics," said Kashtanov, "and speak in English. I'veworked so long in America, Russian is hard to understand. Time tobegin?"
Istafiev glanced at a watch on his wrist. "A few minutes. Look you."He went to a side locker in the room, opened it, hauled out with bothhands a box of plain dull metal, and put it on the table. It waslarger than the one Chris Travers had seen on the ZX-1, but otherwisesimilar.
"A double charge of nitro-lanarline iss in this," murmured Istafievcomplacently. "Imagine it, when released! You know the working well,do you not? Yess. Well, I put it in the plane, ready." He stepped tothe hut's single door and passed out. Through it Chris could see thetiny clearing, dark under the camouflaged framework, now closed oncemore; the light from the hut showed him the wings of thehelicopter-plane standing there. He heard, moreover, the sound of ashovel from somewhere, and knew that a lonely grave was being dug inthe wilderness. Then Istafiev shouted:
"Grigory! That grave, make it wide, make room for two." He came backand peered sidewise at Chris. "Not conscious yet?" A foot thudded intothe American's side. "No. Well, I see to him when you are gone,Kashtanov. Yess, thick darkness iss here. Time to begin. Take off yourclothes."
* * * * *
Chris was now keenly alert, poised, ready for any chance that mightcome. The odds were two or three to one, and a gun into the bargain,but the stakes were higher than any ever played for before; and astroke had to be made, no matter how seemingly hopeless. Through hislashes he watched, turned things over in his mind--and somethingleaped within him when he saw Kashtanov unbuckle the gun around hiswaist and lay it down, meanwhile taking off the clothes he waswearing: and when he heard the question which followed, and Istafiev'sanswer.
Naked, lean-muscled and sinewy, Kashtanov paused before the door ofthe cage. "How will this affect me?" he asked. "Painful?"
"You will be conscious of no sensation. You will see me, yess, andthe room, but you will be paralyzed completely while the power is on."
"Paralyzed, eh?" murmured Kashtanov. "Well, let's go," and he placedhimself inside the cage.
Paralyzed, when the power was on! In effect, that left only Istafievin the room: the man Grigory was outside, and the noise of the dynamowould drown any shouts for help. And Kashtanov's gun was on thetable....
Imperceptibly, Chris's muscles tensed as he judged the distance to thetable and reckoned out each movement after the first leap. Onesweeping blow with the gun would put Istafiev safely out of action;then he could be bound and Grigory summoned and tied also at the pointof the gun. If, by that time, Kashtanov was invisible inside the cage,the levers could be reversed and his body brought back to visibilityand bound.
Then--a call broadcast from the hut's radio-telephone to headquartersat the Canal and the fleets in the Pacific!
"It'll work," Chris told himself. "It's damn well got to!"
But a certain part of the invisibility machine did not enter hisplans.
* * * * *
The creamy liquid in the glassy dome began, as before, to swirlslowly: but apart from that its action was different. The white mass,instead of discharging the vapor-laden bubbles, became a whipping,highly agitated whirlpool as the tubes below glowed softly and ribbonsof golden light snaked out and laced through the nude body ofKashtanov. The liquid above flowed rapidly in a complete circle, itscenter sucked hollow, exactly as a glass quarter-filled with waterbehaves when rotated quickly. Thus the outer surface of the dome,coated inside with the milky liquid, gleamed and scintillated as thewhirl of light struck it and danced off it: and it even became dimlyreflective.
In seconds Kashtanov's figure lost definite outline and assumed aghostly transparency that bared the internal organs and veins: andthen his skeleton appeared.
Istafiev was facing the control panel. As he gathered his limbs forthe decisive leap, Chris's eyes were on his stocky back. But Istafievwas watching keenly the gleaming, glassy dome above.
He was surveying the action of the white substance and judging thetime of the process by it. Then suddenly his vision centered onsomething that had seemed to move on the surface of the dome.
Something had moved. Chris, lying against the wall behind, had openedhis eyes fully, had dragged back his legs beneath him and balancedhimself for his leap. And, in distorted perspective, his actions werereflected on the dome.
Just for a second he poised--then sprang.
The speed Istafiev showed seemed foreign to the build of his body. Inan instant he had whirled from the switchboard, fingers not lingeringto release Kashtanov, and leaped.
* * * * *
They met at the table
. Two hands shot out for the gun lying on it.Chris grabbed it first. But he paid for his speed. The swipe he hadaimed with his left arm went wild; a fist thudded into his stomach andbelted the wind from him, and he felt his gun-wrist seized andwrenched back.
Gasping for breath, dizzy, only the fighting instinct enabled him tocrane a leg behind the other and throw his whole weight forward. Theplanks of the floor shivered under the two bodies that toppled ontothem.
There was a melee on the floor, furious, savage, mad. In cold fact, itlasted merely for seconds; but Chris was grappling with a man whosestrength was as desperate as his own, and who had not been weakened bya solar plexus blow or a cramping wait of hours in one position: theAmerican had passed through an eternity of physical and mental agonywhen Istafiev, hunching up, strained the finger of his right handupward, searching for