into this Nazi playground."
"They can probably pick up what we're saying, too, so hush."
"It's my fondest hope the control bug of yours doesn't fall off the little chap's brain again. Then we really will be in the proverbial bouillabaisse."
Two new corridors intersected with the original. "Go to the left," said the Nazi in his droning voice.
"Tell him he doesn't sound authoritative enough," Prof whispered over his shoulder.
At the next forking of corridors, the little man droned, "Turn to the right."
"Ah, new members being added to the cast," remarked Prof sotto voce.
Standing in front of the metal doors at this corridor's end were two large men in pale-green overalls. Each wore a .45 automatic at his belt.
"You are not supposed to bring prisoners here, Sullivan," one of the guards called to the approaching little Nazi.
"There is no admittance to the Central Control Room," said the other burly guard.
"There's a slipup," said Prof, ticking his head in the direction of the sturdy door. "Printing Central Control Room in German like that. Changing your names to Sullivan and the like doesn't help if you're going—"
"Be silent, swine," said one of the big guards in German.
"Devil is the preferred insult," said Prof, grinning. He was only inches away from the two men now. Unexpectedly he reached out, caught both of them by the ear with his raised hands and forced their heads to bang together with considerable force. "Saw Leo Gorcey do this in a film once; been dying to try it."
As the guards tottered, Ace leaped forward. He gave one a series of incapacitating chops to the neck.
Prof was dealing similarly with the other guard.
Before his man oozed out unconscious on the metal floor, Ace had the door handle gripped. He turned, shoved and dived into the room beyond.
There were four men working in the large, domed-ceiling place. They were scattered at the various control banks, monitoring desks, computers and scanning systems.
"Very slowly," suggested Ace, an odd-looking pistol in his hand, "very slowly take your hands off what you're doing and hoist 'em high."
Prof came in with their thought-controlled Nazi in tow. "Let me second that motion." He also held a strange pistol.
"Those are odd-looking and strange guns you have there," observed the nearest control room technician.
"Stylish, too, don't you think?" Prof shut the heavy doors behind them. "Humane as well, since they don't kill you. No, they merely cripple you for about fifteen hours."
Ace, as they'd planned before descending from the jungle, ran across to the address system, picked up a microphone. In fluent German he ordered, "All personnel will report immediately to Auditorium One. All personnel will report at once to Auditorium One. There are no exceptions; this is an extreme emergency!"
Prof, meantime, had located the communications control desk which their little Nazi had described when they'd questioned him earlier. "Ah, yes, there's the toggle I seek." He flipped the yellow one in a bank of twenty multicolored switches. "Now Herr Shuster can't use his own mike to cancel our order." He hopped sideways, located a blue switch on another panel of toggles and tinned it off, too. "Nor can he see anything at all on his own TV screens. Poor lad's going to suffer media withdrawal almost certainly."
"It's working, it's working." Ace was grinning, eyes on the row of television screens on the far wall.
"You sound like a . . . oops! Mustn't do that, old man."
Zizzle!
A technician, noticed out of the corner of Profs eye, had been moving toward the door. Now he was collapsed on the floor, lying in a stiff, folded-up position.
"You other three chaps better huddle over there," Prof told the other technicians, "beneath the TV screens."
"I admire that weapon of yours," said the technician who'd spoken before.
"Why, thank you, it's really only a little thing I happened to—
"Hush up," advised Ace.
The dozen control room screens showed them the various levels
"They can probably pick up what we're saying, too, so hush."
"It's my fondest hope the control bug of yours doesn't fall off the little chap's brain again. Then we really will be in the proverbial bouillabaisse."
Two new corridors intersected with the original. "Go to the left," said the Nazi in his droning voice.
"Tell him he doesn't sound authoritative enough," Prof whispered over his shoulder.
At the next forking of corridors, the little man droned, "Turn to the right."
"Ah, new members being added to the cast," remarked Prof sotto voce.
Standing in front of the metal doors at this corridor's end were two large men in pale-green overalls. Each wore a .45 automatic at his belt.
"You are not supposed to bring prisoners here, Sullivan," one of the guards called to the approaching little Nazi.
"There is no admittance to the Central Control Room," said the other burly guard.
"There's a slipup," said Prof, ticking his head in the direction of the sturdy door. "Printing Central Control Room in German like that. Changing your names to Sullivan and the like doesn't help if you're going—"
"Be silent, swine," said one of the big guards in German.
"Devil is the preferred insult," said Prof, grinning. He was only inches away from the two men now. Unexpectedly he reached out, caught both of them by the ear with his raised hands and forced their heads to bang together with considerable force. "Saw Leo Gorcey do this in a film once; been dying to try it."
As the guards tottered, Ace leaped forward. He gave one a series of incapacitating chops to the neck.
Prof was dealing similarly with the other guard.
Before his man oozed out unconscious on the metal floor, Ace had the door handle gripped. He turned, shoved and dived into the room beyond.
There were four men working in the large, domed-ceiling place. They were scattered at the various control banks, monitoring desks, computers and scanning systems.
"Very slowly," suggested Ace, an odd-looking pistol in his hand, "very slowly take your hands off what you're doing and hoist 'em high."
Prof came in with their thought-controlled Nazi in tow. "Let me second that motion." He also held a strange pistol.
"Those are odd-looking and strange guns you have there," observed the nearest control room technician.
"Stylish, too, don't you think?" Prof shut the heavy doors behind them. "Humane as well, since they don't kill you. No, they merely cripple you for about fifteen hours."
Ace, as they'd planned before descending from the jungle, ran across to the address system, picked up a microphone. In fluent German he ordered, "All personnel will report immediately to Auditorium One. All personnel will report at once to Auditorium One. There are no exceptions; this is an extreme emergency!"
Prof, meantime, had located the communications control desk which their little Nazi had described when they'd questioned him earlier. "Ah, yes, there's the toggle I seek." He flipped the yellow one in a bank of twenty multicolored switches. "Now Herr Shuster can't use his own mike to cancel our order." He hopped sideways, located a blue switch on another panel of toggles and tinned it off, too. "Nor can he see anything at all on his own TV screens. Poor lad's going to suffer media withdrawal almost certainly."
"It's working, it's working." Ace was grinning, eyes on the row of television screens on the far wall.
"You sound like a . . . oops! Mustn't do that, old man."
Zizzle!
A technician, noticed out of the corner of Profs eye, had been moving toward the door. Now he was collapsed on the floor, lying in a stiff, folded-up position.
"You other three chaps better huddle over there," Prof told the other technicians, "beneath the TV screens."
"I admire that weapon of yours," said the technician who'd spoken before.
"Why, thank you, it's really only a little thing I happened to—
"Hush up," advised Ace.
The dozen control room screens showed them the various levels
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