They’d seen him, and the chariot, and were going to land.
Cole was about to wave, but something made him hesitate.
The plane landed about five hundred feet away, scattering streamers of sand.
A man with a machine gun dropped out of the passenger side of the plane before the propeller had ceased spinning. He started firing at Cole.
The door of their cell opened. A guard carrying a breakfast tray entered. There was a pot of coffee on the tray, two cups, two bowls of dry cereal, a pitcher of milk, silverware, one banana, and a .38 revolver. The revolver rested close to the guard’s right hand. “I have brought you young ladies your morning meal,” he announced.
“Stand by,” Nellie said quietly out of the side of her mouth to Jennifer. She walked toward the tray-carrying guard.
“Please to stand back until I place—”
Nellie kicked. Her foot swung up incredibly high. The toe of her shoe hit the bottom of the tray dead center.
The hot coffee splashed back into the guard’s face. The milk slurped up out of the pitcher and splotched the front of him. Cups and bowls clacked together, spun to the floor, and smashed.
Nellie ignored all that. Her eye was on the gun. And she got it before the man did.
“What have you done?” he yowled, both hands pressed over his burned face.
Cereal crackled under foot as Nellie reached out and caught the man’s wrist with her left hand. “Over against the bunks, my friend.”
“I’m injured, miss. I may be maimed for life, do you not—”
“On the bunk, sweetie, or your life won’t last much beyond this morning.”
“Nellie, maybe he is seriously hurt,” said Jennifer, biting her thumb knuckle, watching the two of them.
“I doubt it.”
“The young miss is right, I am mortally injured.” The guard, hands still over his face, stumbled back against the bed. Unavoidably he sat down on it. “Just look.”
Nellie hesitated a second, then crossed to him.
“See?” He dropped his hands and made a lunge for the gun.
Her foot snapped out again, not so high this time. “Malingerer,” she said.
“Yow!” She’d caught him in the kneecap. He clutched at his knee with the hands he’d meant to use on her and the gun. He sat down again. “What a pity, what a pity. To hobble for the rest of my life.”
“Over on your frontside,” ordered Nellie.
“I’m too pained to move.”
“Over.” She caught his foot and half flipped him.
“Such unfeminine conduct,” protested the guard, “for so small and sweet-seeming a young lady.”
“Jenny,” said Nellie, “take out his belt. Then tie his hands behind his back with it. Tight.”
“Okay, Nellie. And then what?”
“Then we get out of here.”
Cole spat out a mouthful of sand. He had managed to get on the other side of the chariot, with it standing between him and the man with the tommy gun.
Getting rid of the last of the sand he’d taken in while rolling and tumbling to this position of relative safety, Cole shouted to the man, “Let’s negotiate, old fellow.”
“We advise you to surrender.” The pilot had joined the other man. “There is no possibility of escape.”
“I have your good chum, Herr Dirks, here with me,” lied Cole. “If you chaps don’t give up, I’ll be forced to blow his brains out.”
There was silence, no more slugs, no further talk, for a full minute.
Then the pilot called out, “Go ahead, Mr. Wilson. We cannot be swayed by emotional blackmail.”
“Cold-blooded rascals,” said Cole to himself. He waited a few seconds before replying, in a fairly good imitation of Dirks’s voice, “Hey, this guy ain’t kidding. He’s going to lay me out.”
“We are sorry, Dirks.”
“Aw, don’t let him do it. Have a heart, you birds. Ain’t we been pals and comrades in arms?”
“It is no use, we must take him in,” shouted the pilot. “And we must quickly hide this fallen ship of yours.”
“Oof,” said Cole suddenly in his own voice. “Say old boy, you
Cole was about to wave, but something made him hesitate.
The plane landed about five hundred feet away, scattering streamers of sand.
A man with a machine gun dropped out of the passenger side of the plane before the propeller had ceased spinning. He started firing at Cole.
The door of their cell opened. A guard carrying a breakfast tray entered. There was a pot of coffee on the tray, two cups, two bowls of dry cereal, a pitcher of milk, silverware, one banana, and a .38 revolver. The revolver rested close to the guard’s right hand. “I have brought you young ladies your morning meal,” he announced.
“Stand by,” Nellie said quietly out of the side of her mouth to Jennifer. She walked toward the tray-carrying guard.
“Please to stand back until I place—”
Nellie kicked. Her foot swung up incredibly high. The toe of her shoe hit the bottom of the tray dead center.
The hot coffee splashed back into the guard’s face. The milk slurped up out of the pitcher and splotched the front of him. Cups and bowls clacked together, spun to the floor, and smashed.
Nellie ignored all that. Her eye was on the gun. And she got it before the man did.
“What have you done?” he yowled, both hands pressed over his burned face.
Cereal crackled under foot as Nellie reached out and caught the man’s wrist with her left hand. “Over against the bunks, my friend.”
“I’m injured, miss. I may be maimed for life, do you not—”
“On the bunk, sweetie, or your life won’t last much beyond this morning.”
“Nellie, maybe he is seriously hurt,” said Jennifer, biting her thumb knuckle, watching the two of them.
“I doubt it.”
“The young miss is right, I am mortally injured.” The guard, hands still over his face, stumbled back against the bed. Unavoidably he sat down on it. “Just look.”
Nellie hesitated a second, then crossed to him.
“See?” He dropped his hands and made a lunge for the gun.
Her foot snapped out again, not so high this time. “Malingerer,” she said.
“Yow!” She’d caught him in the kneecap. He clutched at his knee with the hands he’d meant to use on her and the gun. He sat down again. “What a pity, what a pity. To hobble for the rest of my life.”
“Over on your frontside,” ordered Nellie.
“I’m too pained to move.”
“Over.” She caught his foot and half flipped him.
“Such unfeminine conduct,” protested the guard, “for so small and sweet-seeming a young lady.”
“Jenny,” said Nellie, “take out his belt. Then tie his hands behind his back with it. Tight.”
“Okay, Nellie. And then what?”
“Then we get out of here.”
Cole spat out a mouthful of sand. He had managed to get on the other side of the chariot, with it standing between him and the man with the tommy gun.
Getting rid of the last of the sand he’d taken in while rolling and tumbling to this position of relative safety, Cole shouted to the man, “Let’s negotiate, old fellow.”
“We advise you to surrender.” The pilot had joined the other man. “There is no possibility of escape.”
“I have your good chum, Herr Dirks, here with me,” lied Cole. “If you chaps don’t give up, I’ll be forced to blow his brains out.”
There was silence, no more slugs, no further talk, for a full minute.
Then the pilot called out, “Go ahead, Mr. Wilson. We cannot be swayed by emotional blackmail.”
“Cold-blooded rascals,” said Cole to himself. He waited a few seconds before replying, in a fairly good imitation of Dirks’s voice, “Hey, this guy ain’t kidding. He’s going to lay me out.”
“We are sorry, Dirks.”
“Aw, don’t let him do it. Have a heart, you birds. Ain’t we been pals and comrades in arms?”
“It is no use, we must take him in,” shouted the pilot. “And we must quickly hide this fallen ship of yours.”
“Oof,” said Cole suddenly in his own voice. “Say old boy, you
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