The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 29
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"Hey, up there! You take him up nice and steady, now. Put him down by that stair well, all right?"
Rambo's reply was a monstrous bellow of laughter. The links came taut, and Solo groaned as his weight grew large and the sagging burden lifted and buckled. He clung frantically, watching the ground fall away. The gray face of the building slid down and past like a nightmare. Then, with added height, the unfinished top of the building was below him, a pattern in stark black and white like some scene from an abstracted hell. The upward surge stopped abruptly, and, all at once Solo was weightless as the load ran down and the pockmarked surface there seemed to leap up.
He came to a spinning, swinging halt about a foot above the surface, drew a deep breath, and then Rambo let him go, let him fall the last short bit with a bone shaking thud. He crashed, pitched forward, put up his arms to save himself, rolled to the edge of a patch of black shadow, hung there for one awful second, then tumbled over. The drop was no more than three feet but it was enough to shock him and rasp his elbows and knees into agony. The crane whirred again, and here came the sack, slithering and sliding, to fall into the hole with him, knocking him staggering again. Once more Rambo laughed.
"Cast her off, Hoppy. Want them hooks for the next one." Solo squinted up under the brim of the hat, up at the spidery structure of the tower and the jib, until his eyes found the cab with its windows, no more than ten feet down from the cross member which carried the jib. He got a glimpse of Rambo's face and toothy grin. He fumed inwardly, turned, and caught his foot in what appeared to be a U shaped length of stout steel rod. Crouching, he investigated and found it was solidly rooted in the previous layer. He turned to fumble with the limp sack, disengaged a hook, slipped it under the U piece and over, linking the beak into the chain itself. A moment later he had done the same with the other one. All in the dark. Rambo couldn't see. He stood cautiously, backed away, then made a sign, threw his hand up in the air—and prayed that Rambo would be as heavy handed as before.
He heard the motors howl, saw the chains snap taut—and sing! And then grate against an impossible strain. Up there the motors screeched up into overload and then beyond into destruction before the safety cutouts could save them. Solo stared up in fascination as the long jib bowed down, its cables quivering and lashing, the cluster of counterweights at the other end dancing lazily upward. And then down again. Time seemed to congeal into a crawl. Rambo shouted in fury. The cables lashed and spoke like huge harpstrings. The spindly monotower whipped, sighed, groaned and then gave off a crack like a cannon. And buckled. And fell, snapping like a carrot at its weakest point, just below the cabin.
Solo shrank, wrapped his arms about his head and fell flat on his face, half-stunned by the gargantuan scream and cry of destruction, cringing from the infernal barrage of shearing, bursting nuts and bolts. Under him the concrete shook as the jib, canting sideways, slammed into the top of the building.
Daring to peer up, Solo saw the twisted framework of the tower immediately above him. There came the squeal and spang of some strip of metal driven to destruction, and a bulleting rivet head smashed into the concrete in front of his face, struck a trail of sparks, and wailed away into the night. Then the silence rushed in, thick and cold.
TWELVE
IT WAS QUIET. Too quiet. Beyond the ringing in his head, Solo could hear the stillness. He scrambled up, heaving away the metal bar across his back. What a hell of a mess! He drew a deep breath, spat out some stone dust, set off to wander drunkenly to the edge of the surface, tripping and stumbling over chunks of wood, treacherous loops and hooks of wire, odd split levels in the concrete, and he came to a fragile looking barrier of scaffold tubing. He clung and craned over, stared down.
Still it was quiet. Away down there among the toy-sized objects he saw three spreading triangles, the yellow of sand, red of gravel and white of cement, and the tiny red mixer at their common focus. But it was still and silent. Perhaps Wendig had gone away! Solo pondered that a moment, his brain lurching loosely around in his skull. Turning, his eye caught a glint of light. Up there. A window swinging in the breeze. The crane cabin! What about Rambo? Solo aimed himself at the spot where the great box column of the crane leaned against the roof and started towards it.
Just here the scaffolding had been warped and smashed aside. He picked his way around it, leaned out and laid his hand on the main angle steel.
"Climb up," he told himself. "Got to check up. Make sure. Finish it off properly." He nodded at this sound piece of reasoning and had to take hold of his head to stop the nodding from going on indefinitely. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took hold, and started to climb. After the first strain, it was simple enough. All he had to do was to lean on the girder, stretch out, hold, bring up his feet, stretch out again. Engrossed in this, he suddenly realized that something was moving besides himself on the flat concrete, and he held still to watch, frowning gently.
It was Wendig. The thick chested bare headed foreman seemed to come from nowhere, out of a dark shadow. He glared around savagely, twisted back for a look up at the wreckage, ran heavily out into an open area and swore. After a string of profanity that made Solo shake his head, he stooped and caught up an eight foot length of aluminum pole.
"Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "Where?"
Before Solo could decide whether to reply, another shadow came out into the light on Wendig's heels. This one had a shock of fair hair that was almost white in the floodlights, had dirt and sweat on its face, white dust down the side of its sweater and pants, and it stood still now, panting and watching Wendig. Solo stared, then grinned delightedly.
"Why, there's Illya!" he murmured, went to lift a hand to wave and the movement almost dislodged him from his perch. He clutched again, tight.
"You calling me?" Kuryakin said, and Wendig spun around. "Who the hell are you?"
"One of the people you were going to bury in concrete."
The burly foreman froze for just one breath, then launched himself in murderous attack, moving fast, swinging the metal tube. Kuryakin ducked and fell aside, lashed out with a foot, and Wendig plunged on, full tilt, into a concrete edge. Squealing, he turned and came back. Kuryakin ran heavily across the open flat and stooped to grab a length of some thing to use as a weapon. Wendig tore after him, hoisted his tube and hammered down with it. Kuryakin met it, fended it, and the short length of timber he had found shattered and broke, and he went down and back from a numbing blow on his shoulder. Wendig squealed again, charged in, hammered down, and the metal tube clanged on the concrete as his target rolled frantically out of the way.
The foreman was thickset and enraged but nimble on his feet. He came around again, crouched a moment, then charged, but now he was learning caution. This time he wielded the scaffold tube at waist level like a stout spear. Kuryakin backed away cautiously, then deliberately came forward and grabbed the thrusting end and hung on. Wendig heaved back, snorting. Kuryakin set his feet, but he was outclassed for weight. Wendig dragged him, shaking the tube furiously. All at once Kuryakin reversed his tactics, shoved forward violently, and Wendig went tottering back, completely off-balance, falling and unable to regain stability because Kuryakin was shoving. A frantic look over his shoulder told him the end was near, the edge of the building very close. With a squeal he threw away the pole, scrabbling to check his fall. Kuryakin tried to brake too, but too late. The pole clanged aside. Solo saw the pair of them clump together in a tangle of clutching arms and go to the brink in a crazy waltz.
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