The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 17
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“‘At a liquid temperature of 60°F,’” he read, “‘the original sample ferments in a yeast-like manner, entraps water, doubling in volume every fifteen seconds for the first hour. The volumetric increase then falls off steadily, becoming stable after eight hours, when a colloidal suspension forms and the entire mass becomes extremely viscous—’” he flipped a page or two and came across one more diagram, an electronic layout this time. He studied it carefully as the truck jolted and swayed beneath him.
“Limerick!” Sarah peered ahead. “The lorries will have had to slow down a bit, here. ’Tis a bit of a job to get through the cross-streets to the T 13, which they will have to do, you see, to make for Clonmel and then on to the road to Waterford and the boat.”
“Good!” Solo nodded. “You’ll have to pilot me here.”
The black bulks of buildings began to rear up on either side of the road. Cobbles jarred them. He hauled on the wheel, swinging and whirling the truck crazily in response to her directions. They roared over Thomond Bridge, and he snatched a glance at the docks and long lines of shipping.
“Why don’t you ship your stuff from here?” he wondered.
“We do!” she declared. “But not to England. For that market it’s quicker to run overland to Waterford and take the short sea-route. Whisht now—I think that’s them on ahead, see?”
Solo peered, then raised one hand from the wheel to thump on the roof over his head, grinning as the replying thump came at once. Over the booming roar of the truck’s motor he heard a sudden new growl and shudder, and knew that the generator was spinning. He fastened his gaze on the winking tail-lights ahead, and cut his own headlights, leaving only the running lights glowing. They stormed through a clutter of cottages, a little backwater on the edge of town, and then out into the open again. The truck ahead drew near and he could see the tailboard and the narrow slats that held the shuddering cargo of cartons. Coming up fast. He tensed, remembering what Illya had said about a twenty-five foot range. He wondered if the driver ahead would have the common road-courtesy to pull over to let him pass. Not that he was going to, not yet. Closer still. He eased his foot from the gas, peering ahead, waiting.
All at once the top left-hand carton flew apart in a bursting spout of amber froth, a wild succession of squirting jets of foam. His windshield grew a thick haze and he hit the wiper-switch frantically. He saw the next carton erupt in a firecracker series of spouting jets, and then the next. The heavy smell of beer flooded the cabin and foam piled up against the wiper-blades as the cartons vomited into destruction one after another.
On the roof of the cab Illya squinted against a rain of suds and relentlessly trained the whining unit along the top row of cartons, watching them burst into glorious ruin. Then he lowered his sights a fraction and swung back the reverse way. He felt the truck skid greasily as it ran into dribbling foam, and heaved madly to keep his aim. Solo fought the wheel like a madman, sensing that the driver ahead had noticed the trouble and was slowing down. He matched speeds instinctively and stared in awed fascination at the incredible carnage ahead—carton after carton bursting into a billowing mass of foam and spray, yellow beer spouting into the air from a dozen different directions at once.
The truck ahead slowed to a crawl and stopped. Solo matched it, but felt his rear wheels slip and the tail end of the truck slide over into the grass on the edge of the road. Now that his motor was idling he could hear the shrill scream of that ultrasonic unit over his head, and the steadily repeating boff—boff—boff as beer cans ruptured under the lash of that energy-beam. His wipers clacked. The rear of the beer-truck was a yellow Niagara of foam now, with cartons still erupting crazily.
Solo saw the bewildered driver come hurrying around the tail-board of his truck with futile waves at the rain of foam. In his hurry he ran right into a thick and sluggish stream of froth, lost his footing and went down with a mad flail of arms and legs. The co-driver came, cursing, from the other side, to slither and join his mate in the surging foam. The can cannonade came to an abrupt halt, and there was a hard thump from the roof. Solo let in his clutch with delicate care, felt his wheels spin crazily for a moment and then take hold, and they were off again. He pressed his foot down on the gas, spun the wheel, and turned to grin at Sarah.
“One down, two to go, eh?”
She laughed crazily. “Life is going to seem awfully dull after this!”
He felt a sudden qualm, a twinge of danger. “Something we forgot,” he muttered. “This damned stuff is potent, and who should know better than me? Try not to swallow too much of it!” She put her hand to her mouth in consternation. He groped in his breast pocket and got his handkerchief. “Here! Make a mask of that and stick it over your face!”
She stared at the square of linen, then at the shield, where drying froth was caking and blowing away in the breeze, and then at him.
“No!” she declared. “You’d better have it. You’re driving!” And she laid it on her knee and folded it with quick movements into a triangle. She was right, too. He set his jaw and held still as she placed the cloth over his nose and mouth and knotted the ends at his neck.
He thought of Illya, up on top and out in the open, without even the part-shelter of the cab. But he needn’t have been worried. That calmly resourceful mind had already seen the danger, and more. Solo grinned as he saw Illya’s head, inverted, crane down from the roof to peer into the cab and shout through his masking handkerchief, “That wasn’t such a good idea, Napoleon. When we catch the next one I’ll burst his tires first, and then we won’t have to run into the spray following him. Right?”
“Right!” Solo made a fist and thumb-up gesture. “I’d better be ready to stop fast, eh?” He drove his foot down now and they roared on through the dreaming countryside.
They caught up with the second truck as it was growling and snarling its way up a gentle rise just beyond a village that Sarah identified as Boher. Solo sent the truck sailing up after it, alert and ready to stamp on his brakes as the rear right wheel blew with a report like a cannon, echoed in a fraction of a second by its companion on the left. The truck bounced to an abrupt halt. Solo hauled on the parking-brake, threw open the door.
“Stand by,” he warned, “and watch my signals. I’m going to keep the truck-crew diverted awhile.” He dropped and ran, hearing the first fusillade of bursting cans as he came up to the cab of the beer-truck. Putting on a wide-eyed innocent expression he stared up at a puzzled Irish frown.
“You have a couple of flats back there,” he said. “What happened?”
“It sounded like a couple of punctures to me,” the driver argued.
“That’s what I said. Flats. Blowouts. You call them punctures?”
“That’s right, punctures. Is that what it was? Hell, for a minute there I thought me back-end had dropped out. D’ye hear that, Barney? The back tires are gone! Only this morning I was telling Muldoon we should have had new ones this trip!”
Barney scratched his head in doubt. “That doesn’t sound like punctures to me,” he said. “More like a machine.-gun, I’m thinking. There now!” he said as another row of cartons erupted, “did ye hear that? There’s somebody taking shots at us, if you ask me!”
Beer fumes eddied on the air. Solo hoisted his makeshift mask, drew his pistol and backed away carefully. The driver’s eyes popped.
“Hey!” he cried, all at once. “Somebody’s pinching the beer! I can smell it!”
Solo waved the pistol gently. “Just sit still,” he advised, “and you’ll be all right. Nothing to be excited about.” He backed off still more, flicking a glance to see a spouting yellow cascade boil up in the back of the truck and surge in great lazy suds over the sides, while squirting volcanic jets leaped high in the air as Illya swept his weapon with cold efficiency. “Fourth of July was never like this!” he mused as the last of the cartons blew apart into oblivion. He hooked a “come on” gesture to Sarah, and the little truck stirred, came purring towards him.
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