第98节

Steve froze, then turned back, a bucket gripped in each hand. Two

soldiers, with a plump, giggling farm-girl between them, had just

turned the corner of the guard-house and were walking towards him. As

far 'as Steve could tell they were unarmed. He was packing enough

ordnance to kill them ten times over, but he could not risk cutting

them down. The girl hung back as the two soldiers approached. Their

cheeks were flushed and they were bright-eyed - a sign they'd knocked

back a cup or two of sake. Steve put down the buckets and knelt

between them, head bowed. He couldn't understand what the dinks were

saying to each other or the girl, but they were clearly having a joke

at his expense. And so it proved. After swaggering round him, both

soldiers stuck a fumbling hand into their trousers, pulled out their

hairless dongs and proceeded to pee into the buckets.

The real joke came halfway through when they changed aim and widdled

over him.

Terrific. There was nothing Steve could do but play the part of the

abject slave. Enjoy it while you can, fellas, 'cause, believe me, in a

short while you ain't gonna find much to laugh about...

When Steve had been well watered, the two soldiers waved him away and

strutted back to the giggling farm-girl. Steve got to his feet and

stood with his head bowed until the trio had disappeared through the

back door of the guardhouse.

Time for Phase Two. Steve hurried back down the path past the Tracker

bunk-houses towards the arch in the rear wall. He kept his head down,

hiding his face under the brim of the straw hat. If any of the

Trackers inside happened to look out of one of the windows and

recognise him, the more sharp-witted amongst them would know he was up

to something. Given the way they felt about him, they might try to

summon the attention of the guard. And that would really throw a

spanner in the works.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To a burst of applause from the dignitaries in the stand and the cheers

of the lesser spectators, five flying-horses rose clear of their

launching trolleys and thundered skywards, one after the other,

trailing blue ribbons of smoke. Levelling off at 1,000 feet, the five

craft drew together into an arrowhead formation as they circled the

fiel'd, then dived to build up speed before pulling up into a loop.

Rolling upright as they came down off the top - a manoeuvre once known,

after its creator, as an Immelman turn - they hauled their noses up and

round for a second loop.

Their formation flying was not immaculate, but it was still

impressive.

It had been made possible by the fitting of a crude retro-thrust device

which could be cranked down over the business end of the rocket

tubes.

A row of curved metal plates like miniature double ploughshares

deflected the exhaust gases sideways and downwards, reducing the

forward thrust. It was primitive, but it gave each pilot a measure of

control over his forward speed -all-important when they were trying to

keep their place in the formation.

There was a gasp from the watching crowd when the lines of blue smoke

were suddenly severed from the aircraft as they hung upside down. The

first rocket had reached the end of its brief life. Time for the

second burn. Amid growing apprehension, the five flying-horses

continued their downward plunge, then, with a reassuring explosion of

sound, a stabbing, white-hot finger of flame appeared beneath the

fuselage pod of the lead aircraft. Two, three, four- five!

The watching Iron Masters responded with a deep-throated roar of

approval.

Cadillac heard their reaction as he stood on the rear veranda of the

pavilion and watched the machines he had created weave smoke trails

across the sky.

Clearwater, now dressed in one of his white worksuits, came and stood

by his side, her d