“What will you bet,” Solo said, “that there goes our precious shipment of death? After ’em, Illya!”

“With what?” the practical Russian replied. “We might be able to catch them, it’s true. But then what?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Possibly. Miss O’Rourke, do you know anything about the laboratory work, the processing?”

“Yes, I do. Why?”

“Do you use homogenizing equipment? Ultrasonic agitators, to be more specific?”

“That’s right. The latest—”

‘We’ll have to gamble, Napoleon; it’s our only chance. We need that equipment. Miss O’Rourke, can you keep the gatekeeper talking while we roll past and in? Tell him anything you like, but we have to get in there.”

“All right, I’ll try,” she promised, and scrambled past Solo as the truck neared the gate. “The laboratory is away to your left as you get through,” she called, and eased the door open. Kuryakin trod on the brake, hauled the wheel around hard, nosing the truck through the still-open gate, slowing to let her drop off, then speeding up and swinging away to the left to run alongside a long low building that was almost all glass in front. He braked to a stop and leaped out.

“I hope she remembers to bring the keys,” he muttered as they ran to the door. Solo went along, trusting his companion enough not to argue, but curious.

“What have you got in mind, Illya? Ultrasonic agitators?”

“You said six thousand dozen, Napoleon. You shot a hole in the can you took from me. Why? Because it’s not enough to stop those trucks, or to run them off the road, even if we could. Ah, here she comes, and with the keys. Smart girl!”

Sarah came running, a slim black shape in the gloom, keys clinking in her hand. As the door opened she flicked on the lights and they all blinked at the myriad reflections from gleaming chrome-work.

“Very neat!” Kuryakin approved, as they hastened into the fermentation room. “Very neat indeed. And there’s the fellow we want, right there.” He laid expert hands on the squat steel bulk of a cannon-shaped device that stood on a stubby plinth with its muzzle buried in the side of a huge vat. He began to wrench at wing-nuts.

“I’ll disconnect the power-line!” Sarah gasped. “Will you be able to manage? It’s heavy!” Solo caught the idea of what was needed and got busy on the wing-nuts of the opposite side.

“Stir things up a bit, eh?”

“Right!” Kuryakin grunted. “This is used to agitate the brew, to speed up fermentation, aging, and to ensure perfect blending. Free on your side? Watch out for the weight now. How’s the cable?”

Sarah came hurrying with the free end, to pass it under and loop it as the two men hoisted the heavy unit. “Make it double,” Kuryakin suggested, “and we can use it as a carrier. That’s it. Fine. Let it down easy, Napoleon. Now, if we grab the loops—” They grunted and heaved, and she ran on ahead to hold doors open for them as they waddled with the massive thing between them.

“Can you drive?” Kuryakin asked the girl. She nodded hurriedly, and he smiled. “Good—then hop into the driver’s seat. Start up as soon as we’re aboard. We’ll be fixing this as we go.” They shambled out after her and labored to heave the thing into the back of the truck, then scrambled in. She gunned the motor instantly, swinging the truck around in a tight curve.

“Where d’you want it?” Solo panted. “Up on the roof of the cab?”

“Seems the best place. Let me free the cable first. Now—hup!” The two men groaned as they heaved the massive unit shoulder-high and slid it onto the cab-roof.

The truck roared along to the gate and went into another sharp turn, sending the glittering mass of steel skidding perilously. Solo grabbed for it, flipped a nonchalant hand to the goggling gatekeeper and called out, “Much obliged. Good night!”

The truck swooped again in the opposite direction and was into the road now. Solo clung tight as the unit teetered. Kuryakin took the cable-end and went down on his knees beside the generator to wire up. It was a nightmare job, with only the narrow light of his wrist-light and the truck bouncing and swaying along the road, but he stuck at it patiently until all was secure. He spent a few precious moments making sure the generator was all ready to start up at the touch of a button, then straightened up and turned his face to the welcome coolness of the breeze.

Solo, clinging grimly to the precious unit, offered a heartfelt prayer that Sarah knew the route the beer trucks would take. By the time Kuryakin stood up and announced that all was ready the little truck had cleared Conway and was snarling along the Ennis bypass, heading for Clarecastle and points southwest. To the right, between occasional clumps of trees, they could see the distant lights of Shannon airport. Kuryakin laid his hand on the agitator, took some of the weight, and played his flashlight on it.

“How do you intend to aim and fire the thing?” Solo asked, curiously.

“By guess, I’m afraid. It isn’t intended to be aimed, you know. This, see, is the frequency-setting. We can wind that up a bit. The more energy the better. And this is the focal range. I’ll set that as far out as it will go. According to the dial that’s twenty-five feet. And that’s all we can do. No point in starting up the power until we see the trucks.”

“I think I’ve got it,” Solo murmured, “but check me, just to make sure. The ultrasonic beam will stir up the beer in the cans, right?”

“Right! They are already under slight pressure. When the sonic beam hits, its energy will be transferred to the liquid, making it boil violently.”

“Should be fun!” Solo peered ahead, but the road as far as he could see was still deserted. They had cleared Newmarket on Fergus and were coming up fast on Hurler’s Cross. He glanced at his watch. Just about midnight-and the whole place was deserted, quietly asleep. If this had been New York now—!

“Those trucks are making fast time,” he muttered.

“We’ll never catch them at this rate. Can you handle this on your own a bit?”

“I think so.”

“Good—let’s see what I can do to speed things up a bit!” He hoisted up onto the cab and squirmed to lower his face over the side, to call into the open window. “Get ready to move over; I’m coming down!” Then he changed ends, lowered his feet cautiously, slid them inside and went down in time to a convenient lurch of the truck. Sarah moved away, letting him grab the wheel. The motor-noise fell off momentarily, then howled into new fury as he put his foot down hard. He gave her a quick reassuring grin and she tried hard to smile back. “I daren’t think,” she confessed. “If I did I should be scared stiff!”

“Perfectly all right—we all get scared at times. It’s a very useful feeling. That’s what’s so deadly about your uncle’s molecules.”

“That was awful!” She shuddered. “You looked crazy—and helpless—at the same time. I thought you were going to be killed.”

“That bit bothers me.” He frowned, watching the road. “I gathered there were to be other experiments. Just how many trick synthetics has King Mike got, anyway?”

She shook her head in wonder. “Only two that I know about. One’s almost a mirror-image of the other—the structure-diagram, I mean. But the properties seem to be completely different, from what little I’ve heard. It’s a fast-acting fermenting colloid.”

“Which means?”

“Well, when in contact with water it ferments very quickly and then sets into a thick jelly. Something the way starch does when you boil it.”

Solo shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so terrible, at any rate.”

Directly over his head, Illya Kuryakin would have disagreed had he been able to hear. That unshakably serious young man had hoisted himself onto the cab roof, and with one arm wrapped around the ultrasonic unit he was playing the beam of his flashlight over that black-bound notebook in his other hand, and studying it with intense interest. There were some very intriguing diagrams in it, and the neatly written explanations were even more interesting.