Harry Harrison: Star Smashers of the Galaxy Rangers

They raised their hands.

"Think of what you are doing," Jerry entreated, appealing to the man's higher senses. "You're throwing up a good salary, security, a fine pension soon, for what? For some desperate plan that cannot possibly work. Who paid you to do this – the Black Panthers'!"

"I am far beyond your petty bourgeois internal disruptionary feuds," he sneered viciously, reaching into his pocket, while the gun barrel never wavered a fraction of an inch, and taking out a green cap which he pulled on at a jaunty angle over one eye. As his hand came away, they all gasped in unison for there, blazoned boldly on the front, was a great red star with the gold letters CCCP below it. He smiled coldly at their consternation, "You will now stop calling me by my cover name and will refer to me by my correct title of Lieutenant Johann Schwarzhandler of the Soviet Secret Police." As he said this, he clicked his heels together, the sound loud in the tiny cabin.

"You can't mean it." Chuck gaped. "You're no Russian. I mean you don't look like a Russian. I mean, you know, Russians, blond hair and cigarettes hanging from their lips. . . ."

"Prejudiced capitalist honky swine! You think that every black man in the world is a willing slave to his imperialist masters. You forget that there are parts of the world where the free air of socialism is breathed by the unshackled arms of workers freed from the repressive toils of the so-called free enterprise system. My father, who was born on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street in the city of New York, breathed that free air while reluctantly serving in your warmongering Army in Germany and married my mother, who was from the People's Democratic Republic of Germany, but enough, I waste my breath talking to you. Suffice to say that after my father's untimely death my mother returned to her ancestral home, and I grew to stalwart manhood under the snapping red flag of freedom."

"Treacherous turncoat Commie swine," Jerry murmured through clenched teeth.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Now do as I say-" Chuck stepped forward, mighty fists clenched, and the muzzle of the gun swung toward him. Instantly, Jerry dived for Johann. But the Soviet spy was too fast for him. He stepped back and swung the gun, and a single shot cracked out, booming loudly in the confined space. Jerry dropped, a growing red stain on his shirt, and Sally screamed.

"Do not move," their captor ordered. "You have no chance to escape, as I have just demonstrated, since I am a perfect shot. That single bullet penetrated Jerry's biceps, and you will find the spent slug lodged in the second volume of American Airports in the navigator's cubby. Now – about face and march out of here!"

They had no recourse but to obey. Sally wrapped her scarf around the neat hole drilled in Jerry's arm, and they walked reluctantly down the brightly illuminated corridor of the plane until they came to the toilet area.

"Far enough," the Soviet spy called out. "Each of you into one of the booths, and I want to see the occupied lights come on."

With dragging feet they followed the cruel instructions, and Jerry had one last glimpse of Sally's endearing smile and the wave of a tiny hand before the prison door clanged shut behind her. Then Jerry entered his own cell and busied himself washing and cleaning his wound and binding it up again, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain. Suddenly his sensitive nostrils twitched, and he jumped about. Yes! There was a glowing red light at the crack around the door, and the paint was beginning to blister. Muttering an oath under his breath, he unbolted the door and hurled his weight against it. It did not even quiver. The thud of his body and his groan as he realized he had hit the door with the wrong shoulder were echoed by sardonical laughter from the corridor outside.

"Yes," a wickedly jubilant voice called out, "The doors to your cells are welded shut, for I brought the oxyhydrogen torch with me that you so carefully provided. Now that you are secure I can tell you that not only am I an excellent shot, but I am also an expenenced pilot with thousands of hours on aircraft of all kinds. You undoubtedly thought I would attempt to steal your invention and escape and that you would then track me down and recapture me." The silence that followed indicated the acuteness of this observation. "Well, you were wrong. I shall now fly this plane to Mother Russia, where experts will go over it inch by inch, and also over you inch by inch as well!"

His wild laughter sounded over the thud-thud of their helpless bodies bounding off the cruel steel of their cells. He knew that if he had told them earlier of his plan, they would have died fighting rather than be carried into foreign bondage. But now it was too late. The sound of Johann's retreating footsteps sounded the death knell to their hopes.

"It's all over then?" Sally sobbed, her voice clearly heard by the others through the thin but sturdy walls of their prison.

"Nothing is over until death draws the final curtain" Chuck said stoutly to cheer her up. "I'll put my mind to this." He instantly began thinking and lost contact with the others no matter how loudly they shouted and banged on the wall. Jerry gritted his teeth and clenched his fists and ignored the pain that tore at his arm.

"I just don't know the word 'defeat'," he said grimly, and Sally took heart from his words and washed her tearstained face, then sat on the john and put her makeup back on. She had faith in Jerry.

But Jerry was losing faith jn himself. First one engine, then another started, until all four of the giants were rumbling with power and the great plane surged forward toward the runway. What could he do? He swept the limited environs of his cell with the eyes of a trapped animal. How could he escape? He realized then that a mixture of panic and pain was beginning to take over and that would not do. American grit was not defeated that easily. He took a deep breath and forced himself to think.

Two minutes of concentrated thought gave him the answer. By that time they were airborne, which was all for the good since the noise of the engines would cover any sounds he might make. He carefully emptied all money, rubbers and credit cards from his plastic wallet and with infinite patience and his pocketknife he cut the wallet into thin shreds in the stainless steel sink. He then added a specific amount of liquid soap and kneaded the resultant mixture to a doughy mass. Any ninth-year chemistry student could have figured this one out, and he marveled at his slowness in taking so long to think of it. These two innocent substances, plastic and soap, when mixed in the proper proportions and heated to the correct temperature – he held his cigarette lighter under the sink for exactly four minutes and twelve seconds – polymerized into a powerful explosive. It was ready! Working quickly, he pressed the plastic mixture into the doorjamb from roof to floor, where it instantly congealed. Then, getting a firm grip with his fingers and tensing his powerful muscles, he tore off the top of the monomatic toilet, exposing its innards. Rushing against time, he pulled out the length of wire that controlled its operation and pushed its bare copper ends into the now-stiffened plastic explosive.

"All or nothing, " he said jauntily and pressed himself as far back in the corner as he could and held a wad of wet paper towels before his face and, with forceful decision, pressed the switch to flush the toilet. The diverted current raced through the wires and into the plastic explosive. . . .

If there had been a watcher in the corridor, which there wasn't, he would have seen a crackling red explosion gout out from around the door, followed by a burst of smoke, followed by the door itself which flew into the chairs opposite. Followed by a ragged, smoke-stained and scorched, yet still jubilant figure that staggered to freedom clutching the wet paper towels.