Free Rhodesia by Nick Carter Page B

suggest?"
    "I don't know. I've lived here for six years. I'm in-place AXE P21. I can probably free you eventually, if they keep you."
    "They won't," Nick promised. "Don't disturb your cover, it's too valuable."
    "Thank you. And you are..."
    "N3."
    Martha Ryerson swallowed, regained her calm. Nick decided she had been a beautiful girl. She was still very attractive. And she evidently knew that N3 meant Killmaster. She whispered, "Good luck," and went away.
    The bath was ultramodern and well equipped. Nick washed quickly, sampled the men's lotion and cologne, combed his dark-brown hair. When he returned through the long hall, van Prez and his guests were gathered in a large dining room. A buffet — actually a smorgasbord — was spread on a side table at least twenty-five feet long, covered with snowy linen and set with gleaming silverware. Pieter graciously handed the first large plates to Mrs. Ryerson and Booty and invited them to begin the attack.
    Nick loaded his plate with meats and salad. Howe was monopolizing Booty, which was all right with Nick until he had eaten a few mouthfuls. A Negro man and woman in white uniforms came from the rear of the house to pour tea. Nick noted the swinging doors and decided the kitchen was beyond a butler's pantry.
    When he felt a little less empty Nick said pleasantly to van Prez, "This is an excellent luncheon. It reminds me of England."
    "Thank you."
    "Did you decide my fate?"
    "Don't be so melodramatic. Yes — we must ask you to stay at least until tomorrow. We will telephone your friends and say you had motor trouble."
    Nick frowned. For the first time he felt a small measure of hostility toward his host. The old man had put his roots down in a land that suddenly bloomed with problems like a locust plague. He could feel for him. But this is too arbitrary.
    "May I ask why we're being detained?" Nick asked.
    "Actually only you are being detained. Booty is pleased to accept my hospitality. I don't think you'd go to the authorities. It's none of your affair and you seem a reasonable man, but we cannot take chances. Even when you do leave, I'm going to ask you as a gentleman to forget anything you've seen here."
    "I believe you mean —
anyone,"
Nick corrected.
    "Yes."
    Nick noted the look of cold hate that John Johnson cast in his direction. There had to be a reason they needed the one day's grace. Probably they had a column or tactical group between the van Prez ranch and the jungle valley. He said. "Suppose I promise — as a gentleman — not to talk if you let us return now."
    Van Prez's grave glance went to Johnson, Howe, Tembo. Nick read negatives in their faces. "I'm sorry," van Prez answered.
    "So am I," Nick murmured.
    He finished his meal and lit a small dear, fumbling in his pants pocket for the lighter. You couldn't say they didn't ask for it. He felt satisfaction at going over to the attack, and then reproved himself. A Killmaster must control his emotions, especially his ego. He must for about that surprise plop from the garage roof, about being trussed like a captured animal.
    When he put the lighter away he removed the two oval, egglike containers from the pocket of his shorts. He was careful not to mistake them for the pellets on the left that contained explosives.
    He studied the room. It was air-conditioned; the patio and hall doors had been slid shut. The servants had just gone through the swinging doors to the kitchen. It was a big room, but Stuart had designed big-expansion into the knock-out gas compressed under very high pressure. He felt the small toggles and turned them off safety. He said loudly, "Well — if we have to stay we'll make the best of it, I suppose. Can we..."
    His voice did not cover the loud, double
poof-poof
and hiss as the two gas bombs released their loads.
    "What was that?" van Prez roared and half-stood at the table.
    Nick held his breath and began to count.
    "I don't know." Maxwell replied from across the table and pushed back his chair.