THE MAGIC LABYRINTH

The radio operator transmitted the message to the pilot of the Goose, lan Anderson. He was a Scot who had flown a British torpedo-bomber during World War II. His gu

Anderson reported that he understood. Radar followed the Goose as it maintained a more or less level course eastward.

As the sun slowly arced downward, the Not For Hire decreased the gap between it and the Rex.

"Maybe John doesn't know how fast this boat can go," Sam muttered as he paced back and forth. He looked at the crowds on both banks and on the spires and bridges. "Why do they stand around gawking? Don't they know rockets and shells are likely to be landing among them? That's the least John could have done, warn them!"

The great red-and-black stone temple came into view, loomed, then dwindled. Now the pursuer was only half a mile behind the pursued. Sam gave Detweiller orders to ease up on the speed.

"I don't know what he's up to. But I'm not going to run full speed into any trap."

"It looks as if he's heading for the strait," Detweiller said.

"I might have known that," Sam said. i The mountains were curving in, their arcs on both sides almost meeting a mile ahead. Here the black, white, and red-streaked walls formed straight-up-and-down precipices out of which The River boiled. The Rex, though it must be under full power, was only making twenty miles an hour. Its rate of progress would be even less if it entered the towering and dark passage.

"Do you really suppose John's going to take her to the other side?" Sam said. He pounded his left palm with his fist. "By thunder, that's it! He's going to wait for us on the other side, catch us when we come out!"

"You vouldn't be that thtupid, vould you?" Joe Miller said.

Sam ignored him. He strode to the radio operator. "Get me Anderson!"

The pilot of the Goose spoke with a broad Lowland Scots brogue. "Aye, we'll go over and see what this skurlie is doing, Captain. But it'll take some time to climb over the pass."

"Don't climb over the mountains; go through the pass," Sam said. "If you see your chance, attack!" Then to Byron, "Heard anything?"

A slight a

Sam laughed and said, "Sorry, John. But the idea of somebody planting explosives down there... well, it concerns me. Carry on."

"Here it is," Byron said as the warrant officer of Station 26 spoke. Sam swung around to stand by Byron.

"Ensign Santiago left about half an hour ago, sir," Schindler said. "He put me in charge, said he was suffering from nervous diarrhea and he wanted to clean himself out so he wouldn't disgrace himself. He said he'd be right back. He didn't show up until ten minutes later, but I didn't think much about it, sir, since he said he just couldn't stop.

"He looked like he'd just had a shower, sir, was dripping wet. He said he'd fouled himself and so had to take a quick shower. Then, just after we heard the general call to report by the numbers, he excused himself again. But he hasn't been back."

"Station 27, report!" Byron said. He turned his head to Sam. "He might not be the only one."

All thirty-five stations reported that no one else had been missing even for a minute.

"Well, he's either hiding some place or went overboard," Sam said.

"I doubt he could leave the boat without someone seeing him," Byron said.

Sam called de Marbot. "Get all your marines, all, to search for Santiago. If he resists, shoot him. But I would like to talk to him if possible."

Sam turned to Byron. "Santiago's been with us from the begi

"He's had plenty of time to dig around," Byron said. "He's a sly one. I never did trust the dago."

"I liked him," Sam said. "He was always congenial, very good at his duties, and a hell of a good poker player."

Santiago was a seventeenth-century Venezuelan sailor who had captained a warship for ten years. Shipwrecked off an unidentified Caribbean island, he was speared by Indians as he struggled onto a beach. However, this only hastened his death a little. Syphilis had almost finished tearing him apart anyway.

"Of course," Sam added, "he was awfully jealous of his women and he had his stupid Latin machismo. But after one of his women, a twentieth-century jukado expert, beat him up, he reconsidered his ways and treated the ladies as if they were worth their weight in gold."

There were more pressing things to consider than Santiago's ego. For one, how would John know that his agent had succeeded? John was unaware of the laser. He would have originally charged the Venezuelan with blowing up some vital part of the boat. That command had not been carried out, since the generators and electromechanical control centers were too well guarded.

Also, unless there was a spectacular explosion, how would John know that his agent had done his work? Was a system of signals worked out? If so, Santiago had not sent any.

Unless... he had a radio set hidden somewhere on the vessel. And it was on a frequency not used by...

Sam felt a faint vibration in the deck, one not accounted for by the thrusting of paddles into the water.

He walked to the stern port and looked out. Wisps of smoke were issuing from the starboard side, apparently coming from the hurricane deck.

Sam ran to the intercom and bellowed into it. "Stations 15 and 16! What happened?"

A calm female voice answered. "This is P.O. Anita Garibaldi, Station 17! There's been an explosion down here, sir! A bulkwall's been blown up! The wires in it have been severed!"

Detweiller swore. Sam whirled around. "What is it?"

"I've lost control," Detweiller said, but Sam already knew that. The wheels had slowed, and even as he looked out the stern window, he saw that they had stopped. Slowly, the nose of the boat was turning to port, and it was being carried back by the current.

Detweiller reached out and punched a button. A light by it glowed. He grabbed the sticks again. The wheels began rotating, picked up speed. The boat swung back to its original course.

"The backup system is working," Detweiller said.

Sam gri

He yelled into the intercom, keeping his finger on the all-stations button. "All right, you incompetent bungling blind microcephalic dingdongs! You could expand your brains a hundredfold, and they'd still rattle around in a gnat's ass!

"Find Santiago!"

"The strait's dead ahead, Captain," Detweiller said.

A shadow passed over, and twin motors roared. The Goose shot in front of them at an altitude of about two hundred feet. It was climbing between the dark walls, its searchlight stabbing ahead of it, dwindling in distance and darkness, then disappearing as it went around a long bend.

"Can we keep in radio contact with the Goose?" Sam said to the radio operator.

"It's possible, sir. The long waves can bounce around that bend to us."

Sam turned away but spun at an exclamation from the operator.

"Jesus! The pilot just said, ‘We're hit! The starboard's motor is on fire! A rocket...!'"

He looked up with a pale strained face. "That's all, Captain."

Sam swore.

"John must've been waiting for it! He knew I'd sent it to find out what he was doing!"

Why hadn't he let Anderson do as he wished, fly over the mountains? Then he would have been out of range of the rockets or at least have had time to take evasive maneuvers. But no, John knew his ex-partner, knew how impatient he'd be. So he had waited, and now he had the torpedo plane out of the combat.