"Yes."

“Tm a doctor." He nodded to Mitchell, whose white coat accentuated the stains

"We got no quarrel with you," Gregson said, which was, unwittingly, the most foolish remark he'd ever made.

Dr. Greenshaw helped the weak and staggering Mitchell into the sick bay, where, the door closed behind him, he made an immediate and remarkable recovery. Marina stared at him in astonishment, then in something approaching relieved ire.

"Why, you deceiving ..."

"That's no way to talk to a wounded man." He was pulling off his white coat, coat and shirt. *Tve never seen you cry before. Makes you look even more beautiful. And that's real blood." He turned to Dr. Greenshaw. "Superficial wound on the left shoulder, a scratch on the right forearm. Dead-eye Dick himself. Now do a real good job on me, Doc. Right arm bandaged from elbow to wrist. Left arm bandaged from shoulder to above the elbow with a great big sling. Marina, even ravishing beauties like you carry face powder. I hope you're no exception."

Not yet mollified, she said stiffly: "I have some. Baby powder," she added nastily.

"Get it, please."

Five minutes later, Mitchell had been rendered into the epitome of the walking wounded. His right arm was heavily bandaged and his left arm was swathed in white from shoulder to wrist. The sling was voluminous. His face was very pale. He left for his room and returned a few seconds later.

"Where have you been?" she asked suspiciously.

He reached inside the depths of the sling and pulled out his silenced .38. "Fully loaded." He returned it to its hiding place, where it was quite invisible.

"Never give up, do you?" Her voice held a curious mixture of awe and bitterness.

"Not when I'm about to be vaporized."

Dr. Greenshaw stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Our friend Cronkite has heisted a couple of -tactical nuclear weapons. He plans to finish off the Seawitch in Fourth of July style. He should be here about now. Now, Doc, I want you to do something for me. Take the biggest medical bag you have and tell Gregson that it is your humanitarian duty to go into the occidental quarters to help any of the dying, or, if necessary, put them out of their agony. I know they've got a fair supply of hand grenades in there. I want some."

"No sooner said than done. God, you look awful! Destroys my faith in myself as a doctor."

They went outside. Cronkite's helicopter was indeed just touching down. Cronkite himself was the first out, followed by Mulhooney, the three bogus officers who had stolen the nuclear weapons, the commandeered pilot and, lastly, Easton. Easton was the unknown quantity. Mitchell did not appreciate it at the time but Easton's Starlight had been so badly damaged by the depth charge that it was no longer serviceable. Less than four miles away what appeared to be a coast guard cutter was heading straight for the Sea-witch. It required no guessing to realize that this was the missing Hammond, the infamous Tiburon, the present Georgia.

Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. (Td like to have a look at what you've left of those quarters. Maybe there's someone still alive in there . . ."

Gregson pointed to an iron door. 4Tm more interested in who's in there. Spicer" – this to one of his men – "a bazooka shot at that lock."

'That's hardly necessary," Greenshaw said mildly. "A knock from me is all that's needed. That's Commander Larsen, the boss of the oil rig. He's no enemy of yours. He just sleeps here because he likes his privacy." Dr. Greenshaw knocked. "Commander Larsen, ifs okay. It's me, Greenshaw. Come on out If you don't, there're some people who're going to blast your door down and you with it. Come on, man."

There was the turning of a heavy key and Larsen emerged. He looked dazed, almost shell-shocked, as well he might. He said: "What the hell goes on?"

"You've been taken over, friend," Gregson said. Larsen was dressed, Greenshaw was pleased to note, in a voluminous lumberjacket cinched at the waist. "Search him." They searched and found nothing.

"Where's Scoffield?" Larsen said. Greenshaw said: "In the other quarters. He should be okay." "Palermo?"

"Dead. And all his men. At least I think so. I'm just going to have a look." Stooping his shoulders to look more nearly eighty than seventy, Dr. Greenshaw shambled along the shattered corridor, but he could have saved himself the trouble of acting. Gregson had just met Cronkite outside the doorway and the two men "were talking in animated and clearly self-congratulatory terms.

After the first few steps, Greenshaw realized that there could be nobody left alive in that charnel house. Those who were dead were very dead indeed, most of them destroyed beyond recognition, either cut up by machine-gun fire, shattered by bazookas or shriveled by the fiame-throwers. But he did find the primary reason of his visit – a box of hand grenades in prime condition and a couple of Schmeisser subautomatics, fully loaded. A few of the grenades he stuffed into the bottom of his medical bag. He peered out one of the shattered windows at the back and found the area below in deep shadow. He carefully lowered some grenades to the platform and the two Schmeissers beside them. Then he made his way outside again.

It was apparent that Cronkite and Lord Worth had already met, although the meeting could not have been a normal one. Lord Worth was lying apparently senseless on his back, blood flowing from smashed lips and apparently broken nose, while both cheeks were badly bruised. Marina was bending over him, daubing at his wounds with a flimsy handkerchief. Cronkite, his face unmarked but his knuckles bleeding, had apparently, for the moment at least, lost interest in Lord Worth, no doubt waiting until Lord Worth had regained full consciousness before starting in on him again.

Lord Worth whispered between smashed lips: "Sorry, my darling; sorry, my beloved. My fault and all my fault. The end of the road."

"Yes." Her voice was as low as his own, but strangely there were no tears in her eyes. "But not for us. Not while Michael is alive."

Lord Worth looked at Michael through rapidly closing eyes. "What can a cripple like that do?"

She said quietly but with utter conviction: "He'll kill Cronkite and his whole mob."

He tried to smile through his smashed lips. "I thought you hated killing."

"Not vermin. Not people who do things like this to you."

Mitchell spoke quietly to Dr. Greenshaw, then botH men approached Cronkite and Gregson, who broke off what appeared to be either a discussion or an argument. Dr. Greenshaw said: "You've done your damn murderous work all too well, Gregson. There's hardly a soul hi there even recognizable as a human being."

Cronkite said: "Who's he?"

"A doctor."

Cronkite looked at Mitchell, who was looking worse by the minute, "And this?"

"A scientist. Shot by mistake."

"He's in great pain," Greenshaw said. "Fve no X-ray equipment, but I suspect the arm's broken just below the shoulder."

Cronkite was almost jovial, the joviality of a man now almost detached from reality. "An hour from now he won't be feeling a thing."

Greenshaw said wearily: "I don't know what you mean. I want to take him back to the sick bay and give him a pain-killing injection."

"Why, sure: I want everyone to be fully prepared for what's about to happen."

"And what's that?"

"Later, later."

Greenshaw and the unsteady Mitchell moved off. They reached the sick bay, passed inside, went through the opposite side and made their unobserved way to the radio room. Greenshaw stood guard just inside the door while Mitchell, ignoring the bound operator, went straight to the transceiver. He raised the Roamer inside twenty seconds.