finished now, leaving nothing but a taste of bitterness in the air. He moved in on Schiebel, his great boots clumsy on the elegant floor. There was a pistol in his pocket—a puny little gun—but deadly enough at six feet. Once Craig would have used it without hesitation, but he and the riot gun had immobilized Grierson, and anyway, he, Craig, was an amateur, Loomis said. A sentimentalist. He had seen what Schiebel had done to Phihppa. His hand went to the top of his boot and he too held a knife.
He had no doubt that Schiebel would be good. The Russians had trained him, and their only standard was perfection. Warily he circled, watching the knife point, waiting, waiting, and his mind took him back to Andraki, and it was Stavros that he faced. Schiebel laughed again, and there was madness in his laughter as well as cruelty, and Craig waited a little longer. Then Schiebel leaped in, the knife point swung in a great arc from knee to chest, and Craig had swerved outside it, his left hand slammed out, punching for Schiebel's knife arm. But Schiebel, slender, lightning fast, had spun with the knife blow, twisted like a dancer beyond Craig's arm, then checked and came in again. Craig's knife hand moved just in time, parrying the blow, and again Schiebel danced back, then aimed a karate kick at Craig's kneecap. Craig gasped. Even the thickness of the boot he wore couldn't protect him completely. He limped now as he waited, limped, and moved too slowly, for this time Schiebel's knife point ripped a gash down his cheek from ear to chin. Craig remembered the 'give to take' technique that Stavros had taught him. The pain in his knee warned him that it was all he had left. But Stavros was no better than this man, and Craig was tired. Yet in the end, all his fights had been a gamble, as this one must be. If he had to lose, it might as well be now.
He faced Schiebel too squarely, limping as the blond man moved, offering too wide a target. This time he watched Schiebel's eyes, gambling that they would warn him when he would move. They were very blue, very Nordic eyes, wide and clear; the eyes of a boy who had looked on Hitler and adored him; the eyes of a man who had been taught never to love, to honor, to share, ever again. Eyes that looked only to destroy. Suddenly they narrowed, and Craig swerved at once, and Schiebel leaped, the knife blade ripped through the heavy cloth of the uniform, and Craig felt pain like a thread of fire across his chest and struck back under Schiebel's ribs, and Schiebel stared down at the fist clenched round the knife handle at his side. A look of intense astonishment came over his face; then he fell. Craig looked down at him, then limped over to the stairs, and sat down. An utter weariness came over him. He knew that he must go up, find Phihppa, see if she were wounded— or dead. See Grierson. Tell him the riot gun was all right. Their only chance. His body sagged sideways, his gashed face smeared the painted wall. In a minute he would go. Just one minute.
There was a long tunnel, and he was rushing down it. There'd be a bend in it soon, and he must open his eyes and face the hght at the end of the tunnel, and the people shouting. He felt someone pull him away from the wa 11, felt fingers touch his face, and the softness of gauze, then he opened his eyes and saw Linton bending over him. 'Dead,' he croaked. 'Tell Loomis Schiebel's dead. And the woman too. Schiebel killed her.'
'No,' Linton said. 'She's up on the roof. Won't come down. You're the only one she'll talk to, Craig.'
He opened Craig's coat and taped more gauze across his chest, parallel with another, still angry scar, then offered him a flask.
'No,' Craig said. 'If I drink now I'll fall asleep.'
He hauled himself up, and Linton put an arm round him, helped him to climb the stairs. Up and up they went, past Grierson, who moaned sofdy—Craig would have stopped there, but Linton forced him on—past the men Grierson had killed, and wounded, up past the room where the dead man lay, and the unconscious woman.
'There's another cook downstairs,' Craig said. His voice was a hoarse, choking gasp.
'We got him out,' Linton said. 'We'll get the others out too. Those that are left. Just see to the girl.'
They reached the stairs that led to the wireless room. Water slopped and soaked into everything. There was a table in the middle of the room, below the shattered skylight, and a chair on top of the table. One edge of the skylight was smooth and harmless, its shattered splinters thrown down to crunch underfoot on the floor.
Two men got out through here,' Linton said. The* seemed quite happy about it. Come on, sport. Up you go.'
Somehow he got Craig on to the table, then on to the chair. Somehow Craig reached up to the skylight, grasped the edge and hauled himself slowly upward, feeling every muscle in his arm ache with the effort of it, then he rolled forward on to the roof, staggered to his feet. The roofline cut patterns of elegant abstraction against the summer sky. He walked forward along the leads toward a woman who stood at the edge, looking down with mild interest at the street below. She was the goddess, golden-haired, polished, immaculate, the dream reserved for multimilhonaires. But now she was disheveled, barefoot, dirty. And she had sent for him.
'Hello,' said Craig softly.
She spun round so fast because death was of no importance to her. Now or twenty minutes later, that movement said, it was all the same to her. She was three inches from the edge of the roof, a hundred and twenty feet above the ground, and she could jump at any time she chose.
'Don't come any nearer,' she said. 'I'm warning you. Ill jump if you do.'
Wearily Craig sank down, legs in front of him, his back soothed by the warmth of a chimney.
'Don't let the disguise fool you,' he said. 'You're supposed to have sent for me. Name of Craig.'
He raised his head then, looking into her eyes that were serene, untroubled, and quite mad.
'I came here to get you out,' he said. 'Fire engines, hoses, smoke grenades, policemen disguised as firemen, policemen disguised as policemen, Grierson doing his sheriff of Dodge City bit. We revived a bit of the war for you. Old-fashioned street fighting. I killed a couple myself.' She winced at the bitterness in his voice. 'Then I killed Schiebel.'
Carefully, her bare, beautiful foot feeling its way, she took one step toward him.
'I thought he'd killed you,' Craig said.
'I ran away,' the woman said. 'I heard him fire, and my heel broke. I just lay there. Then I heard you fighting, took off my shoes and ran.'
Craig touched the gauze on his face. He said: 'He gave me this. He was very good. But he wanted to hurt too much. It made him a bit careless. And I knew one trick he didn't.'
'You're sure he's dead?' Phihppa asked.
'I'm sure,' said Craig. 'I watched him die. That's the other reason I was sent here.'
He sprawled back farther, his right hand searched for cigarettes, found a packet, offered it to the girl. She shook her head. Craig took one, then fumbled for matches. His hand shook, and they spilled on to the leads.
'You'll have to help me,' he said. 'Please, Fhp.' He looked from her to his shaking hand. 'You'll have to help me.'
Her feet moved slowly, unwillingly toward him, then at last she crouched, picked up a match, struck it, and held it out to him. He drew in the smoke, and she backed slowly away. Craig reached out his hand, and deftly, neatiy, stowed matches into the box. Every movement was sure, steady, confident.
'I could have grabbed you then if I'd wanted to,' he said.
'Why didn't you?'
'There are other roofs,' Craig said, 'and other ways. If you want to die, you'll die. I can't stop you. Nobody can.'
Philippa said: 'He hurt me, Craig. Christ, he hurt me. Only he was careful. He didn't want me looking too bad in case Harry came to see me. He said he'd put me back on heroin. He meant it, Craig.'
Craig said: 'He always meant what he said.'
'He tried to make me write a letter to Harry. Beg him to do what Schiebel wanted. I almost did write it. I couldn't go back to heroin. I couldn't.'
Craig said: 'You don't have to.'
She looked at him warily, but he made no attempt to move.
'Schiebel's dead. I told you that,' Craig said. 'We can go down any time. Harry will sign with us, Loomis will get a K.B.E., and 111 get some sleep.' He lounged back, unutterably weary.
'There's something else, isn't there?' he said. 'You'd better tell me what it is or jump. It's the only choice you've got.'
'You'd let me do it?' Fhp asked.
'I couldn't stop you,' Craig said. I'm too tired.'
Philippa said, 'You are without doubt the most arrogant, self-satisfied bastard I've ever met in my life—and
