He was impatient to get back to his search. He turned to Gale. 'Seen enough?'
'Yes.' Her eyes shone with pleasure. Suddenly her eyes widened. 'Indy!'
she gasped. 'The bear—LOOK OUT!'
He heard the coughing roar from behind him. For just an instant his senses triggered to the presence of danger, even though he realized where they were and that the bears were electromechanical objects.
The next moment he was struck a powerful blow; he felt as if he'd been hit by a charging rhino, and felt his body spinning about as he was hurled from his feet. He had a fleeting glimpse of Tarkiz—the man had dashed full- tilt into Indy to smash him aside. Indy shook his head to make sense of what was happening.
Then he saw the huge Kodiak bear lunging forward and downward from its display position, its front paws with terrible claws unsheathed swinging together as it came down. The great 'animal,' fully nine feet tall and weighing several hundred pounds, crashed into Tarkiz, one paw slicing across his face with savage force.
The claws laid the side of his head open to white bone. A ghastly gurgle rattled in the big man's throat as he toppled to the floor beneath the immense figure of the bear. Tarkiz died instantly.
Indy had already spun about. There! A flash of white . . . the white coat of the turbaned workman who'd slipped away from the conference room. If anyone would have worked the controls to send the mechanical animal rushing at Indy it must have been him, and now he was trying to sneak away.
Jocko was already running full speed to head off the man before he could disappear into the labyrinthine hallways and side rooms of the belowground sections of the museum. Indy had his hand about the grip of the Webley, but before he, or Jocko, could stop the man, Gale had stepped forward, one arm held stiffly before her. Indy heard the sudden twang of metal under strain and a hissing sound.
He saw a blur as something snapped across the room toward the flash of white.
A moment later a muffled scream reached them and they heard the crash of a falling body against a floor. Indy turned to look at Gale. She had a strange smile on her face; a look of unexpected triumph.
'Got him,' she said quietly.
'With what?' he asked.
She pulled back her jacket sleeve. Indy stared at a circular boltlauncher fitted securely to her forearm. 'Remember when I used the machine shop back at the airfield?' she asked.
He nodded. 'Notched bolt,' she explained. 'Fast as a crossbow.' She smiled grimly. 'Never mind how small it is.
It's tipped with curarine. About six times deadlier than curare. He's paralyzed, and he won't live much longer.'
Indy was already running about the wide curve of the diorama. He came upon the man in the white jacket and turban on the floor, Jocko standing over him.
'Don't kill him,' Indy snapped. 'I need some answers from him.'
'Too late, Boss. I don't know what hit him, but his lungs and vocal cords are paralyzed. He won't last much —'
There wasn't any need to continue. Eyes bulging, tongue protruding, the man twitched violently, heels drumming on the floor. His head snapped back violently.
They heard the crack of his neck breaking.
'Let's get out of here, now,' Indy ordered.
'You're leaving two dead men behind,' Jocko said unnecessarily.
'Castilano will handle it. He's an old pro at getting rid of bodies.' Gale had followed them and he grabbed her arm, half dragging her to a stairway.
'Lead the way, Jocko. Right to your cab,' Indy snapped. 'When we're driving, make sure we're not being followed, and then get us onto Long Island.'
They dashed up the stairways. Jocko went into the parking lot first, opened the cab's hood to check for any explosives, slipped beneath the cab to do the same, then signaled Indy and Gale to follow.
Moments later they were driving through Central Park. 'I'll work us down to the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge,'
Jocko said. 'I know the back roads, and no one can follow us without my knowing about it. Where to on the island?'
'Roosevelt Field. Our plane is already there,' Indy told him.
Gale studied Indy. 'Any more surprises in your bag of tricks?' He nodded.
'You'll see.'
12
Indy sat in the right seat of the Ford cockpit. Cromwell was at the controls to his left, Foulois standing partially between and behind the seats. Unless both men were required by circumstances to be together in the cockpit, Indy was determined to spend as much time as possible with his hands and feet working the trimotor's systems. What he was learning through handson experience might not make him a pilot but it sure was a great leap forward. And it kept his mind off the death of his friend Tarkiz, a scene it would take him years to forget.
He was learning the sensations of engine sounds, the rumble of the airplane over uneven ground, the effects of winds, especially from the side that could blow the airplane off its straight-line takeoff or landing. There were control pressures to learn, the need for pressure on the right rudder pedal during the takeoff roll and climb out to counteract swirling propeller wash and engine torque. Needs small and large, some constant, others only at certain times, but above all he had already cemented into his thinking that flying skillfully demanded much more than simply pushing, pulling and shoving. What seemed so easy to his two pilots (and don't forget Gale! he told himself) was a masterful orchestration that appeared to be carried out with the most casual effort.
'You'll learn, way beyond the mechanical,' Cromwell told him, 'that the smoothest flying is actually a constant correction of errors that only you, the pilot, not only know but can anticipate. Any clod can push an aeroplane through the air, but that is not flying. You've got to caress the controls as you would a lovely lady—'
