opposite end of the corridor where it would do the most damage, then get down the stairs to let in Lippitt and Tal. I hurried down the corridor, knelt in a corner at the end, and unzipped the bag.
At the sound of a door opening directly behind me, I rose and spun. There was no place to run or hide, so I whipped the gun out of my waistband and aimed it at a point in space where the man's chest would appear in another split second. The door opened and my finger froze on the trigger. Big as death, dressed in the uniform of a Russian major, stood Kaznakov. He looked to me like an ogre from some half-remembered childhood dream.
I looked to him like a dwarf he'd seen before.
He thought and moved faster than I did. While I was still waving my pistol around in space, he reached out and swatted it from my hand as easily as a grizzly smashing fish out of a stream.
That woke me up; I crouched down and started to back up in the few feet I had between Kaznakov and the wall. He didn't even bother to draw his revolver from its holster; he just grinned crookedly and lumbered forward, arms outstretched to cut off any possible avenue of escape.
I wasn't about to let the scabby-faced Russian carry me off gently into the good night of one of the darkened rooms off the corridor. A few hours earlier, I'd have been paralyzed by the mere sight of the man in front of me. Now, thanks to Rolfe Thaag's Miracle Tea and Sleep Cure, I was ready to do a little battle.
When I was backed to the wall, Kaznakov crouched and leaped at me. I ducked under his outstretched arms, spun around, and landed the point of my shoe on his elbow. I'd been aiming for the base of his spine, but the kick on the elbow did some good; there was a crunching sound. Kaznakov grunted with surprise and pain as the arm I'd kicked convulsed, then flopped to the side of his body. I pivoted again and dived for my gun, gripped it, rolled over on my back, and pointed it at a thoroughly surprised Kaznakov. I giggled in hysterical relief and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened; the force of Kaznakov's knocking the gun against the wall had jammed the firing mechanism. I threw the gun at his huge globe head-and missed.
Kaznakov, satisfied that I couldn't get through a door before he shot me, was taking a breather. He cursed in Russian and spat, cradling his broken elbow and leaning against the wall. He looked at me through eyes glazed with pain and hatred. 'I am going to tear your arms and legs from sockets.'
Slowly, I got to my feet. We stood a few feet apart, panting and staring at each other.
The huge moon eyes slowly blinked. 'How did you get out of the farmhouse?'
'Magic, pig!' I shouted, adrenaline bubbling through my bloodstream. 'Didn't your pig mother ever tell you any fairy tales about dwarfs?'
Maybe he didn't like my insulting his mother; more likely, he was just tired. He reached across his body for his gun, and I showed him another move.
In the circus I'd leaped over barriers a lot higher than Kaznakov, but I'd had considerably more room to get up a head of steam. As it was, I made it to about the level of his neck, twisted in the air, and kicked at the area of his bandaged nose. The Russian reached out and plucked me out of the air like a fielder snaring an easy pop-up. He immediately began to squeeze.
I came down hard on both his ears with my palms. He screamed and dropped me as he reached for his head. I fell to the floor; as luck would have it, Kaznakov tripped and fell on top of me. I groped in front of me for the canvas bag that was only inches away from my fingertips, but it was no good. Kaznakov had me. Instantly on his feet, he picked me up and hurled me against the wall. I instinctively- relaxed to try to prevent broken bones, but it felt as though I'd been hit by a freight train. I bounced off the wall and hit the floor. Everything went dark, as if someone had tripped a wire inside my brain. Huge black waves pounded over my head as I clung frantically to the cliff edge of consciousness, knowing that if I went over that drop I was a dead man.
Some of my vision was coming back, but it was blurred. I heard the Russian's breathing, heavy with hate. Iron fingers wrapped around my ankles and twisted, pulling my legs in opposite directions. Kaznakov intended to literally split me up the middle with his bare hands.
Still blind, I groped for something to use as a weapon, and my fingers found the canvas bag. Pain shot up through my groin to my belly; in a few seconds, ligaments would start to tear. But I was getting more of my vision back. Kaznakov's leering face was very close to mine; he was watching me with a kind of detached interest, waiting for me to start screaming.
Trying to forget the pain for just a moment, I tensed, focusing all my energy into the palms of my hands for one more blow. When I could stand the pain no longer, I screamed at the top of my lungs and again brought my hands around on Kaznakov's ears.
He yelled and released my ankles. I swung at his head with the sack, then somehow managed to get my feet under me; the only problem was that my legs weren't working right. I tried to run, tripped and stumbled, got up, then stumbled again. I needed a time-out; I had my eyes back, but I needed a decent set of legs to go with them. Kaznakov, of course, wasn't inclined to be obliging. He either had forgotten about his gun, or had lost interest in doing anything short of tearing me apart with his hands. He was coming at me full tilt.
I got up and tried to run again, with only slightly more success. Kaznakov was gaining on me fast. There was only one thing left to try, and it was going to take some exquisite timing-not to mention luck. I tried to judge from the sound of his footsteps just where he was. When I felt his arms reach out for me, I dropped like a stone. Kaznakov went sailing through the air over my head.
I leaped onto the backs of his knees and drove my thumbs as hard as I could into his kidneys. He gargled with rage and pain and started to get up on his hands and knees. I wrapped my legs around his middle and hung on as he started to buck. At the same time, I unzipped the bag and searched inside for the incendiary grenade; I found it and wrapped my fingers around the hard metal.
Kaznakov was on his feet now, writhing, banging me against the wall, struggling to get me off his back. I grabbed his shirt collar and yanked; the shirt and jacket tore open. Still gripping his midsection with my legs, I pulled the pin on the grenade and dropped it down the back of his shirt. Then I jumped off and started hobbling toward the door where I'd come in. When I didn't hear footsteps behind me, I stopped and looked back.
Kaznakov was standing where I'd left him, a dazed expression on his face as it slowly dawned on him that there was a live grenade inside his shirt. He began to dance and claw at his shirt and jacket, trying to get at the small, deadly sphere that was ticking against his flesh. But he knew he was finished; at the last moment he stopped his wild dancing and stared at me. I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
A fountain of flame suddenly shot up from his back. There was a loud whooshing noise, and Kaznakov, without a sound, disappeared into that red fountain. He stayed on his feet a few more seconds, the shadowy outline of a giant petal in a huge crimson flower that was spreading through the corridor; then he sank down. The air was filled with the stench of gasoline and roasting human flesh.
I ran for the exit, pushed through the door, and froze.
Someone was racing up the stairs. I had no gun and no place to hide. I backed up against the wall of the stairwell and crouched, ready to spring if I ever got the chance. The man rounded the bend in the stairs just below me.
'Tal!'
Tal stopped and looked up at me. There was blood streaming from both his nostrils, bright crimson stains on flesh the color of chalk. He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand, then yelled at me. I couldn't hear him above the din of the alarm bell, but I could read his lips: 'Follow me! Hurry!'
I scrambled off the landing and down the stairs after Tal. Despite the beating I'd taken, I felt vital and alive, powered by a terrible excitement: I'd killed Kaznakov.
We met Lippitt, his gun drawn, between the first and second landings. His eyes were wide, face flushed. 'What the hell?' he shouted at Tal. 'I was only gone a minute! How the hell did you get in?'
'The door must have opened automatically when the fire alarm went off!' Tal shouted back. 'I just pushed on it and it opened!'
'Why didn't you wait for me?' Lippitt demanded.
'No time! There's no time now! Every second counts!'
Lippitt nodded curtly, turned, and led the way down toward the basement. He paused in front of the basement door.
Tal stepped forward. 'Wait here,' he said.
'No,' Lippitt said. He was looking at Tal suspiciously. 'I go where you go.'
Tal glanced at me. 'Will
