raised against his fat chest. He tried to slow when he heard the cry of his fellow guard.
Solo drove his fist wrist deep into the fat stomach. The guard cried out, doubling forward. Solo judo-chopped him across the neck. The gun was flung into the corridor and the guard went sprawling after it. Solo snagged off the glasses, smashing them.
The he half-lifted the guard and tossed him beside his unconscious partner.
Illya wasted a moment blowing on his fist. Solo was already undressing and Illya followed suit. Solo unzipped the coveralls, worked them off the porcine bodies. They donned the guards' suits, took up their guns.
Solo broke the lenses from the black-rimmed glasses, gave one pair to Illya and set the other on his nose. They took up the rifles and moved along the corridor toward the tunnel.
Illya strode ahead of Solo, until Napoleon's voice lashed out after him. "You look wrong when you walk that fast; you look to restless to be a native."
At the very brink of the corridor, Illya slowed and grinned across his shoulder. "Right."
"Just remember that," Solo warned. "We walk like fat men, no matter what happens. We won't get anywhere down here by hurrying."
THREE
Carrying the weapons in the sluggish manner of the other guards, Solo and Illya sauntered along the walks past the loading train cars. Workers kept moving without glancing at them. Other guards leaned against the walls. None gave Solo and Illya more than brief, myopic glances.
Illya said, "Everything's going fine, but I feel like I'm carrying a target on my back."
"Just keep moving."
"They must have seen me on those monitoring screens."
"I've an idea we'll find out about that at any moment. They likely have their own ways of handling situations like this."
"You don't fill a guy's day with sunlight, do you?"
Solo was almost breathless. He longed to look over his shoulder, yet did not dare to. "It's just that I won't really relax until I get out of here."
By now they had moved in that lumbering pace to the head of the long train.
Solo slowed, touch Illya's sleeve. He nodded, indicating the cab of the engine. Two dun-clad men slouched at their places in the cab, the engineer and his assistant. The powerful engines, breathing, smoked, waiting a signal to roll.
Solo jerked his head upward. Illya nodded and moved ahead of him, swinging up into the cab.
The engineer and assistant turned in that leaden way. The engineer spoke coldly: "What do you want?"
"This train," Illya said. "Do you mind?"
The engineer squinted, peering more closely. He saw the slack dun-colored uniform, the lense-less glasses. The rotund man shuddered visibly, crying out: "You're not one of us!"
Illya nodded, smiling. "Nicest thing anybody's ever said to me."
Solo stepped close beside Illya, raising the gun, fixing his finger on its trigger. "I got the word for you. Never mind who we are. Get this train moving!"
"We're waiting for our orders!"
"You just got 'em," Illya said. He thrust the barrel of his gun into the engineer's fat belly. "Move it!"
The engineer nodded, turning slowly.
He engaged the gears. The train shivered, then inched forward. His voice rasped with contempt. "Where do you think you are going?"
Illya prodded him harder with the gun barrel. His voice was soft, "Miami's nice this time of year."
Solo watched the stout guards falter to attention, jerking up their guns as the train ground into motion. He spoke warningly over his shoulder. "The important thing for you, friend, is to get this train moving."
"I don't think there's any real misunderstanding. Is there?" Illya lifted the gun and let it bite into the engineer's flabby neck.
"No. None." All protest seeped from the engineer's voice. He and his assistant turned their attention to heading the train out.
Guards fired from the walks. They waddled forward, running as the train gathered speed. Bullets ricocheted off the metal of the cab. The two engine men crouched low, but kept working. The train moved
Solo drove his fist wrist deep into the fat stomach. The guard cried out, doubling forward. Solo judo-chopped him across the neck. The gun was flung into the corridor and the guard went sprawling after it. Solo snagged off the glasses, smashing them.
The he half-lifted the guard and tossed him beside his unconscious partner.
Illya wasted a moment blowing on his fist. Solo was already undressing and Illya followed suit. Solo unzipped the coveralls, worked them off the porcine bodies. They donned the guards' suits, took up their guns.
Solo broke the lenses from the black-rimmed glasses, gave one pair to Illya and set the other on his nose. They took up the rifles and moved along the corridor toward the tunnel.
Illya strode ahead of Solo, until Napoleon's voice lashed out after him. "You look wrong when you walk that fast; you look to restless to be a native."
At the very brink of the corridor, Illya slowed and grinned across his shoulder. "Right."
"Just remember that," Solo warned. "We walk like fat men, no matter what happens. We won't get anywhere down here by hurrying."
THREE
Carrying the weapons in the sluggish manner of the other guards, Solo and Illya sauntered along the walks past the loading train cars. Workers kept moving without glancing at them. Other guards leaned against the walls. None gave Solo and Illya more than brief, myopic glances.
Illya said, "Everything's going fine, but I feel like I'm carrying a target on my back."
"Just keep moving."
"They must have seen me on those monitoring screens."
"I've an idea we'll find out about that at any moment. They likely have their own ways of handling situations like this."
"You don't fill a guy's day with sunlight, do you?"
Solo was almost breathless. He longed to look over his shoulder, yet did not dare to. "It's just that I won't really relax until I get out of here."
By now they had moved in that lumbering pace to the head of the long train.
Solo slowed, touch Illya's sleeve. He nodded, indicating the cab of the engine. Two dun-clad men slouched at their places in the cab, the engineer and his assistant. The powerful engines, breathing, smoked, waiting a signal to roll.
Solo jerked his head upward. Illya nodded and moved ahead of him, swinging up into the cab.
The engineer and assistant turned in that leaden way. The engineer spoke coldly: "What do you want?"
"This train," Illya said. "Do you mind?"
The engineer squinted, peering more closely. He saw the slack dun-colored uniform, the lense-less glasses. The rotund man shuddered visibly, crying out: "You're not one of us!"
Illya nodded, smiling. "Nicest thing anybody's ever said to me."
Solo stepped close beside Illya, raising the gun, fixing his finger on its trigger. "I got the word for you. Never mind who we are. Get this train moving!"
"We're waiting for our orders!"
"You just got 'em," Illya said. He thrust the barrel of his gun into the engineer's fat belly. "Move it!"
The engineer nodded, turning slowly.
He engaged the gears. The train shivered, then inched forward. His voice rasped with contempt. "Where do you think you are going?"
Illya prodded him harder with the gun barrel. His voice was soft, "Miami's nice this time of year."
Solo watched the stout guards falter to attention, jerking up their guns as the train ground into motion. He spoke warningly over his shoulder. "The important thing for you, friend, is to get this train moving."
"I don't think there's any real misunderstanding. Is there?" Illya lifted the gun and let it bite into the engineer's flabby neck.
"No. None." All protest seeped from the engineer's voice. He and his assistant turned their attention to heading the train out.
Guards fired from the walks. They waddled forward, running as the train gathered speed. Bullets ricocheted off the metal of the cab. The two engine men crouched low, but kept working. The train moved
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