He opened his carry-case, took out the headphones and slipped them on.
Linda and Hanley pressed close, watching him.
"Hurry," the girl said. "I don't like it here."
A voice behind answered her.
"No need to hurry, Mr. Starr, alias the Nebula. Just take your time,
but be sure you open it."
* * * * *
They wheeled. Three figures blocked the passage. In the lead, leaning
comfortably against the side wall, stood Hamilton Garth, a heat gun
leveled before him. Behind him were the two pseudo-I.P. men.
"Very nice of you to save us the trouble of locating the figurine
cache," Garth said smoothly. "Now all you have to do is open that
inner door and then help us carry a load of the images back to our
tracto-car. You have nothing to worry about. If you obey orders, no
harm will come to you. If you don't, well, don't forget I have a nice
ace-in-the-hole. I have only to tell the world that James C. Starr,
president of Triplanetary Shipping is the much-wanted cracksman, the
Nebula."
Jimmy, Linda, and Hanley looked at each other.
"Come," said Garth. "This place oppresses me as much as it does you.
Get to work."
Silently Jimmy adjusted the headphones again and began to move the
dials. Five minutes passed. Then he stood back, grasped the handle and
pulled the door open.
The interior was black, but a click of the torch revealed row upon
row of Thro-Pahl images. There were hundreds here, and there must be
hundreds more in the lower crypt.
And then Jimmy remembered the metal tube Linda had given him when they
first entered this underground chamber. He drew forth the tube and with
a quick motion threw it before him.
Nothing! The crypt remained steeped in silence.
"What was that you threw?" demanded Garth. "Answer, damn you!"
Jimmy shrugged. "It was a tube of setro-frenalot--NSK 54," he said.
"I think you know what that means, Mr. Garth. The double detonation
explosive. If it doesn't explode upon the first impact, the slightest
jar, the slightest whisper of sound will discharge it."