Windmills of the Gods

” Yes. The roof is divided in half There’s a crank on each side that-” She was talking to herself The two men were frantically racing upstairs. When they reached the top floor, they found a door opening onto a loft and hurried inside. A wooden ladder led to a catwalk above that was used by workmen when they cleaned the ballroom ceiling. A crank was fastened to the wall.

“There must be another one on the other side,” Mike said.

He started across the narrow catwalk, pushing his way through the sea of deadly balloons, struggling to keep his balance, trying not to look down at the mob of people far below. A current of air pushed a mass of balloons against him, and he slipped. One foot went off the catwalk. He began to fall. He grabbed the boards as he fell, hanging on. Slowly he managed to pull himself up. He was soaked in perspiration. He inched his way along the rest of the walk. Fastened to the wall was the crank.

“I’m ready,” Mike called to the colonel, who was hidden from sight by the balloons. “Careful. No sudden moves.”

“Right.”

Mike began turning the crank very slowly.

Under the table, the timer was down to two minutes.

Mixe could hear the other crank being turned. Slowly, very Slowly, the roof started to slide open. A few balloons drifted into the night air, and as the roof opened farther, more balloons began to escape. Hundreds of them poured through the opening, dancing into the star-filled night, drawing oohs and aahs from the unsuspecting guests below and the people out in the street.

Under the table, there were forty-five seconds remaining on the remote-control timer. A cluster of balloons caught on the edge of the ceiling, just out of Mike’s reach. He leaned forward, trying to free them. They swayed just beyond his fingertips. Carefully he moved out on the catwalk, with nothing to hold on to, and strained to push the balloons free. Now! Mike stood there watching the last of the balloons -escape. They soared higher and higher, painting the velvet night with their vivid colors, and suddenly the -sky exploded.

There Was a tremendous roar, and the tongues of red and white flames shot high into the air. It was a Fourth of July celebration such as hoid never been seen before. Below, everyone applauded.

Mike watched, drained, too tired to move. It was over.

The roundup was timed to take place simultaneously, in farflung corners of the world.

Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, was with his mistress when the door burst open. Four men came into the room. “FBI, Mr. Secretary. You’re under arrest.”

“You must be mad. What’s the charge?”

“Treason, Thor.”

General Oliver Brooks, Odin, was having breakfitst at his club when two FBI agents walked up to his table and arrested him.

In London, Sir Alex Hyde-White, K.B.E., M.P., one of the senior heads of the British Secret Intelligence, Service, code nwne Freyr, was being toasted at a parliamentary dinner when the club steward approached him. “Excuse me, Sir Alex. There are some gentlemen outside who would like a word with you… .”

In Paris, in the Chambre des D,6putds de la Rdpublique Frangaise, a deputy, Balder, was called off the floor.

In the parliament building in New Delhi, the speaker of the’ Lok Sabha, Vishnu, was taken to jail.

In Rome, a deputy of the Camera dei Deputati, Tyr, was in a Turkish bath when he was arrested.

The sweep went on. In Mexico and Albania and Japan, high officials were arrested. A member of the Bundestag in West Germany, a deputy in the Nationalrat in Austria, the vice-chairman of the Presidium of the Soviet Union. The arrests included the president of a large shipping company and a powerful union leader, a telesion evangelist and the head of an oil cartel.

Eddie Maltz was shot while trying to escape.

Pete Connors committed suicide while FBI agents were breaking down the door to his office.

MARY Ashley and Mike Slade were in the bubble room receiving telephone reports from around the world. Mike replaced the receiver and turned to Mary. “They’ve got most of them. Except for the Controller and Neusa Mufiez-Angel.”

“No one knew that Angel was a woman?” Mary marveled.

“No. She had all of us fooled. Lantz described her to the Patriots for Freedom Committee as a fat, ugly moron.

“What about the Controller?” Mary asked.

“No one ever saw him. He gave orders by telephone. He was a brilliant organizer. The Committee was broken up into small cells so that one group never knew what the other was doing.”

ANGEL was like an enraged animal. The contract had gone wrong somehow, but she had been prepared to make up for it.

She had called the private number in Washington and, using her dull, listless voice, had said, “Angel say to tell you no’t to worry. There was some mistake, but he weel take care of it, mester. They will all die nex’ time, and-“

“There won’t be a next time!” the voice had exploded. “Angel bungled it. He’s worse than an amateur.”

“Angel tol’ me-“

“I don’t give a damn what he told you. He’s finished. He won’t get a cent. just tell that incompetent to keep away. I’ll find someone else who knows how to do the job.” And he had slammed the phone down.

The gringo dog. No one had ever treated Angel like that and lived. The man was going to pay. Oh, how he would pay!

THE private phone in the bubble room rang. Mary picked it up.

It was Stanton Rogers. “Mary! You’re safe! Thank God it’s over.

Tell me what happened.”

“It was Angel. She tried to blow up the residence and-“

“You mean he.”

“No. Angel is a woman. Her name is Neusa Muez.”