The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls quivered like jelly. Then.... Not the ripping upwards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening blast opening the rock and lashing out at him with sear of fire and blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same time. From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock swelled. Then, subsided. * * * * * Silence. Only his breathing. For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed it just before it blew up the base. From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire. Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other. Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling along, taking the giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a corner, was gone down a branching corridor. Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward cautiously stuck his head around the corner. He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running. Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire, before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot in self-defense. But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentine or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So...? He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble catching up with him. Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the distant corner of the hall. When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one, he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of the officer of the two. "Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy. "It's Broward!" Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?" Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a decimeter long in one hand. With the other hand, he pointed his .45 at Broward's solar plexus. "I'm going to blow up the controls and the transmitters," he said. "What did you think?" Choking, Broward said, "You're not working for the Axis?" He did not believe Scone was. But, in his astonishment, he could only think of that as a reason for Scone's behavior. Despite his accusation about Scone's intentions, he had not really believed the man meant to do more than insure that the controls did not fall into Axis hands.