floor, grabbed the .38 out of the shoulder holster of the plainclothesman who was screaming, and let loose two shots in the direction of Luthor's cue ball head as the criminal passed through the wall like smoke through a window screen, waving a rolled-up leather folder—the treasure from the vault.
A few composures caught up to Jimmy's as the laughing ghost did a midair pirouette on the other side of the window. Jimmy led everyone—reporters, cameramen, officials, guards—through the door. Now some of the spooks had drawn guns and were firing at the jet-powered thief.
How did he get into the vault?
How did he pass through the wall?
How can he be so sure of dodging the bullets?
Why did he want the Einstein document?
Only Jimmy's cameraman was recording this. Every station in the country would pay a mint to get copies of that tape. The students on the lawn came running into the melee. Their dogs all galloped off into the woods.
Luthor waved his prize in the sky. Jimmy dropped the gun and grabbed his microphone.
"The door of the vault seemed open not even enough for a man to pass through the crack when Luthor scrambled out over the heads of reporters, waving the priceless papers and laughing louder than life. He went through the wall of the Institute like a ghost, and as you can see, instead of leaving the scene he swings back and forth in the sky like a man on a trapeze—"
Good simile. Wouldn't need much editing.
"—as if defying Institute guards to pick him out of the air like a clay pigeon. Ladies and gentlemen, what you are witnessing—"
Jimmy felt more like a ringmaster than a newsman.
"—is the daring theft by the greatest criminal scientist of our time of the last artifact from the life of possibly the greatest scientist of all—uh—oh."
Just as Jimmy felt the words rolling, he choked off. Luthor faded from the sky, along with his booty, as if he had never been there, and the guards were left seeding the clouds.
At that moment, the toupeed man who said he was from Philadelphia was slipping out a back door of the emptied Institute building carrying a soldered lead case the size of a geography textbook. Luthor tore off the fake hair as he plopped into his confederate's car, laid the sealed document on his lap, and headed for the New Jersey Turnpike.
The vault door hung wide open with nothing beyond it but a small empty table and the glow of a single 40-watt bulb. No one would be surprised to find Luthor's fingerprints all over the tiny room.
Chapter 8 T HE P OWER
N obody heard the whistling in the city sky until it was all over. This was business.
There were three gliders still in formation, heading in a wedge over midtown. Nine more were at a standstill fifteen to twenty feet over the roofs of nine major banks, each hovering under the power of a trio of small rotors on the points of the triangular kites. Waves of infra-sound beat downward from little plastic boxes on the pilots' legs. The one-man craft were masterpieces of simple design and fuel conservation. There was only one technician in the world with the talent and resources to design and build a squad of them. The pilots of the vehicles wore heavily padded outfits along with helmets that had a small monopole antenna over the left ear. Police helicopters—four of them—beat onto the scene with loudspeakers blasting.
"Attention—land your craft on the roof of the nearest building—" The three pilots in the three gliders still soaring toward their respective destinations laughed. They were the Queen's clipper ships against the Spanish Armada. They rode stallions while the police chased on the backs of dinosaurs.
"No charges will be pressed if you debark immediately—"
One of the three glider pilots banked left toward the Banco Internacionale building. His vehicle vanished and he found himself hanging eighty feet over the sidewalk, and he told himself he was going to die.
"If you do not cease unauthorized activity within ten
A few composures caught up to Jimmy's as the laughing ghost did a midair pirouette on the other side of the window. Jimmy led everyone—reporters, cameramen, officials, guards—through the door. Now some of the spooks had drawn guns and were firing at the jet-powered thief.
How did he get into the vault?
How did he pass through the wall?
How can he be so sure of dodging the bullets?
Why did he want the Einstein document?
Only Jimmy's cameraman was recording this. Every station in the country would pay a mint to get copies of that tape. The students on the lawn came running into the melee. Their dogs all galloped off into the woods.
Luthor waved his prize in the sky. Jimmy dropped the gun and grabbed his microphone.
"The door of the vault seemed open not even enough for a man to pass through the crack when Luthor scrambled out over the heads of reporters, waving the priceless papers and laughing louder than life. He went through the wall of the Institute like a ghost, and as you can see, instead of leaving the scene he swings back and forth in the sky like a man on a trapeze—"
Good simile. Wouldn't need much editing.
"—as if defying Institute guards to pick him out of the air like a clay pigeon. Ladies and gentlemen, what you are witnessing—"
Jimmy felt more like a ringmaster than a newsman.
"—is the daring theft by the greatest criminal scientist of our time of the last artifact from the life of possibly the greatest scientist of all—uh—oh."
Just as Jimmy felt the words rolling, he choked off. Luthor faded from the sky, along with his booty, as if he had never been there, and the guards were left seeding the clouds.
At that moment, the toupeed man who said he was from Philadelphia was slipping out a back door of the emptied Institute building carrying a soldered lead case the size of a geography textbook. Luthor tore off the fake hair as he plopped into his confederate's car, laid the sealed document on his lap, and headed for the New Jersey Turnpike.
The vault door hung wide open with nothing beyond it but a small empty table and the glow of a single 40-watt bulb. No one would be surprised to find Luthor's fingerprints all over the tiny room.
Chapter 8 T HE P OWER
N obody heard the whistling in the city sky until it was all over. This was business.
There were three gliders still in formation, heading in a wedge over midtown. Nine more were at a standstill fifteen to twenty feet over the roofs of nine major banks, each hovering under the power of a trio of small rotors on the points of the triangular kites. Waves of infra-sound beat downward from little plastic boxes on the pilots' legs. The one-man craft were masterpieces of simple design and fuel conservation. There was only one technician in the world with the talent and resources to design and build a squad of them. The pilots of the vehicles wore heavily padded outfits along with helmets that had a small monopole antenna over the left ear. Police helicopters—four of them—beat onto the scene with loudspeakers blasting.
"Attention—land your craft on the roof of the nearest building—" The three pilots in the three gliders still soaring toward their respective destinations laughed. They were the Queen's clipper ships against the Spanish Armada. They rode stallions while the police chased on the backs of dinosaurs.
"No charges will be pressed if you debark immediately—"
One of the three glider pilots banked left toward the Banco Internacionale building. His vehicle vanished and he found himself hanging eighty feet over the sidewalk, and he told himself he was going to die.
"If you do not cease unauthorized activity within ten
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