Already emergency alarms had begun a high-pitched whine, blaring through the cavernous hangar. Everything around them was chaos.
"You know," she yelled above the noise, "he's going to kill us immediately. There's no way he's going to—"
"I figure we've got about two minutes to think of something," he yelled back and pointed. "Check on the pilot. His name is Androv."
"I know. I met him last night." She turned and stared. "We had a small misunderstanding."
"Well, let's see if he's still in any condition to fly."
"You mean?"
"How else? You got any better ideas, I'd like to hear them."
Yuri Androv had worked his way through the carnage of the explosion, the scattered remains of Tanzan Mino's phalanx of kobun, to again bend over the form of his father. Once more the cloud of obscuring mist was flowing over the scene, blanking it.
At that moment, however, a pale glow laid itself around them, the murky light of overcast dawn. Vance realized the Soviet technicians had thrown open the hangar doors and were scrambling out onto the tarmac.
Good, let them. We might just follow suit.