as an intermediate step from which to vault over them. He leaped on top of the table and it collapsed. Shit! It was a balsa wood breakaway table, another prop, probably left over from some slapstick comedy.
His knees slammed painfully onto the concrete floor. Pain was now flooding his body, from his knees up to his collarbone. He was breathing hard, finding it difficult to catch his breath. He could feel that his shirt was soaked with blood: a good deal of blood had been lost.
A shout: Chip's voice. "I heard that," he said, breathing hard as well. "Out of ammo. Tough luck, kid. You should always be prepared. One of those lessons you learn a little too late, huh?"
Metcalfe didn't reply.
"You're going to die today, Metcalfe. You might as well face it. But look on the bright side. It'll be the most valuable thing you ever do. The planet is gonna be a hell of a lot safer without you on it."
As Metcalfe got to his feet, his eye was caught by one of the crates a few inches from his head.
It was filled with weapons.
There were antique machine guns, some ridiculously outdated. Some MG-34s, some MP-43 assault rifles, MP-38 machine pistols. Antique stick hand grenades, some smaller egg-shaped ones. They were World-War-One-vintage dummy weapons that had been used in the Brandenburg Studios' many war films.
Quietly Metcalfe reached into the crate and removed a Luger 9mm Parabellum semiautomatic weapon, a P-38. Also circa the Great War. But it was entirely plausible. It wouldn't fire but it looked authentic. Glancing to his left, he saw Chip's legs flailing as he tried to free himself from the plywood debris. He slipped the Luger into his coat pocket, then raced farther down the aisle until he came to the replica of the Manhattan apartment, complete with ivory grand piano and a large chandelier. The chandelier hung low over the apartment, apparently intended to be within the camera frame, but it dangled from an ugly plain rope that was tied to what looked like a tall iron ship's mast, another section of iron rod jutting forward at a perpendicular. It appeared to be a microphone boom that had been retrofitted. Metcalfe pulled at the iron mast and knocked it over toward where Chip was just getting to his feet. It missed him narrowly but blocked his path.
Metcalfe shoved at the barrier of wooden crates, and a few of them gave way. He managed to crash through to the next aisle, then ran toward the steel door.
It was real, he saw with relief.
He pulled it open, saw that it did not lead to the outdoors. There was a dark stairwell that wound around down, presumably to a basement, or up. Up where? A roof?
The roof seemed a safer alternative than the basement, where he might find himself trapped. He sprinted up the stairs, trying his best to ignore the pain in his shoulder, which was steadily increasing, and the dull ache in his kneecaps. Soon he reached another steel door, flung it open, and saw that it gave onto the roof of the building. A flat tar-and-gravel roof. The moonlight provided ample illumination, allowing him to run across the expanse of the roof. When he neared the edge, he realized that the drop to the ground had to be a hundred feet: enough to kill him or at least injure him so badly that he would not be able to move. One of the dummy brick buildings was close, however; it was no more than six feet away. Smoke poured from its four chimneys. If he took a running leap he should be able to make it. He had jumped across wider chasms between Paris rooftops.
A clamor of footsteps told him that Chip had followed him up. A few seconds later, Chip burst through the doorway.
"Go ahead and jump, asshole!" he shouted. "One way or another you're dead. I don't really care how it happens." He advanced across the gravel slowly, deliberately, his gun drawn.
Metcalfe backed up a few feet, took off running, then jumped into the air, pulling his feet up under him in preparation to break his fall.
Then everything seemed to happen all at once. He was propelled through the air and landed square onto the bluestone roof of the brick building, just as Chip shouted, "Die, you bastard!" A moment later, Chip fired off a shot; Metcalfe could see the deliberate, calm aim of the FBI man and knew that the