Текст книги "[Magazine 1967-­12] - The Pillars of Salt Affair"

Автор книги: Bill Pronzini

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He manipulated the throttle, dipping, cutting the speed momentarily, and then opening up again. The tail guns on the THRUSH helicopter spit more flame, but the hail of bullets passed harmlessly above him.

The U.N.C.L.E. helicopter was likewise equipped with artillery, and Illya wrapped his hand around the firing mechanism, thumb touching the button. But he didn't fire. He could see that there were two men in the machine he was pursuing, the pilot and a squat figure seated beside him. He could not identify the second figure from this distance, but he caught fleeting glimpses of a yellowish mane of hair through the glass dome.

From the picture of Dr. Mordecai Sagine that he had seen on the visi-screen in Waverly's office the day before, he had an idea that the perpetrator of the salt chemical was that second man If this were the case, he knew that U.N.C.L.E. would prefer to have Dr. Sagine alive than dead.

He remembered then that he had not had time to contact Mr. Waverly with this latest development. He caught up the microphone to the radio band there, flicking the send button, and yelled rapidly into it, making himself heard above the whir of the rotor blades overhead.

The wave length was cleared for direct communication with U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York. Illya cut his speed, hanging back now, out of range of the tail guns on the THRUSH helicopter, but still keeping it in plain sight. Waverly's voice came through the microphone, asking the nature of the urgent call.

Rapidly, Illya Kuryakin explained what had happened.

"Are you able to identify the occupants of the THRUSH helicopter?" Waverly's voice asked him.

"Negative," Illya said. "But I could venture a guess."

"Dr. Sagine?"

"Dr. Sagine."

"What is your position, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya glanced below him. He could see the flat, white surface of Lake Mead directly beneath, frozen white in the this morning sunlight. His compass heading was due west. He reported this to Waverly.

"Your instructions are to keep the THRUSH helicopter under surveillance," Waverly said. "Remain at a safe distance. Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir."

"There are U.N.C.L.E. jets in the area. I will radio for them to converge on Lake Mead immediately."

"Yes, sir," Illya said again. He asked then how the attack on the THRUSH fortress had gone.

"Satisfactorily," Waverly told him. "It is now in our hands, along with the salt chemical and the antidote

"Napoleon?"

Waverly said that Solo was as well as could be expected under the circumstances, and that one of the U.N.C.L.E. jets had picked him up in Granite River more than an hour ago to join in the search for Dr. Sagine. Then he said, "I will keep this wave length open. Report any changes in direction if they occur.

"All right," Illya said. "I'll..." He broke off, staring out through the glass at the THRUSH helicopter ahead of him. A slight chill nudged his spine.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice said over the radio. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Illya said. "They've stopped moving forward. Just hovering, now."

But as he said that, the THRUSH machine, hovering, turned in midair, reversing itself to face him. It sat there like that for an instant, and then the pilot leaned forward on the throttle and it began to move at full speed, right at him.

Illya Kuryakin recognized what they were going to attempt to do. They had realized that trying to outrun the faster U.N.C.L.E. helicopter was useless. The only recourse left open to them, if they hoped to escape, was to eliminate the single obstacle that stood in the way of their freedom.

They were attacking.

It was too late to run, even if he wanted to The swiftness of their action had allowed them enough time to narrow the distance between the two helicopters, putting Illya within range of the THRUSH guns. By the time he turned around, they would be on top of him. There was only one thing he could do.

Stand and fight.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice crackled over the radio. "Come in, please."

"Stand by," Illya said, and dropped the microphone. His hand caught the firing mechanism for the U.N.C.L.E. gun mounts, finger poised on the button. He clenched his teeth, waiting.

The THRUSH helicopter opened fire.

Illya shoved hard right on the throttle, pitching him sideways. The first volley of bullets riddled the air where he had been. He hunched over the controls, jamming down on the button, and felt his own guns chattering beneath him. The THRUSH copter veered, dodging as he had done. He knew he had missed.

Dog-fight, he thought. A dog-fight with helicopters. Now if that wasn't...

"What's going on there? Mr. Kuryakin, I hear gunfire. What..."

Slashes of red flame from the fore guns on the THRUSH: chopper drowned out Waverly's words. Illya fought the throttle again, left this time in sidelong bank.

He was too late. The glass in front of him shattered.

Illya threw his left arm across his face, an instinctive motion. He felt a burning pain along his elbow as one of the machine gun slugs furrowed through his skin there, and tiny pinpricks on his forehead and face as the flying glass peppered his vision.

He shook his head, pawing to clear his sight. His hand came away red with blood from the glass cuts. Dimly he saw the THRUSH helicopter moving towards him, coming in for the kill.

Teeth bared in anger and pain, Illya found the firing mechanism he had dropped when the dome splintered. The U.N.C.L.E. copter had lost altitude, the throttle jarred loose from his hand with the impact.

Illya clutched the throttle now, straightening the machine, and then drew back on it, raising his front end and the mounted guns there to the approaching THRUSH aircraft.

He jammed his finger down on the firing button and held it there. The first stream of bullets sheered one of the rotary blades on the THRUSH helicopter. He saw it sputtering, airborne on only a single blade. More slugs smashed into the body, through the glass on the pilot's side. Crippled, it began to descend.

Illya released the pressure on the firing button then. He tested the controls, found that none of the THRUSH bullets had hit vital parts, and went down after them.

The THRUSH helicopter was not crash-falling. The pilot, apparently still alive, was able to maneuver the craft, even with one blade. He could keep it in the air, but not for long. It would have to land.

Illya, hovering above the crippled machine, following it down, resisted the urge to fire on it again.

As they descended, the crystal floor of what had been Lake Mead loomed large and white below. Illya, mouth pulled into a tight line, fumbled for the microphone on the floor. Angry crackling sounds still emerged from the radio, giving indication that it was still operational.

He flicked the send button. "Kuryakin here," he said.

"What happened?" Waverly's voice said through heavy static. "Are you all right? It sounded as if..."

"All right," Illya said shortly. "A shaky moment or two, but everything's under control now."

The THRUSH helicopter landed on the salt surface of the lake.

Illya went directly above them, vacillating there, a hundred feet overhead. He could see the two men in the shattered cockpit. Neither of them moved. The pilot had slumped over the controls.

Illya reported to Waverly. He finished with, "I'm going down for a look."

"Stay where you are," Waverly said sharply. "There are planes..."

"Wait a minute," Illya said. He saw that the second man in the THRUSH helicopter, the man he suspected to be Dr. Sagine, had begun moving. The long yellow hair shone in the sunlight as he clambered his way out of the crippled aircraft, onto the surface on the lake.

The man stood motionless for a moment, peering up into the air. Then he began to run.

"Dr. Sagine!" Illya said into the microphone. "He's alive! Out and running."

He took the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter in the direction the man was running, Dr. Sagine, stopped finally, digging into his pocket. He came up with something that glinted shafts of light in the sun.

A gun, Illya thought. Hand gun. Not much range. But if he can keep me far enough overhead, and if he can reach he shore, the rocks there .

"I'm going down after him," Illya said into the microphone.

"No!" Waverly snapped. "I want you to—"

Abruptly the mike went dead, just as Illya said, "If he reaches the shore, I'll lose him. Can't take that chance."

"I'm going after him," Illya said again, to the silent mike. If Waverly had different ideas it was too late now.

He increased the speed on the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter, passing over the running man, and then turned and took it down, cutting off Dr. Sagine's fight to the opposite shore. He landed, switching off the rotors.

Dr. Sagine veered to the right, running out toward the middle of the lake. Illya dug his U.N.C.L.E. special from his belt and leaped out, running. He chased headlong after the fleeing Dr. Sagine, across the gleaming, bleached-bone whiteness of the crystallized lake.

ACT VII: LAST COMMAND

Napoleon Solo was sitting in the co-pilot s chair of the U.N.C.L.E. jet that had picked him up in Granite River. Eyes closed, he was fighting a losing battle against exhaustion, when Waverly's frantic call came over the radio.

The jet had wound its way down from the Rockies, following the irregular, twisting course of the Colorado River. Their only sighting in the time they had been aloft had been another U.N.C.L.E. search plane. There had, of course, been no sign of Dr. Sagine.

The radio crackled. "Attention, all Squadron B– units. Attention, all Squadron B units. Report your positions immediately. Repeat. Report your positions immediately. Urgent. Red Line urgent."

The sound of Waverly's voice jarred Solo into sudden wakefulness. He sat erect, shaking his head. The pilot, a gaunt, slackjawed Scot named McDuffee, reached for the microphone.

"Control, this is B Leader One reporting. Heading south-southwest, search course above the Colorado River. We have just passed over Grand Canyon, approaching the Nevada border. Over."

There was no instant response. Solo, listening attentively, heard the other U.N.C.L.E. jets relaying their positions. After a moment, Waverly's voice boomed again. "B Leader One, this is Control. Alter your course point-zero-six degrees, due west, full maximum speed. Place all emergency rescue equipment on stand-by readiness. Your destination is Lake Mead. Acknowledge, please."

"Roger, Control," McDuffee said. "What's the exact position?"

Waverly told him what it was. "How long will it take you?"

McDuffee checked his instruments quickly. "Ten minutes, sir," he said. "We're on our way."

Solo grabbed the microphone. "Mr. Waverly," he said. "This is Solo in B Leader One. What's going on at Lake Mead?"

There was a brief pause. Then Waverly said, "Mr. Solo, I thought you were still convalescing. But I am glad you are along. We may need your assistance."

"Lake Mead is formed by Hoover Dam," Solo said. "That's where you sent Illya this morning. What's happening there?"

Waverly said: "I have been trying to raise Mr. Kuryakin on his communicator, but there is no response."

"You think he's hurt, then?"

"Possibly," Waverly said "Though I think not. I don't want him to land on Lake Mead, but I can't reach him."

"Why the rescue equipment?" Solo asked. "And why the urgency?"

"Simply because," Waverly said, his voice tinged with impatience, "if Mr. Kuryakin does not get off the surface of Lake Mead within the next few minutes, he is going to be trapped on a rushing torrent of fresh water instead of solid rock salt."

Solo got it then, touching his mind like an electric shock.

"Good Lord!" he said slowly. "The antidote!"

"Precisely," Waverly said. "It was introduced into the Colorado some time ago at the THRUSH site in Pardee. I have had planes watching its progress. Even in controlled amounts, it decrystallizes the water at a fantastic rate of speed. Most of the Colorado has already been returned to its original state. When the water carrying the antidote reaches Lake Mead..." He paused. "I am sure I needn't explain further."

"No," Solo said. "How much time have we got?"

"Approximately fifteen minutes, maximum, according to the present rate of change. We have to make contact with Mr. Kuryakin before he gets too far away from his helicopter."

"And if we can't?"

"Then I am afraid his fate will be in your hands."

"But it's going to take ten minutes to reach Lake Mead," Solo said. "That only leaves us five minutes to launch a rescue operation. That's not much time."

"I am well aware of the time factor," Waverly said. "We can only hope that Mr. Kuryakin can be raised on his communicator before that necessity arises. Keep your own communicator open to Channel D. If he answers too late to escape by helicopter, then you will have to take over with rescue instructions."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Solo out."

He replaced the microphone, rising. As he did, he saw they had lost altitude. Through the windshield, he could see the Colorado River below, no longer white, now cold and surging through the rock canyons toward Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. He wet his lips, turning to McDuffee.

The U.N.C.L.E. pilot was barking orders to his crew on the jet's communication system. He had set the throttle wide open.

When McDuffee finished, Solo said, "I'm going to supervise the operation if it's needed. See if you can set a new speed record, will you, Mac?"

"As good as done," McDuffee said, but his mouth was tight.

Solo left the cockpit and hurried through the plane to the tail section. He took his communicator from his pocket as he went, thumbing out the antenna. He reported to Waverly on Channel D that he was waiting on stand-by.

Illya Kuryakin still had not acknowledged.

Solo reached the tail section. The crewmen there were already setting up the newly-developed U.N.C.L.E.. aeronautical rescue devices carried in that section. He stood watching them, feeling a tightness in his chest as he listened to the silence from the communicator in his hand.

TWO

Ahead of Illya as he ran, the THRUSH scientist was following a straight course toward the rock-covered shore to the right. Illya Kuryakin had narrowed the distance between them to a hundred feet, and was gaining rapidly. He was younger, more agile, than Dr. Sagine, and he knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before he overtook him.

And that made him careless. He forgot about the gun Dr. Sagine was carrying. In his pursuing dash across the shining salt floor of the lake, Illya's mind was focused on only a single objective, and that was catching the man in front of him before he reached the cover of the shore. He had pushed the existence of the gun completely from his mind.

When Dr. Sagine suddenly halted his flight, turning abruptly, Illya did not immediately understand why he had done so. He slowed himself, a natural reaction, and then he saw the THRUSH scientist's arm stretch out in front of him, and the transitory view of metal, and he knew, almost too late, what the reason was.

He flung himself to the side, his left shoulder connecting solidly with the grainy, unyielding surface, jarring him. The bark of the gun in Dr. Sagine's hand split the morning stillness, and a bullet furrowed salt near Illya's face, spewing brackish chips at his eyes. He rolled twice and came up on to his knees, trying to see where his assailant was, his special held up in his hand. The gun roared again, directly in front of him.

Sagine's second shot took Illya high in the left side of the chest. The force of the impact stunned him, driving him over onto his back. His chest went numb. He lay there, looking up into the pale yellow ball of the sun, and he thought dazedly, He shot me. I'm hurt bad.

There was another crack from the gun. The shot missed. Illya was aware of that, and aware at the same time that he was completely at the mercy of Dr. Sagine. The initial shock wore off, and his mind was alert again.

He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, couldn't with the lack of feeling in his chest, and leaned onto his side with a lunging effort. He saw the THRUSH scientist approaching him, shouting unintelligible words that were lost in the breath of wind blowing across the surface of the lake. He steadied his right arm and squeezed off two wild shots, unable to aim properly from the huddled position he lay in.

But the fact that he had managed to fire at all accomplished a purpose. Dr. Sagine stopped, uncertain. He realized Illya Kuryakin was not dead, and realized as well the foolishness of walking into the muzzle of the special held in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's right hand. He turned and began to run again.

Illya Kuryakin emptied the special after the running man, but at the widening range none of the shots were remotely close. The figure of Dr. Sagine began to grow smaller as he raced toward the rocky shore in the distance.

Illya reached under him, fingers clawing at his pocket. The communicator had gone dead, but maybe it was from Waverly's end. If his own was...The first sharp pain slashed across his chest then, squeezing tears from his eyes. He clamped his teeth down tightly together, pulling the communicator free. Maybe there was still time. If an U.N.C.L.E. jet or helicopter were in the area, it was possible they might be able to spot Dr. Sagine before he could lose himself in the rocks.

Illya nipped out the antenna, pulling the communicator to his lips. "Kuryakin here," he said, and his voice mirrored the rising pain in his chest.

THREE

Solo was pacing nervously up and down the tail section of the U.N.C.L.E. jet when he heard Illya's voice come over Channel D.

His heart jumped. He started to speak into his communicator, but Waverly was already acknowledging. "Mr. Kuryakin, this is Waverly. Listen carefully. Return to your helicopter at once. Do you understand? Return to your helicopter and lift off at once."

"Negative," Illya said. "Sagine's getting away. He shot me. He's..."

"Shot you?" Waverly cut in. "Are you badly hurt? Are you able to return to your helicopter?"

"Negative," Illya said again. He began to cough, and the rest of his words were flecked with the rasps. "Shot in the chest. Don't think I can move. But I'll be all right until you can send someone down for me. Sagine is..."

"Sagine is unimportant," Waverly said tersely. "He won't get far. You are of primary concern at the moment."

"Told you, I'm all right," Illya said.

"You are not all right, Mr. Kuryakin. The chemical antidote has been introduced into the Colorado River. I was attempting to tell you that when my mike went out of order. In another six to eight minutes, the antidote will reach Lake Mead, decrystallizing the salt."

"What?" Illya said.

Solo couldn't wait any longer. "Illya, this is Solo," he said into the communicator.

"Napoleon! What are you..."

"I'm in one of the Squadron B jets," Solo said. "We're on our way to you. We have a grappling sling ready."

"Grappling sling? But there's not enough time for that!"

"Just hold on," Solo said. "We've got time."

"I don't even see you yet," Illya said, and Solo knew he was scanning the sky.

Solo caught up one of the jet's microphones hanging on the wall. "Mac, this is Solo. How much longer?"

"Lake Mead, dead ahead," McDuffee said from the cockpit. "Two minutes."

"Can you see what point the chemical change has reached?"

"Hang tight," McDuffee said. "I'm taking her down."

Solo felt the jet begin to nose dive. He had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, but not all of it was due to the sudden drop in altitude. The jet leveled again.

"I see it now," McDuffee said. "Man, that's some sight. It's moving forward like a wave."

"Where, Mac? Where is it?"

"A couple of miles behind us, now," McDuffee said. "We're over Lake Mead, approaching the position."

The communicator in Solo's hand crackled. "I can see you now!" Illya's voice yelled. "You're coming right at me!"

"Mac, hold her steady," Solo said in the jet's microphone "We're on target."

"I can see the helicopter now," McDuffee said.

"What's your altitude?"

"Seven-fifty."

"Take her down to five hundred."

The jet dipped.

"Do you see Illya?" Solo asked.

"Not yet," McDuffee said. "There's a man running across the surface to the left, toward the shore. But I... Wait! I see him now! Two hundred yards from the helicopter!"

"All right," Solo said. He was aware that perspiration covered his body. He rubbed wetness from his forehead. "Get set, Mac. I'll give you the word when we're ready."

"Roger," McDuffee said. "I'll start circling."

"Mr. Solo, this is Waverly," the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice said over the communicator. "How much time have you?"

"Plenty of time," Solo lied.

"Can you see me?" Illya said. His voice seemed to have gotten fainter. He was still coughing.

"We can see you," Solo answered. A thought struck him. "Illya, you're not going to pass out?"

"No, I don't think so," Illya said feebly. "But my chest is on fire."

"Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Sign off for now. You have work to do. I will maintain contact."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. "When we're set, I'll come on again."

He put the communicator in his pocket, looking at the two crewmen. "Ready with the grappling sling?"

"Ready, sir," one of the crewmen said.

"Get the door open."

The crewmen unlatched the jump door on the left side of the plane. Cold wind howled through the opening, chilling the sweat on Solo's body. He shivered, looking out. Below him, he saw the white salt surface of the lake, and then, as they passed in a tight circle, the still form of Illya Kuryakin, lying prone there.

Solo looked at the grappling sling they had set up on a succession of steel pulleys in front of the jump door. It was a series of plowsteel cables, running through the pulleys, and attached to a ten-foot square piece of reinforced plastic nylon. Above the nylon, fastened onto the cables, were sliding metal hooks, manipulated by drawstrings from inside the jet. Running through the square of nylon at the edges, and affixed to the bottom of the hooks, was a thick, elasticized fiber cord.

When the victim to be rescued was safely onto the nylon square, the drawstrings were pulled upward, lifting the hooks and pulling the nylon closed at the top, somewhat like a fish net, so that there was no chance of the victim falling from the sling while the cables and pulleys hauled him into the plane.

This enabled rescue to be successfully made of unconscious individuals, as well as conscious ones. The entire unit, had been developed and perfected by U.N.C.L.E.

It was, in itself, foolproof. However, if the lowered sling, due to wind conditions or other elements, were to miss its target on the first pass, the plane would have to circle and make a second, or third, attempt. The operation required precise timing, and offered little margin for error, especially in a spot such as the one they were faced with now.

Solo knew that if they missed on that first try, there would be no opportunity for a second effort.

"All right," he said to the crewmen. "Get ready to drop the sling."

The crewmen hoisted the sling, poising at the door. Solo went to the microphone and lifted it from the wall. "Mac?"

"Yes?"

"All set?"

"All set."

Solo took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

"Let's go," he said.

FOUR

Illya Kuryakin lay looking up at the U.N.C.L.E. plane circling above him. He heard the droning sound of the jet engines, but there was another, somehow louder, sound that came from upstream, at the western end of the lake. He was able to identify that sound instantly... Rushing water.

He looked there, across the shimmering white. At first, he saw nothing. The rumbling hiss of the water seemed to grow louder. Then he saw a fleck of foaming color that seemed to gain size, moving rapidly nearer.

The pain in his chest had climbed into a raging inferno. He saw numbly that the front of his mackinaw was covered with blood. Nausea bit into the back of his throat, and he felt his eyes becoming heavy. A warm lethargy took hold of his mind, pulling him downward, pulling him .

He tried to concentrate on Mr. Waverly's voice, talking to him through the communicator he held clenched tightly to his ear. But the words seemed to low together, melt into a buttery monotone of soothing sound. He felt himself beginning to relax, allowing the warm feeling in his mind to spread, to...

"Illya!"

The sharp tone of Napoleon Solo's voice snapped him out of it. "Yes, Napoleon?" he said weakly into the communicator, biting his lip against the fire in his chest.

"We're dropping the sling now," Solo said. "We've only got time for one pass, and we've got to make it fast. You'll have to grab onto the sling if we miss the scoop. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Illya said. He tried to make his voice light, but it didn't come off.

There was silence for a moment. Then Solo said, "We've dropped the sling. Can you see it?"

Illya looked up into the sky. He saw at first only a bright, yellowish haze. He shook his head. His eyes focused. He saw the U.N.C.L.E. jet circle, banking above, and then come in from the east, flying low. He saw the grappling sling, suspended on the plow-steel cables. It floated some twenty feet above the surface of the lake, almost directly below the plane. The wind didn't have much effect, due to heavy weights strategically placed on the cables.

"I see it," Illya said.

"Are we in a direct line-above you?"

"Yes," Illya said. "Maybe three hundred yards."

He heard the sound of the water again. It seemed to be almost on top of him. He forced himself not to turn and look there. He kept his eyes on the U.N.C.L.E. jet and the grappling sling.

He was aware of Solo's voice, speaking to the pilot of the jet. "Cut it down, Mac. All the way. We're almost above him. Steady, now."

"Hurry," Illya said. It was all he could say.

The jet flew right above him. He saw the billowing white nylon of the sling, skimming across the top of the surface toward him. With every ounce of strength and will power left in his body, he forced himself to rise onto his hands and knees. The roar of the jet overhead and of the approaching rush of water was a cacophony of maniacal sound in his ears.

The square of nylon on the grappling sling seemed to be coming at him at tremendous speed. He steadied his body, fighting off the urge to duck away. He felt the warm taste of blood in his mouth, and he knew, without feeling, that he had bitten through his lip.

The impact of the nylon almost knocked him over. But he threw his body forward, pain screaming like a living thing in his chest, hands clutching wildly at the nylon. He caught onto the edge of it, lost his grip, and then caught on again. He rolled his body forward, into a ball, the way he had been taught during training for just such an emergency.

There was a sudden jerk, and he knew the drawstrings had been yanked upward, knew that he was safely onto the sling. The nylon pulled free from his hands, closing over him, shutting out the sky.

It had seemed, in that last instant, that he felt a few drops of cold, wet spray on his face. His last impression was of being lifted, swaying, and then he closed his eyes and allowed the warm, welcome lethargy to cover his entire body.

Inside the U.N.C.L.E. jet, Napoleon Solo yelled into his communicator, "We got him! It's all right! We got him!"

From the other end, he thought he heard what might have been a relieved sigh. But Alexander Waverly, in his usual non-emotional manner, said only, "Very good, Mr. Solo. Carry on."

Solo was grinning. "Yes, sir," he said.

He picked up the jet's microphone. "Mac," he said. "Did you hear?"

"I heard," McDuffee said, and from the sound of his voice Solo knew that he, too, was smiling. "That was too close. It's a good thing we didn't need another minute."

"Mac," Solo said, "remind me to recommend you and your crew for promotions. You're the best pilot we've got—bar none."

"True," McDuffee said dryly, and signed off.

Solo went to the jump door, watching the two crewmen using the pulleys to haul the grappling sling into the jet. When they had gotten it inside and loosened the drawstrings, Solo knelt and pulled the nylon aside.

Illya Kuryakin, bloody, was unconscious. Solo bent forward, listening to his friend's breathing. It sounded normal.

Solo closed his eyes, and then opened them again slowly. "Get the first aid kit," he said to one of the crewmen. "We'll have to stop the bleeding, and bandage him until we get back to base."

"Will he be all right, sir?" one of the crewmen asked.

"Yes," Solo said. "He's going to be fine."

He stood then, feeling a mixture of relief, full and complete, and of overwhelming fatigue that had seeped into every portion of his being. He noticed, frowning, that a weakness had set into his legs, and that his hands had begun to tremble.

Solo started to take a step forward. And collapsed. One of the crewmen caught him before he hit the floor.

FIVE

Alexander Waverly said, "I am not quite sure whether I should commend you for your efforts in thwarting the latest of the THRUSH plots, or reprimand you for taking insane chances." He was standing alongside Napoleon Solo's hospital bed.

"You could always compromise," Illya Kuryakin said blandly from his hospital bed. "After all, to err is human."

"Indeed," Waverly said.

"Look at it this way," Solo said. "You won't have either of us to contend with for some time. That should influence your decision."

"It is debatable whether or not that is a blessing," Waverly told him.

"Well," Illya said, "blessing or not, I for one can certainly use the vacation."

"Complete rest," Solo agreed. "Peace and quiet. Ah, sometimes I think this job has its advantages after all."

Waverly looked at his two top agents with what was, for him, some fondness. But his countenance remained stern.

Napoleon Solo: One long, but not too serious, gash on his right leg. Minor frostbite. Pneumonia, though mild, which one of the attending physicians said was the variety known as walking pneumonia, and which he had had for several days. The cold he had contracted in Oregon had, apparently, been the source of the malady. Also, he was suffering from fatigue and a nervous condition brought about by exposure to the THRUSH nerve gas. Diagnosis: Minimum one month's rest.