Текст книги "The Monster Wheel Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

The other stepped back quickly. "No—you tell me how it works," he said, but his tone was doubtful. It felt so much like a harmless toy, and perhaps it would be amusing....

Napoleon looked patient. "It's very difficult to explain without showing you on the gun what I am talking about. It took the clerk at the toy store fifteen minutes to teach me how to work it properly."

The Chinese thought, and looked around a moment at the other two prisoners for clues. Suzie was staring in complete puzzlement, and Archie was watching impatiently, tapping his fingers on the floor where he sat. It seemed an insane waste of time to be playing with a toy gun when their lives were at stake.

At last he reached a decision. He handed the gun to Napoleon, saying, "All right. But remember you are covered by several armed men, and there are more outside. And do not try anything foolish like a cyanide spray; I will stay well away from you." And he backed to the opposite wall.

Napoleon observed that only two men had their machine pistols at a ready position, and only one of them had the bolt cocked. He smiled inanely as he held up the pistol like a conjurer. "Now you see," he said foolishly, "I have here what appears to be an ordinary gun. Watch closely—I have nothing up my sleeves—and observe that during this entire performance my fingers will never leave my hands." He wiggled his fingers, and saw five pairs of eyes fixed fascinated on them.

He took the pistol in firing position in his right hand, and blew down the barrel. "Observe," he continued, "the barrel is completely empty."

"So's your head," muttered Gunderson, from the floor.

"Quiet, there," said Napoleon, aiming a mock kick at the sailor, and continuing his pitch. He had to have every bit of their attention on him and none on their machine guns if this magic trick was to succeed. Archie had just cost him some of it.

Improvising desperately, he continued. "This pistol was sold to me by a wise old gunsmith who had studied the ancient arts of the inscrutable East. Its operation is a secret known only to the adepts of a mysterious society and learned by me at the risk of my life. Now you will be among the privileged few who have seen with their own eyes the wonderful secret guarded for generations by devoted servants of ancient wisdom." That did it—only one muzzle still pointed at them, and the man behind it was completely fascinated by Napoleon's spiel.

"Watch closely, now...." He brought up the Gyrojet. "I push forward this small lever on the side, made of silver from the deepest mines of Afghanistan...." He pulled the cocking lever forward and down and put off the safely. He looked up at them, and his face wore a broad inane smile.

The smile remained fixed on his face as he centered the pistol on the first guard and pulled the trigger. He swung the gun slightly and fired again. Five shots tore across the room in four seconds. A slug ripped into the chest of the third man before the first hit the ground, and the last barely had his machine pistol up and cocked before it was too late for him to pull the trigger. Without a wisp of recoil to compensate for, only the slightest movement of the wrist was necessary to correct the aim, and the little missiles were accurate enough over twenty feet to kill dependably. Especially since the propellant continued to burn for a fraction of a second after they penetrated the body.

Napoleon Solo was still grinning foolishly as he slowly lowered the gun. There was a smell of burning, and a small amount of smoke in the little room, yet there had been comparatively little noise. But now there were five crumpled bodies against the far wall, and four fully loaded machine guns they would need no longer.

Suzie stared, her mouth open, her eyes tracking slowly from the "toy pistol" to the five bodies, and back again. Napoleon looked down at her, spread his arms slightly, and bowed from the waist.

"Hey, presto," he said softly.

"Napoleon," said Suzie, gradually recovering her voice. "What did you do?"

He smiled just a little, and canted his head towards the far wall. "Magic," he said. "I just made the entire world disappear—as far as they are concerned."

"It's a rocket pistol," said Archie, rising to his feet. "I saw an article on it in a magazine some time ago. Gun is just a tin launching tube with hammer and trigger. Bullet full of rocket fuel, supplies its own power. I recognize it from picture."

"Then why did you break their concentration on me?" asked Napoleon. "Didn't you think I knew what I was doing?"

"Yah, but the tall one was looking pretty edgy. I t'ought I'd make him feel better for the few seconds he had left."

Solo had already retrieved his belongings, and was checking out the little silver transceiver. "Channel L, please...."

And a voice answered, "Hong Kong office. Go ahead, please."

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. "Agent Solo here. We've been kidnapped, but are now free of surveillance and jamming, and would like some help and transportation. No medical aid necessary, but come in prepared to defend yourselves. There may be more guards outside."

"Right-ho. We have a fix on your position—about half-way out on the Tai Po Road, a little north of Tai Po Tau. Helicopter should be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Now if you'll stand by, there is a call for you from New York. Switch over to Channel D, please."

There was a hum, and a couple of clicks, and Waverly's familiar gravelly voice came small and tinny from the tiny speaker. "Mr. Solo, what seems to be the trouble? You've been out of touch, and the area control reports our general frequency interfered with."

"Well, I've made contact with Gunderson, sir, and gotten what information he had. We'll have to discuss its evaluation in light of whatever Illya has come up with. But we were kidnapped this evening, and they wouldn't let us use the telephone."

"By agents of a certain North African power?"

"Ah—I don't think so, sir. Oddly enough, this whole operation seems quite different in style." He bent over one of the bodies, and picked up a machine pistol with his free hand. "In fact, I would say there were no hieroglyphics involved here at all."

"Interesting. Is there another nation striving to protect its secrets?"

"Not exactly, sir. This particular job has bird-tracks all over it." He looked down at the Schmeisser. The swaying yellow bulb overhead picked out in sharp black and white an image of a stylized bird in fighting posture blazoned on the short stock—a Thrush. "Perhaps this puts things in a new light."

There was a brief silence from New York. "Perhaps it does. Mr. Kuryakin regrets to announce contact made, but no information available. His transcript of the interrogation is under study now, and there may be some indication of direction after all. We shall discuss this later over a more secure communications channel."

"Very good, sir. I'll call you from Hong Kong. Solo out."

They remained inside the small building, keeping low, Archie and Napoleon with captured machine guns trained on the door. There was no sound from without, though, until some ten minutes later the racket of a helicopter faded softly in from the distance. Napoleon opened his transceiver again.

"Solo calling U.N.C.L.E. helicopter. There's been no activity around here. Either they're all gone, or they're hiding waiting for you. Knock before you come in—we have the door covered."

"Right-ho, Solo," said a distant voice. "We're scanning the area with the infrareds, right now. See no sign of life. They may have got the wind up and fled before us. Hope so, what?"

It appeared so. The helicopter landed without drawing a shot from cover, and the men who sprinted from it towards the small shack passed without comment. They straightened and looked around, then knocked.

"Who goes?" said Napoleon.

"Friends," said a voice, "with a machine to get the three of you back to town. You have a conversation to complete with New York."

"Come on in, then. It isn't locked."

In another minute they were all loaded into the helicopter, and the roar of the motor deepened as the blades bit into the air and lifted them away. The machine wheeled around, then leaned forward and thundered of over the night-darkened mountains, due south towards the island of Hong Kong.

Inside the cabin, Archie Gunderson was saying, "I t'ank you very much, Mr. Solo, but I t'ink I go hide by myself. After this, these people know me, and I better dig a hole someplace and pull it in after me. Don't worry. I let you know where I am. But don't worry—I been chased by experts."

"If that's the way you want it, Archie, okay. Just learn from tonight, and never take the first cab that offers itself."

"Yah, Mr. Solo—or the second."

Chapter 7: "Sing For Us, Rameses."

The U.N.C.L.E. office in Hong Kong looked like U.N.C.L.E. offices all over the world. And the communications room, where Napoleon Solo sat before a microphone, was identical. His transmission was being efficiently scrambled, as were the two voices that came through his earphones. It was three o'clock in the morning in Hong Kong, which made it the middle of the afternoon in New York and in Rio.

"Section Four bears out your initial findings, Mr. Solo—there is no city in the world named Neu-Schloss. It is possible that Schneider merely invented a name to satisfy his companions, suspecting the possible consequences of the destruction of the Paxton Merchant and wishing to cover as much of his trail as possible."

"Ah—with all due respect, sir, I don't think so. The four of them were friends, and trusted each other. Everyone seems to have a great respect for Schneider; not the sort you'd have for a man who would lie to you that casually."

Illya's voice said: "I tend to agree with Napoleon, sir. Add to this the fact that all of them had faced death together and lived in circumstances of extreme forced intimacy for some time. This sort of thing can build a tremendous mutual trust. I don't think it would be betrayed lightly."

"In that case, we can only assume he told the truth, and was in fact intending to go to...Neu-Schloss. If he did not intend to conceal his destination, he must have believed his friends would know where this was. Do they?"

Both agents were definite. Their informants sincerely believed they had imparted all the information they possessed to the U.N.C.L.E. agents.

"We have all the clues we're going to get," said Napoleon thoughtfully. "All that remains is to put them together."

"Admirable, Mr. Solo. Have you any suggestions as to how we might begin?"

"Didn't Kropotkin say that Schneider and Gunderson usually spoke German together? Neu-Schloss means New Castle in German."

"New Castle? There must be dozens of them," said Illya.

"There are a dozen or more in Europe alone," said Waverly. "In as many different languages. It would appear that when, in the middle ages, a nobleman chose to build a new castle, the nearest town would take its name from it."

"And do we have any indication as to which of all the New Castles in the world he meant?"

"Section Four has just offered a suggestion," Waverly said, "to the effect that the terms 'under' and 'down,' as used to Mr. Kropotkin, may refer to 'down under,' or Australia and New Zealand."

"There's a Newcastle in Australia, isn't there?"

"That is correct, Mr. Solo. A port city, as a matter of fact, some hundred miles north of Sidney. A reasonable choice. Stand by, please."

There was a click, and Napoleon said tentatively, "Illya? Still there?"

"Yes. While we're waiting, you may as well tell me what you did wrong this evening."

"Don't tell me you've already heard about the —"

"The kidnapping? You should know how efficient Section Five is. I imagine the whole world knows by now—it's been several hours."

"I don't suppose you made any mistakes in Rio."

"None worth mentioning. Of course, I was up against a less formidable opponent. He didn't even do the job himself—hired a couple of local long-knives to fill in for him. They weren't quite up to it."

"Proving once again the essential folly of taking the lowest competitive bid."

There was another click, and Waverly's voice returned: "Section Four, with some help from their computer, reports that the Odile sailed from Capetown for Sydney the day after the Duke of York. It will be some hours before we can check her crew list for Kurt Schneider, but this is the most likely ship to have taken him to his 'New-Schloss.' The Magdalene sailed for Melbourne six days later, and will not have arrived yet. Both of you will proceed to Newcastle via Sydney, and begin the search for Schneider. If you have found no trace of him in three days, go to Melbourne and meet the Magdalene. Report back when you have something—positive or negative—to report."

"Not both of us, sir," corrected Napoleon politely. "All three."

All three of them sat around a table at a small sidewalk cafe in Newcastle, New South Wales. The hot yellow Australian sun splashed over the street and bright shards of it glittered back from the bay where the dredgers were black shadows as they worked endlessly to keep the harbor clear.

They had found the Odile the day before, and approached her master. When shown Suzie's photographs of Kurt, he had looked doubtful, and called to his First. They held a brief animated discussion in Greek, too fast and colloquial for Napoleon to follow.

Finally the Captain turned back to them. "Tañta," he said. "Yes. Willie Muller. From Capetown. He left—went north on train."

"North?" said Illya. "Newcastle, of course."

That afternoon they had emulated him. And this day they had shown his picture to several dozen bartenders, hotel clerks and waitresses in the waterfront area without eliciting any response. They had reported both the positive and negative result to Waverly, and received only scant encouragement in return. The three men met again for an early supper to compare notes.

"Well," said Illya, "I must admit Newcastle's a friendly city, even if not an especially observant one. If we weren't morally certain he'd come here, I'd say we were on a wild German chase."

"Maybe we're limiting ourselves unnecessarily," said Napoleon thoughtfully. "We've been looking mostly around the waterfront area. Now, if I were a sailor on the run, I think I'd stay away from the waterfront; especially if I were as smart a man as Kurt."

"But if you were that smart," suggested Illya seriously, "you would expect your pursuers to think of that too, and you would go straight to the waterfront, knowing it would be the last place they'd look for you."

"But they're smart too," said Suzie. "They'd expect that."

"Right," said Napoleon. "Therefore I'd hide out uptown somewhere—as I just said."

"Oh."

"Of course."

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

"It would be easier if you knew more about him," said Illya suddenly. "Interests, possible diversions and entertainments he might seek. As it is, about all we know is that he's German."

Napoleon said something impolite under his breath and slapped the table top. "We're slipping, Illya. We really are slipping. Tomorrow morning we start the rounds of German restaurants, any Hofbraus we can locate in the telephone directory tonight. And tonight we check for any theaters showing German films. Remember him telling Kropotkin he was homesick? If we don't get a lead out of this tomorrow I'll eat a kangaroo." He thought a moment. "A small one, and roasted."

The estimate turned out to be pessimistic. Two theaters were running German films, and the boxoffice clerk at once recognized the picture of Schneider, as a man who had been there just the night before. She remembered him because he had left with one of their regular customers—an old German expatriate who came every week to the theater, but twice when a German film was on. No, she didn't know his name, but the manager might....

He did, and after some convincing and a small bribe he was kind enough to share it with them. As they sought him out, Illya remarked to Suzie, "And so, once again, standard police procedure pays off. It's routine, boring, and time consuming, but it works."

"Inspiration helps," said Napoleon defensively.

Once they showed the old man their identification and told him some of the story, he was persuaded to recall his companion of the previous evening. He and Kurt had fallen into conversation between films, and had found out they were both from Stuttgart. The old man had left in 1935, accurately foreseeing the destiny of the Third Reich, and had built a new life in Australia. But the pleasure of talking to someone who knew his home town had revived memories of his childhood, and he and Schneider had talked the night away.

"You will think me a self-centered old fool," he said, "but I am afraid I can remember little of what he said. We talked mostly about Germany when the Nazis came. He told me a little of how the War had changed it—and I did not want to hear more." He shook his head sadly. "I do not think now I will go back after all. It would not be my home anymore."

"But did he say anything about where he was going?" Illya asked.

The old man thought. "He only hinted. I asked him if we could meet for a beer and some good German food sometime again. He laughed a little and said he could not stay very long—he was going to dig for black opals. So I think I know where he would be going."

Illya nodded. "The opal field a few hundred miles northwest of here."

"Not just the opal fields, my friend. The black opals are very rare and valuable. They come from only one area, and that is where I think he went. If he did not lie to me, you will find him there."

An U.N.C.L.E. six-place twinjet from the Sydney office with Illya at the wheel took them over the three hundred miles of mountains and desert in about forty-five minutes the next day, and set them down gently on a long patch of hard-baked earth. Lightning Ridge lies fifty miles beyond the railhead at Pokataroo, across the Barwon River. The town is a small collection of weather-beaten houses of paintless boards and hand-smeared adobe plaster, with a small dirt airstrip and a population of four or five hundred people. It is also the center of the only area in the world where true black opals are found.

The usually staid Encyclopedia Britannica describes the stone as combining "the iridescence of the dewdrop with the color of the rainbow, set in the blackness of night...a smothered mass of hidden fire." Looking at the one in Illya's hand, Napoleon could understand the writer's enthusiasm.

"It really is beautiful, isn't it?" said Suzie. "I wonder..."

"Sorry, ma'am," said the man behind the counter. "That's one I found myself, and it's part of what I expect to retire on someday."

Outside the little general store the yellow sand glowed hot on the desert noon, but inside the heavy windowless walls it was dark and reasonably comfortable. The three sat at a short rude counter with glasses of delicious Australian beer before them, talking casually with the manager, the owner, and the bartender.

Illya handed the opal back to him respectfully. "In the city, that would have to be kept under lock and key."

"Right. Then I wouldn't be able to look at it when I wanted to, and I'd 'ave to watch everybody else instead. One of the reasons I like it better out 'ere. Not many opals left now—they got pretty much mined out fifteen, twenty years ago. We find 'em lyin' about once in a while, though, and they still bring a good price in the Smoke."

"You get many tourists out here trying their luck?"

The Digger laughed. "Not likely. The last few days there 'ave been as many through as in the last six months. Countin' you, there must've been a couple dozen people. Some of 'em are 'ere still."

"Where?"

He pointed vaguely over his shoulder, indicating some place beyond the rough wood wall. "Roughing it. Two or three stayed when the rest left; they're camped down near the stream bed."

"Did one man come alone recently?" Illya asked. "A day or two ago?"

The Aussie looked at him thoughtfully. "Funny thing—t'other blokes asked that too."

"What did you tell them?"

"Not a thing, mate. In a town this size, people come and go and get lost in the crowds. We don't 'ave a registration center."

"Oh, stop it!" said Suzie, pulling out a photograph of Schneider. "We're looking for this man, and it's a matter of life and death that we find him before these other people do. They'll kill him!"

"Well, it might 'appen 'e'd know about it, wouldn't 'e? And likely would 'ave a few trustworthy people coverin' 'is trail for 'im. There's an awful lot of Outback for a man to get lost in—and stay lost if 'e don't want to be found."

"But we think he does," said Napoleon. "He left clues that would direct us here—left clues with his friends. It sounds as if these others are on his trail too, but they don't know where he is. We do. He came to Lightning Ridge yesterday or the day before. Whoever these others are—and we have a pretty good idea—they're obviously casting about all over the area looking for him."

"Well, Cobber...you might be too, y'know."

"But we aren't," said Suzie impatiently.

"Forget it," said Illya suddenly. "We're getting nowhere." Napoleon and Suzie looked at him as he said, "Diggers are stubborn—if they don't want to tell you something, you might as well talk to Ayres Rock." He finished his beer at a swallow, and started to the door. They followed him.

Once outside, he kept going. Napoleon caught up with him.

"You look as if you know what you're doing. Do you?"

"I think so. Kurt's friend in there mentioned some others who were here on the same mission—I thought we could get together with them and compare notes."

"You're kidding," said Suzie.

"I don't think he is," said Napoleon.

There were a few trees down along the dry water-course a quarter of a mile or so west of town, and the three wandered along in their shade until a couple of olive-drab tents appeared before them.

"Not much of a field headquarters," said Napoleon.

"Convenient and practical," said Illya. "No rain this time of year, no large dangerous animals, not many bugs. Not Thrush, this time—they would not stoop to roughing it in this style."

"Now what do we do?" asked Suzie. "Walk up and knock on the tent flap?"

"Ordinarily, we should wait until night and drop in unexpectedly. But if they don't already know of our presence, they soon will and I'd just as soon get to them before they can radio for help. They're pretty serious about this search for Schneider, and there is probably a respectable force scattered over the surrounding hundred thousand square miles."

"My thought exactly," said Illya. "I don't think we should even bother to knock."

Traditional methods are usually the most effective. With guns drawn, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents stepped past the flap of the larger tent and addressed the backs of two men who crouched over a radio set in the corner. Both were dressed in khaki bush jackets and trousers, with high boots. Both were deeply engrossed in the operation of the bulky transmitter, and both turned suddenly at the voices behind them.

"Stand away from there," said Illya coldly. A glance at the meters on the case told him it was not yet in operation. "Keep your hands in sight."

With some hesitation they did as directed. "What is this?" said one of them truculently. "We have no money—no valuables for you to rob."

"Who were you calling?"

"We were not calling—we were listening for the weather report."

"On the 40-meter band? There are no official weather reports broadcast on that frequency—it's a moderate-range amateur band."

The face of the spokesman betrayed ingenuous surprise. "I must have had the adjustment wrong. No wonder we could not receive the storm warnings."

"You're not Australian," said Napoleon. "Who are you?"

"We are honest tourists from Egypt," said the spokesman. "His name is Abdul. My name is Rameses. He does not speak much English."

"Okay. Let us tell you a few things. You're here looking for a German sailor named Kurt Schneider. You're probably one part of a search covering a very wide area. You were just about to call someone on that radio. The only question I want an answer to is whether you were calling with a regular check-in, or to report your finding of the gentleman in question."

Rameses was well enough trained not to register surprise. Neither did he answer.

"Perhaps I can help, Napoleon," said Illya, glancing at his watch. "The time is exactly 1:36 P.M.—not a likely time for a regularly scheduled contact. Suzie —"

"Yes?"

"While Napoleon keeps these two company, you and I will check the other tent. I think you may find an old friend there."

Napoleon shifted his gun to cover both the Egyptians as his partner and the girl ducked out behind him. Their footsteps crunched softly away across the sun-baked dirt.

Rameses made another attempt. "Believe me, sir, we are only harmless tourists," he said, stepping slightly forward.

"That's fine," said Solo. "As long as you're harmless, so am I."

The one called Abdul also took a half step forward, at a divergent angle from his compatriot. Napoleon took a step back and felt the tent flap. "That's enough," he said sharply. "Sit down." This was the difficult point. He should probably have shot one in the leg—but they still just might be innocent tourists....

The two Egyptians exchanged a glance, and Rameses made a sudden feinting move. Napoleon's gun hand swung automatically in his direction, and at that instant Abdul charged.

Solo sidestepped quickly, but a flailing arm caught him in the stomach and he doubled over. Rameses was on top of him at once, fumbling for his throat. He kept his chin tucked to his chest, and dropped to his knees, pulling the attacker over his head. Abdul had recovered from his bull-like charge and now leaped, just as Napoleon brought his U.N.C.L.E. Special up level and fired three times into the man's midsection. He made a few noises after he hit the ground, but kicked and then lay still after a few seconds. Rameses lay on his back where he had been thrown, and did not attempt to rise.

Then the tent flap was thrown aside and Illya's intense face thrust inside over the muzzle of his automatic. "What happened?"

"That stopped being harmless tourists," said Napoleon, his breath gradually returning. "One of them is now completely harmless, unless he harbored some loathsome disease."

Suzie appeared next to Illya. She looked down in horror. "Oh, Napoleon!" she said. "Did you have to kill him?"

"Probably not. But the only way to have found out would have involved him killing me if I was wrong. And I consider myself more valuable than he was." He stood up and dusted his coat. "What did you find in the other tent?"

"A German sailor named Kurt Schneider, according to our identification expert here. He seems to be drugged. He's unconscious, at any rate, with no signs of injury."

Napoleon looked down at the surviving Egyptian, and nodded. "You have a lot of explaining to do," he said, and placed the still-warm muzzle of his automatic lightly against the back of the man's head. "We have all afternoon, and a boundless interest in hearing your life story in full detail. Now go ahead. Sing for us, Rameses—sing as if your life depended on it."

Chapter 8: "A Message From Space."

Twenty-five hours later it was almost midnight in Manhattan. A special jet had brought a party of five directly from Sydney, pausing to refuel in Hawaii and Los Angeles. They had slept during the trip, and now were alert and functioning again.

Napoleon and Illya shared their places around the conference table with Suzie, on whom the strain of the recent pace of events was beginning to tell. Alexander Waverly faced them across the round table, and had many things to say.

"Five days ago," he began, touching a button and illuminating a screen on the wall behind him, "a large satellite was observed by the Astronomical Tracking Station at Johannesburg. It appears to be the largest artificial object in orbit; I have been told by people whose business it is to know such things that it probably holds over one hundred men, and could easily carry a large number of nuclear or thermonuclear missiles."

A blurred, grainy photograph appeared on the screen—it showed a wheel-like shape with two opposed spokes and a tall hub against a background of stars. Waverly continued:

"It is approximately two hundred and fifty feet across. The tubular body of the satellite is therefore thirty or forty feet in diameter." He paused.

Napoleon looked puzzled. "I would have thought we would have heard about something that big. I take it that it isn't ours?"

"Not only that, Mr. Solo. Apparently it isn't anyone's. Neither the Russians nor the British nor the French have claimed it. The best guess so far is that it may be a Chinese effort, using Russian equipment, but they have made no statement to that effect so far, and this remains at best a doubtful hypothesis."

"It should have taken some time to build something that large," said Illya thoughtfully. "It would have to have been constructed in orbit—it simply is not structurally capable of standing the stresses of a rocket launching."

Napoleon cleared his throat tentatively. "Ah—has anyone thought that it might not have been launched from the Earth?"

Illya started to say, "Oh, really, Napoleon!" but he was cut off.

"Extraterrestrial origin?" Waverly nodded. "The idea has already been offered. It was under serious consideration, in fact, until the nature of the transmission from the Wheel changed, a day and a half ago."

"Changed? How?"

"Before it had merely been sending coded telemetric signals. Now..." Their superior touched another button, and a concealed speaker came to life. They heard the familiar twittering of telemetry, and then a voice began—definitely a human voice. It was male, baritone, and young.

"Saluton, Tera Komandejo," it said. "Jen Spaci-Stacio Unu, sendante sian unuan raporton reen al la Tero. La sipanaro alvenis sur la transport-sipoj sendifekte, kaj ciuj aparatoj ci tie funkcias bonege."