Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­02] - The Howling Teenagers Affair "

Автор книги: Dennis Lynds

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The Howling Teenagers Affair

By Dennis Lynds

February 1966

Volume 1, Issue 1

Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo had one last day to find and destroy THRUSH's new deadliest weapon—an army of mindless monsters who killed with a smile—and died laughing!

ACT I: THE MADNESS METHOD

ACT II: THRUSH and COUNTER-THRUSH

ACT III: TRIO OF BEDLAM

ACT IV: A POWER OF TEN

ACT I: THE MADNESS METHOD

Violent death hung in the morning air. It rose with the mist over the great river that flowed past the shining white new city. The rumble in the distance grew louder, a sound like an express train moving closer. The police and thin line of British-uniformed, American-armed troops were in their places around the perimeter of the airfield, at the edge of the city in the morning sun.

The twin-engined aircraft circled the field once and prepared for the landing. The distant rumble grew closer. The gently descending aircraft touched down. The morning mist began to burn off.

The police and soldiers lounged easily in their thin line, joked, pointed toward the approaching rumble that shook the ground, and laughed. They were not worried. This was Africa. The new Africa, but still Africa. The Zulus of Tchaka had roamed across this land, beating their assegais against their shields to frighten the enemy before they ever appeared to do battle with them.

The approaching mob was doing the same thing, and the police and soldiers were not frightened. They had been through this before. Only as a formality they held their weapons ready as the first of the mob advanced along the road from the city.

The twin-engined aircraft rolled to a stop and the door opened. A massive, broad-shouldered man stepped out and stood at the head of the movable stairs. His white teeth flashed in the morning sun. He was taller than the nervous men around him, like some great Zulu chief himself.

At the edge of the field the first wave of the mob made contact with the police and troops. The police and troops held them back, smiling but striking out with clubs and gun butts where necessary. The troops and police smiled, because they had suddenly seen that the entire mob was made up of the young, the teenagers of this emerging new nation.

The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped down the movable stairway and reached the field itself. He started across, his bodyguards trotting to keep up with him.

"Vive le Presidente!" voices shouted.

Suddenly, the mob seemed twice its size. The police stopped smiling. The soldiers battled. Howling, the mob of teenagers smashed through the thin line of guards. Sirens wailed in the distance as reinforcements approached for the outmanned police.

The mob did not wait. Roaring like wild animals, screaming, hysterical, they poured over the line of guards.

Engulfed by the wave of suddenly distorted faces, the sea of wild eyes, the police and troops had no chance.

The teenagers swept across the open air field like the ancient Zulu warriors.

His bodyguards, everything forgotten now but the safety of their chief, fired their machine-guns directly into the advancing mob. The first wave of the roaring mob went down. Blood spurted across the earth of the field. Screams of pain filled the air. Legs and arms kicked, writhed on the ground.

But the mob did not stop, did not pause, did not hesitate even one split second.

The bodyguards fired again, held down the triggers, the barrels of their sub-machine guns turning red.

The mob swept on.

Like the great ocean itself the mob of howling teenagers rolled across the field.

And then the mob passed on toward the distant edge of the open field and the dark jungle.

Behind them they left thirty of their own dead; they left a hundred wounded and writhing. They left the bodyguards trampled and groaning, the police and troops dazed and wounded. They left the twin-engined aircraft leaning crazily on one smashed wing.

And they left the tall president lying on his face, dead, with a long knife plunged into his back.

* * *

The Palladium in London rocked to the screams of the teenagers. On the lighted platform stage four young men sang, twisted, strummed guitars, banged the drums. The young people screamed with delight. They laughed, clapped, sighed. Their bright young faces were excited with the beat of the music, the words of the singers. One tall boy, his hair streaming out behind him, dove from the balcony. His bloody head lay smashed against a seat below.

* * *

In Sydney, Australia, the police answered a call. Citizens complained that there was a noisy party disturbing the peace. When the police arrived in the rich suburb all was silent. Cautiously the police approached the house. Inside, in the basement playroom, they found the dead bodies of twenty-two teenagers.

"Poison?" the detective said. "All of them?"

"Every one. And self-inflicted without a doubt. They all have the glasses near them."

"Mass suicide?" the detective said, unbelieving, staring.

* * *

The laboratory lay in burned smoldering ruins. Captain Parker of the Chicago police stood beside the director of the laboratory.

"They were picketing—nothing unusual," the director said.

"They know we are working on military research. Peace groups often picket us."

"Then they went wild?" the captain of Chicago police said.

"All at once, just before quitting time, the twenty of them became two hundred, perhaps three hundred. They broke into the building and set it on fire."

"All teenagers? Every one?"

"All," the director said. "And the plans for the nuclear fuse are gone."

* * *

On a side street in the Soho section of London, a mob of young people blocked the path of an armored car. The driver and two guards got out to clear them off. The driver and both guards died later of multiple injuries from their beating. Two million dollars in gold bullion vanished.

* * *

The beach near Santa Barbara, California, was deserted when the sixteen boys and girls, all under eighteen years of age, walked into the sea and out of sight. They were never seen again.

"Like lemmings," the highway patrol officer said. Bodies washed ashore all week.

* * *

In Red Square, Moscow, the police failed to hold back the horde of long-haired youths when the deputy chief of security of the Polish People's Republic came to visit the tomb of Lenin. The police were reprimanded. The square was cleared by troops. Six of the teenagers died, and twenty went to prison. But the deputy chief of Security of the Polish People's Republic was dead.

TWO

Napoleon Solo looked deep into her eyes. Violet eyes, like deep, liquid marbles, pools of beauty. She was curled like a kitten at the end of a long, soft couch. Solo's smile was easy, youthful as he looked into those violet eyes.

"How do you do it, Maxine?' Solo whispered into her ear. "Be almost six feet tall and curl up into a powder puff—such a pretty powder puff?"

"Mirrors," Maxine Trent whispered back. "I do it all with mirrors."

"Not all with mirrors, I hope." Solo said softly.

"All Napoleon Solo," she said. "I'm an illusion. I'm only a mirror myself. If you touch me, poof!"

Solo sighed. "The story of my life, poof!"

"Will you risk it? Touching me?" Maxine whispered.

"For you, I risk anything," Solo said.

"Go on! Go on!"

Solo leaned closer to her. The room—her room—was silent. The music that had been playing was gone now, the record player turning itself off automatically at just the right instant. Solo almost smiled; for his purposes he could not have done it better himself. A very cooperative record player.

Too cooperative?

The sixth sense, the warning, went off in his brain. The split-second sensitivity to danger, even to potential danger, that had kept him alive longer than any chief enforcement agent U.N.C.L.E. had ever had. Was it coincidence, the record player stopping at just the precise instant he was about to bend down and kiss her?

He leaned close to her, smiling, her perfume in his nostrils. His eyes looked into her eyes. Behind his boyish ardent smile, his mind went to work. He ran Maxine Trent through his mind like a card through a computer: Age 24; 5 foot 11 inches and all the right measurements to go with the height; a runner-up for Miss America one year; daughter of industrialist Clark Trent; known to like action-and danger. Introduced to Solo two weeks ago by John Knox, a young business executive Solo cultivated to hide his true occupation.

His true occupation was chief enforcement agent for United Network Command for Law and Enforcement—U.N.C.L.E. And U.N.C.L.E. was a supra-national organization sworn to keep the world safe and, if possible, sane. Any enemy of any peaceful and honest person in the world was the enemy of U.N.C.L.E. It was hard work, dangerous work. Now Solo wondered if the danger were close here, in the arms of Maxine Trent.

"Well, Napoleon," Maxine said. "I heard you were a man of action. Your certainly don't call this action—yet?"

Solo smiled. "You'd be surprised, my dear."

He was about to say more when the signal went off. A low sound, rising and falling, like a miniature version of the wailing horn of a Parisian police car. Solo reached quickly into the inside pocket of his coat and switched off the signal on the miniature radio set.

Maxine blinked up at him from the couch as he stood up.

"You're not leaving—now?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid I am," Solo said. "A previous appointment, my little alarm reminded me. Some other time we can pick it up, yes?"

She stared at him. He was a slender man of medium height. He was neither handsome nor ugly. A pleasant, friendly face that was usually smiling. His dark, brooding eyes were at the same time quick and bright. Intense eyes, but not hard and not jaded. Eyes that smiled an apology to Maxine now, yet were already seeing something else.

He turned quickly and walked to the door. The speed of the motion gave a slight indication of the strong, trained athlete's body concealed in his slender frame. What he lacked in size, he more than made up for in catlike speed, in skill and in training. He seemed no different from the thousands of young executives, budding doctors, youthful professional men, and wealthy, if idle, playboys. He could have been anything from a tennis bum to a first echelon government man.

Solo was none of those things. He was a man trained to kill with a single blow of his innocent-seeming hand.

Once in the corridor of Maxine Trent's apartment house, Solo turned quickly left and walked to the fire stairs. He went through the door and down and out into the midtown Manhattan street. It was late afternoon and the streets were crowded.

Solo walked a block, blended with the crowd. Only then did he take his small chrome metal and plastic sender-receiver set from out of his pocket.

He quickly raised the two threadlike antennae, pressed a button on the instrument that fitted in the palm of his hand, and spoke low into it.

"Solo here."

"Report to Mr. Waverly at once. Code Mayday," the crisp female voice of the radio communications girl said.

Solo clicked off his set, returned it to his pocket, and began to walk casually but quickly across town toward the East River and U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin ran his thin fingers through his thatch of unkempt blond hair. The small, thin Russian muttered to himself in Danish, which happened to be the language of the book he was intently puzzling over.

The private library was as quiet as a tomb. Kuryakin was one of the two persons in the small, book-lined room. The other was an old man whose clothes had seen better days, but whose thirst for knowledge was undiminished. From time to time, the ancient female librarian came into the room. She glared at Illya, who she obviously considered far too young to be a scholar.

Illya smiled disarmingly at the harridan. With his blond, round-bowl haircut he looked like a mischievous Russian leprechaun; or a blond knight-errant, an impish modern-day Prince Valiant with straw hair. His bright and quick eyes danced beneath his seriously lowered brow. His glance at the old woman was quizzical and amused—an amusement that did not show on his face as he steadily looked up at her.

"Can I help you, madam?" Illya said to the librarian.

"I– I—" the woman stammered in confusion, caught staring at Illya.

Illya spoke softly. "I understand. You are wondering what so young a man is doing in a library on such a fine day?"

"I—"

Illya smiled. "You are wondering why I am studying so obscure a book about poisons? Your wonder am I a spy, since I obviously read a foreign language. Ah, that is suspect, eh? A young man who reads a foreign language must be a spy at least, nyet? Ah the young people today, such irresponsible animals, nicht wahr?"

"I—" the librarian blustered, and then turned scarlet as this wisp of a boy suddenly reached out and pinched her.

"Why, you—"

Illya laughed.

"Well!" the librarian snapped, turned and stalked off.

Illya smiled once more, and returned to his work. This library was one of his favorite places to spend an afternoon in New York. A private library devoted to strange, half-known poisons, mysteries of ancient witchcrafts and other superstitions, all the half-insane fears of the human mind. That was Illya's single purpose in his life—to try to dispel the insanity of man, to try to save the idiot world from itself.

For that purpose he had studied, learned fifteen languages, left the service of the country of his birth to work for what he truly considered the only sane group of people on earth—U.N.C.L.E.—United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

For that purpose, he still studied, trained his small but lithe body, devoted himself to the work. He had no interest in either command or position, only in doing the job better than anyone. He had no time for such rewards and frills of the world as money, honors, fine living, or creature comfort.

The signal on his transmitter-receiver went off. Instantly, Illya became the quick, serious agent of U.N.C.L.E. The old librarian was looking around in fury for the source of the strange wailing sound. Illya shut off the signal, raised the small plastic and metal box to his lips.

"Kuryakin here."

"Mr. Waverly wants you at once. Code Mayday." the voice of the communications girl said.

Illya replaced the tiny radio set in his pocket, returned his book to the desk, smiled winningly at the ancient librarian.

"Take very good care of the books, liebchen," he hissed at the old woman.

He could almost hear her red-faced anger behind him as he walked out and down to the late afternoon New York street. Smiling to himself at his own joke, he did not see the old man in the decrepit clothes move with far greater speed than he should have been capable of at his age. He did not see the old man follow him.

But he heard the footsteps behind him on the stairs.

He reached the street and for an instant was out or sight of the footsteps behind him. He reached into his jacket pocket for the tiny radio, raised the threadlike antennae, pressed the sending button.

"Sonny, this is Bubba. I have a bandit in tow. Plan 9."

Illya pressed his receive button. Instantly, the tiny transmitter-receiver whispered low to him.

"Bubba, from Sonny. Possible bandit here, too. Plan 9."

The voice of Napoleon Solo faded. Illya walked on down the sunny street. In a store window he saw the figure of the old man behind him.

THREE

There is a brownstone house on East 44th Street in Manhattan. It seems an innocent dwelling, with a small printing shop on the ground floor. A narrow alley runs beside it. The alley is a dead-end, or seems so, ending one hundred feet back from the street in a high brick wall topped with broken glass.

Approximately fifteen minutes after their whispered words over the miniature radio sets, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin approached the East 44th Street brownstone from opposite directions. They seemed intent on their own business, paid no attention to each other, and walked without looking back.

They seemed to meet as strangers at the mouth of the alley beside this innocent brownstone with its print shop. They both turned into the alley, nodding politely to each other, and began to walk toward the blank high wall at the rear.

At this precise instant, the printing presses in the ground floor print shop began to operate. They were old presses, the windows of the pressroom were open, and the noise in the alley was deafening. Solo and Kuryakin walked on down the alley toward the blank wall as if oblivious to the shattering noise of the presses.

Behind them the old man from the private library jumped into the alley, a grim smile on his face as he heard the noise of the presses. The old man moved down the alley with a speed that proved he was far from old beneath his disguise. A heavy, wide-mouthed gun in his hand proved that he was not a scholar. He raised the gun, still grinning at the convenient noise of the presses that would hide any sound.

He never fired his strange gun.

The seemingly blank wall of the brownstone building opened abruptly. Two men stepped out. The pistols in their hands spat twice each, the noise totally covered by the sound of the printing presses.

The fake old man fell like a stone, his body stiff and rigid.

The two men who had shot him ran to him, picked him up and hustled him through the secret openings into the brownstone building. The wall closed.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin walked on toward the rear wall.

The alley was silent except for the noise of the printing presses. There was not even a drop of blood on the stones to show that anything had happened. The ersatz old man who had followed Illya Kuryakin was not dead, merely paralyzed and sleeping from the effect of the darts fired from the special pistols of the two U.N.C.L.E. men of Section-V—Security and Personnel.

Solo and Illya continued to walk as if they had seen nothing until they reached the rear wall.

And vanished.

* * *

The beautiful woman lurked in the doorway of a building on East 45th Street. She watched as the young man came down the steps of another brownstone two doors up the street closer to the East River. She frowned. She had expected Napoleon Solo to be carrying something when he emerged.

Aware that the wail of his miniature radio had been a summons to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, she had trailed him to the 44th Street brownstone. She had not gone up the alley; it was too convenient. Instead, she, Maxine Trent, had come around the block and been rewarded for her quick guessing by the appearance of Solo from another brownstone. But the U.N.C.L.E. agent was empty-handed.

Maxine stared at the figure of Solo. The handsome young man was walking east toward the river. She sighed to herself; Napoleon Solo was such a good-looking man; it was too bad that she would have to stop him now, and search him. He could easily be carrying what she wanted hidden somewhere on that slender but so nicely masculine body.

She left her refuge and followed down the street in the shadows of the buildings on the shaded side. She was proud of herself. U.N.C.L.E. was so proud of its security! Solo was sure no one could have followed to the building on 44th Street and from the building on 45th Street.

The handsome fool was walking openly, carelessly.

Maxine had to hurry and move closer as people began to pour out of an office at the end of the block. She passed another set of brownstone steps, still smiling but hurrying. She never saw the small blond man step out.

Illya caught her neck, pressed and caught her inert body in his arms as she collapsed. She made no sound, lay totally unconscious in his arms.

A policeman pushed through the crowd.

"I'm sorry, officer. My wife has these spells," Illya said.

"She just passed out," someone said.

"You need a doctor?" the policeman said helpfully.

"That's an excellent idea," Illya said. "If you wouldn't mind holding her, I'll find one at once."

Illya handed the inert form of Maxine Trent to the arms of the policeman, smiled and walked away into the crowd. All the people looked at the nice young man with sympathy. Illya smiled sadly back at them as he turned the corner and vanished.

It was nearly twenty minutes before the policeman began to wonder about the nice young man.

* * *

There are four known entrances to the hidden complex of U.N.C.L.E headquarters in New York. A maze of steel and bomb proof concrete hides behind its innocent fa‡ade, which includes a tailor shop, the false offices of an international aid organization also called U.N.C.L.E., and a key-club type restaurant called The Mask Club. The stronghold has no stairs, only elevators, and has been penetrated only once. From that simple penetration, no one in the attacking force survived.

To those who know, the headquarters can also be entered by water from the river through secret tunnels. But the main entrance, used by all but the few who can never be seen going in, is Del Floria's tailor shop.

Del Floria himself is a tall, balding man in his fifties. He is a good tailor, but he is also one of the best and quickest shots with any of the many weapons he has hidden close.

Del Floria is the keeper of the gate. He has been this, a key man in Section-V of U.N.C.L.E., for a long time. To enter the headquarters an enemy must pass him. This has never been done. The one penetration was made through the river entrances. Del Floria knows every U.N.C.L.E. member by sight, the only man below Section-I who does. He knows their faces, and no more. To know more would be his death warrant. Now he smiled as he greeted two old customers.

"If you would step into the fitting rooms, gentlemen," Del Floria said, "we can start fitting you."

Solo and Kuryakin stepped through the curtain into the fitting room. Once inside, they waited a moment; then, on a signal from Del Floria that all was clear, they stepped into one of the many dressing rooms. They closed the curtain. The wall opened. They stepped through. The wall closed behind them.

They stood in the reception room of U.N.C.L.E.

The room was windowless, without doors of any kind. A pretty girl sat behind the reception desk. The controls on the desktop were unlabeled, unidentified. Only she knew which button did what, and the buttons were interchanged at irregular intervals. She looked like a receptionist in any office in the city. Her U.N.C.L.E. special was out of sight in its holster behind her back. She handed Solo and Illya their triangular identity badges.

Badges in place, they stepped toward a wall that opened miraculously. Without the badges there would now be a hundred alarms clanging, doors closing and sealing, armed men facing them from every angle. With the badges they walked straight ahead through doors that opened untouched, past doors that never would open without the proper signal. They walked on floors of steel, between walls of steel, and there were no windows anywhere.

They rode up two floors in a silent elevator. They emerged into another steel corridor. Again doors opened and they reached the end door of the corridor. This door was unmarked, exactly as all the other doors. A plain steel door with no way to tell that it was in any way different. But it was. This was the heart of U.N.C.L.E. operations in New York. The office of the chief, the office of one of only five men who formed Section-I—Policy and Operations.

The door opened. Solo and Illya stepped inside. Alexander Waverly stood at an open window, absently tapping his empty pipe in his hand. Solo and Illya stood behind him. The chief, the member of Section-I, seemed to be trying to think of something he wanted to say.

"He—uh, seemed to know nothing," Waverly said, without turning around. "The one who was following Mr. Kuryakin. They brought him around in Section-V but he could tell us nothing."

"THRUSH?" Napoleon Solo said.

"Yes, of course, Mr.—uh—Solo. Of course," Waverly said.

The head of U.N.C.L.E. in New York turned now. Alexander Waverly looked, Illya Kuryakin had once said, like an aristocratic bloodhound. Beneath a broad forehead and thinning but neat gray hair, bushy eyebrows stood out from a heavy brow. The eyes were sunken in deep sockets, heavily wrinkled at the corners, as if the man had spent many years squinting into the sun and wind of the world. Below the eyes, Waverly's face drooped into a permanently serious expression. A face that never smiled, never frowned, never showed any expression but thought.

"And mine?" Solo said. "Maxine Trent?"

"She talked her way out of the hands of the law. She then eluded the Section-V man who followed her," Waverly said. "An entirely different cup of tea, the Trent woman."

Waverly seemed to be thinking of something a long time ago. It would have been hard for Solo or Illya to guess what it was. The background of Alexander Waverly was shrouded in an obscure mist. Beyond a rumor of fifty years service in British and American Intelligence, the manner of a man who had been born an aristocrat, the speech of an Englishman who had lived in many lands other than England, there was nothing known.

Just a man over sixty who wore tweeds and liked pipes, who could barely recall the names of his own agents, and who seemed always in a vaguely bumbling haze. A minor official who should have retired years ago. A man who, when it counted, had a memory like an elephant, a brain as quick as a scorpion and equally dangerous, a composure that never ruffled, and the ability to command men. A man who was very alone.

"Well," Waverly said. "I expect I sent for you gentlemen."

"Something THRUSH apparently knows about already," Illya said.

"We weren't followed for nothing."

"Yes," Waverly said. "I dare say they know what I have to tell you. Not surprising. THRUSH Council members are well placed, as you know."

"How would they know it would be Illya and myself you would use this time?" Solo said.

"I believe they would assume we would use our best men on something of this importance," Waverly said. And Waverly nodded to himself, as if seeing the THRUSH council, his opponents in the perpetual chess game he played for the future of the world. "Yes, they would have learned we have been called in. They would properly try to stop us befor we started."

"They appear to know more than we do," Illya said dryly.

"Eh? Oh, yes, I imagine they do. We shall have to correct that now. You see, it appears that THRUSH has found a way to use, and perhaps destroy, the young people of the world."

FOUR

They were seated around the circular briefing table with the moving top. Waverly had pressed the button on his desk; a panel had slid back on the wall, revealing the screen. Now Illya, Solo and Waverly were watching the gray screen. Somewhere far off inside the complex of steel rooms the head of Communications and Research in Section-III, the pretty and redheaded May Heatherly, operated the screen and the running commentary.

"This is the airfield at Kandaville, photographed a few minutes after the mob had gone. You will note the knife in the back of the president," the crisp, yet very female voice of May Heatherly said.

Solo noted the knife in the back of the dead president of the new country. But a corner of his mind thought of the very alive, very pretty, May Heatherly. He sighed aloud. And smiled when he noted Waverly looking at him. His chief missed little-worse, understood him. Waverly knew precisely what Solo's sigh meant, and disapproved, and yet—

Sometimes Napoleon Solo was sure that Alexander Waverly still appreciated the young ladies.

"This is the body of the boy in London, taken just after the Palladium was cleared," the voice of May Heatherly went on.

Illya looked at the crushed head of the boy. His mind observed every detail. He frowned. There was nothing at all unusual, nothing he could see to go on. Just a dead boy of seventeen.

"This is the basement room in Sydney taken by the police when they arrived. There was no doubt of the verdict, mass suicide," May Heatherly's voice continued.

Solo and Illya looked at the twenty-two sprawled bodies, all smiling in death.

"Note the smiles," Waverly said. "Quite unusual."

In rapid succession the screen showed the burning laboratory in Chicago, the armored car and its dead guards in Soho, the beach near Santa Barbara, the dead deputy chief of security in Red Square. And there was more, much more. Waverly laid a report, tow copies on the table and swung the top until the copies were before Illya and Solo.

"The report is quite complete," Waverly said. "At least forty-seven other comparable incidents within the last three months."

Solo flipped through the report, scanning the acts and places.

"Teenagers are always rioting," Solo said.

"Quite true," Waverly said. "But there are some peculiarities. Miss—uh—Heatherly, will you run them again?"

The pictures flashed on the screen again one by one. Solo and Illya studied them intently in the silence of the office. They were horrible, sad. They were angering, wasteful.

"Note all the expressions of the teenagers, gentlemen, those who are in the pictures. You will notice the smiles, even on the dead. And observe the eyes-positively exhilarated, I should say."

"Manic," Illya said. "Almost insane."

"No, I think not insane. Look carefully. They are happy,"

Waverly pointed out. "It has been my experience that teenagers who have committed some act of violence or vandalism are characteristically frightened or at least subdued afterwards. Their natural insecurity returns after the impetus if gone. But these young people are still happy."

"Drugged?" Solo said.

"Not in the usual sense, I should say," Waverly said. "But I suspect some form of artificial stimulant—a most peculiar kind."

Illya leaned forward. "In what way, sir?"

Waverly did not answer at once. The older man patted at his tweed pockets as if searching for something. At last he pulled out a pipe. Then he began to look for his tobacco. He continued his search as he talked.

"Well, it leaves no trace of how it was administered. It also leaves no trace in the body. They ran autopsies on all the dead children. Finally, it seems to have unpredictable effects."