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

Автор книги: Dennis Lynds

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He moved ahead, taking advantage of every gully, every hollow. It was slow work, and the last rays of sun beat down on his bare head. Already the air was growing chill. He stumbled ahead, his head broiling in the sun, his body beginning to feel the chill of the approaching night.

The sun was like a copper disk sitting on the horizon of the yellow land when Illya topped a low rise and saw it ahead. He dropped to his face at once. Slowly, then, he raised his head to look again. He rolled behind a small boulder and looked.

It was a shaft-head, like all the others he had passed, but not quite like them. His trained eye detected the radio antenna, the radar disk, the solidity of the seemingly broken down building.

And the black car was parked in front.

As he watched, the man in the policeman's uniform appeared from out of the shaft-head and walked to the car. The car moved off and vanished behind the building. Illya waited for it to appear on the other side. It did not. He backed off down below the crest of the small rise, circled, and looked again.

There was nothing behind the shaft-head. The car had vanished.

Illya bent to his direction finder. It was still operating, the faint bee-beep-bee-beep showing that the car was close by, even though he could not see it. He crawled back down into the hollow behind the small rise to wait for the night.

Night came in this barren land as it came to all deserts, suddenly and completely. One moment there was light and the last heat of the day; the next instant there was only darkness and the rising cold chill of the night.

Illya checked his weapons; the Special, his small bombs, the camera, his tiny radio, the thermite foil in his shoe, the special belt, and all the other miniature devices that made all U.N.C.L.E. agents walking arsenals.

Then he stood up and moved off in the night.

He reached the shaft-head without incident. There was no guard above ground. He found the disguised elevator. It looked exactly like an abandoned shaft elevator, but Illya touched its walls and found them solid steel.

It was locked. In the night he considered. He could break into the elevator, but there were probably alarms. Anyway, the operation of the elevator would certainly be noticed.

He went back out of the shaft-head and began to search the area in a wide circle, his infra-red flashlight revealing the ground but not revealing his presence. At last he found what he wanted-a cleverly disguised inspection ladder which ran down the inside wall of the elevator shaft. With a deep breath, moving slowly, he started to climb down.

He lowered himself a long distance. At last he felt the in-rush of cool air. It was probably an air-conditioning intake, which meant that he had to leave the shaft before he reached the air conditioning unit, which evidently fed into the passage. At the first cross duct, he turned and crawled until he found a frill. He burned the grill off, and dropped down.

He stood in a darkened corridor of steel. Far off he heard the sound of machinery. He bent to his direction finder. The signal was strong from the left. He moved cautiously to his left. He heard and saw no one. Whoever operated this hidden center was highly confident.

Illya smiled. They would find that even here in the center of nowhere, they were not safe.

The signal grew stronger.

He rounded a corner carefully and saw an opening ahead. There was a faint light inside. The car must be inside the opening. Illya moved carefully. He reached the opening and looked in.

He saw a bare room with a single tiny spotlight.

In the center of the bare steel floor, in a small circle of bright light, was a tiny object. Illya stared at it and froze.

The object was his tiny directional signal device!

It lay there, the only object in the bare room.

A hand clamped on his neck. A giant hand. He twisted. A second hand gripped his waist as if he were no bigger than a toothpick. Other hands worked swiftly, stripping him. He was held there naked while something was passed over his body-a metal detector. Helpless and naked, he waited.

Then he was flung forward. He lay on the floor beside his directional signal. His clothes were flung after him, shirt, trousers, and belt, all searched.

The small spotlight went out.

"Welcome, Mr. Kuryakin," a horrible inhuman voice hissed. "Rest now. You can join your friends later."

And the hissing laugh chilled the darkness.

ACT IV: A POWER OF TEN

The loud machinery pounded somewhere all night. It seemed to pound in Illya Kuryakin's brain. He dreamed of witches and giant hands. He floated helpless in a cauldron of blinding sun and empty dark.

When he opened his eyes he saw that he was not alone. Nor was he lying down in the room where he had been caught.

"Hello, Illya," Solo said. "Welcome to the club."

They were all standing against the walls, one in the center of each wall. They were shackled to the walls, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles shackled. Illya faced Napoleon Solo across the room. Mahyana stood pale against the wall to Illya's left. Joe Hooker was shackled to the wall to Illya's right.

"We seem to be caught," Illya said, still half stupefied.

Joe Hooker looked sad. "Man, I thought you could run faster. When I stopped for the chick, they put me away."

A voice seemed to come from the ceiling. The hissing voice of Marcus Fitzhugh.

"Mr. Hooker, I truly regret your part in this. I realize now that you were merely a helpful American. But, alas, it is too late. You must, I fear, share the fate of your Uncles."

Illya looked up at the ceiling. "Please, spare us the bad jokes. We have troubles enough."

"Of course, Mr. Kuryakin," Marcus Fitzhugh said.

The small, disfigured man had suddenly appeared inside the steel room. They all blinked. A door in the wall had opened and closed so quickly they had not seen it. Marcus Fitzhugh was not smiling. His hissing voice came seriously.

"I apologize. No jokes, no sadistic toying with helpless victims. And I will not reveal all you need to know about PowerTen. Those movie villains are so ridiculous, aren't they? Who knows-you might still escape, and then wouldn't I seem foolish?"

"You understand the program ahead, I'm sure. You all have knowledge we can use—Mr. Hooker excepted, of course. We will torture you, until you tell us or die. That is it. Naturally, we will try to keep you alive as long as possible, but we are only human."

"You will die whether you tell us or not. It is really only a matter of pain. We have drugs; we shall try to break down your conditioning. Miss Mayhana may not be conditioned, my agent Herrara tells me. And I will not insult either her or your gentlemen by suggesting you talk to spare her pain. I think we are all aware that the stakes are far too high for chivalry. Miss Mahyana, I'm sure, knew what she was getting into when she joined you."

"So, that is the schedule. It begins at once. First, experts want to study your pain thresholds, so we can make an intelligent working schedule. For that, you will all go together this time, Mr. Hooker excepted. You will only be killed, Mr. Hooker."

Joe Hooker said, "How do I thank you, let me count the ways. Is the creepy one for real?"

"I'm afraid he is very much for real, Joe," Illya said.

Marcus Fitzhugh did not answer either of them. The small, disfigured man with the metal and plastic voice had vanished through the same swift and silent secret door. There was a silence in the steel room.

Suddenly, as if pushed, flung down, all four prisoners fell forward to the steel floor. The chains had been removed by some remote control. There was a sharp rattling sound as the shackles scraped the walls, steel against steel.

From where they lay, their muscles cramped from the long chaining, the four prisoners watched as the shackles and chains vanished into the walls.

Illya stood up. He had been chained the shortest time and he was not numbed like the others. He crossed to where the shackles had been. There was nothing but smooth walls. His slender fingers could feel no trace of a break. He crossed the room to where he thought the door was. The wall was smooth, unbroken, not a hairline crack.

"Excellent engineering," Illya said.

"Excellent methods," Solo said. "Not even a guard to unshackle us and give us a chance to jump him. All done with mirrors."

"Electronics and complicated engineering," Illya said. "And what is complicated is easiest to sabotage. It is typical of THRUSH to equate complexity with efficiency and progress. Of course, they have us under surveillance and voice monitoring. Is that not so, Mr. Fitzhugh?"

It was the deep voice that answered. "Quite true, Kuryakin. And I don't think you will sabotage us. Mr. Fitzhugh is preparing for you now. I'm sure Gotz will enjoy another meeting with Solo."

Silently the hidden door slid open. They waited, the four prisoners, but nothing happened. Then the voice of Herrara came again.

"Step out, except Hooker."

They looked at each other.

"Come on," Herrara's voice said impatiently. "We can prod you, but why make it hard? You might as well walk where we tell you."

Illya shrugged. "Why not? Come."

The three agents stepped through the door, which instantly closed behind them, shutting off Joe Hooker. But the door did not close fast enough to stop the bearded boy's gallant parting message.

"Stay loose, Dads," Joe Hooker said.

Then they were alone in a long silent corridor. They walked ahead. As they neared the end of this corridor another door slid open. They passed through, and the door closed behind them. Smoothly and simply they were forced along corridors by doors that opened and closed. The steel corridors were smooth and doorless. They were under constant scrutiny. At last they entered a series of corridors that were different.

"Keep walking," Herrara's voice said.

They had seen no human being, nothing they could attack even with bare hands. Herded by opening and closing doors, watched on closed-circuit television, they marched now in corridors that reminded them of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. There were doors, windowless and smooth, but marked with small metal plaques. Casually, Illya looked at the plaques on the doors.

At last, after what seemed like a walk of a mile in the maze of corridors, a door opened and they saw the figure of the giant Gotz standing before them.

TWO

There were three men in the torture room. The giant, Gotz, and two smaller men in white coats. All around the walls were the instruments of torture—some old, like a simple hot iron glowing white in its brazier, some new, like a simple square box with electrodes for the temples.

Gotz was grinning, his eyes fixed on Napoleon Solo. One of the men in white stared at Illya, and the third man seemed to wet his puffy lips as he watched Mahyana enter the room. The voice of Marcus Fitzhugh came over the loudspeaker.

"Now we will learn about your pain levels," Fitzhugh said. "The three men who will, ah, accommodate you, have been very carefully chosen. Gotz, of course, will enjoy his work on Solo. The man staring at Kuryakin is a former Soviet scientist Mr. Kuryakin was involved in exiling in his early days. The third man takes particular pleasure in handling women, especially pretty ones. Proceed, gentlemen."

Gotz stepped forward, his huge hands reaching for Napoleon Solo.

"Now," Solo snapped.

With a leap, turn and karate cry, Solo delivered a perfect karate kick to Gotz's stomach. The giant doubled over, but did not fall. Solo smashed an elbow thrust into the giant's face. Gotz staggered. Breathing heavily now, Solo kicked the giant where it would hurt the most. Gotz screamed, doubled over.

Solo smashed the giant down with a two-handed blow to the back of the neck. The giant rested on hands and knees, trying to rise. Solo kicked him on the point of the chin. The bull neck gave way with a loud, sickening snap, and Gotz collapsed.

While Solo had been struggling with the giant, Illya had disposed of his man with a single thrust to the throat. Mahyana had handled her man with a judo throw, hurling the startled sadist against a wall.

The attack had taken seconds, but already Marcus Fitzhugh was shouting. "Guards! Go in! You stupid fools! How can you escape? Guards!"

The door opened.

As if this were a signal they had been waiting for, Illya and Solo leaped to either side of the door. Their actions were quick, smooth, and automatic, with no need to have planned it with talk.

The guards ran in. Two guards armed with machine-pistols. Solo chopped one. Illya tripped the other, kicked him in the face as he tried to rise. Mahyana had the two guns. They were through the door just before it closed.

"The left corridor," Illya cried out.

Mahyana handed one machine-pistol to Solo.

Marcus Fitzhugh was shouting. "They are out! Blue alert!"

Alarms clanged.

"Where are we going?" Mahyana gasped.

"There is always an Achilles' heel," Illya said. "I know where it is."

Four guards appeared. Solo and Mahyana shot them down. The girl took a bullet that creased her shoulder, drawing quick blood. Illya had reached a door they had passed earlier.

The Russian tore at his belt-the belt they had left him when they took all they thought was a weapon. He tore off a piece of the belt, pulled a thread on the edge and shouted.

"Back, flat down!"

They fell to the floor. A shattering explosion shook the steel corridor. The door in front of them blew open with the force of the powerful explosive. The special belt was an explosive in itself, fused by the threads at the edge. The three agents were up and through the door.

Mahyana stared at the small, closet-like room that seemed totally empty. "There's nothing in here! What-?" she cried.

Illya smiled. The Russian pointed to a large box against the wall. Metal conduit went in and out of the box. Thick sheaves of conduit like bundles of spaghetti.

"The main circuit box, fuses and all. The place is all electric, and this is the Achilles' heel."

Illya Kuryakin took the rest of his belt, wrapped it over the metal box, and pulled the thread. He pushed Solo and Mahyana out into the corridor again.

Marcus Fitzhugh's voice hissed savagely. "There they are, Corridor 72, all."

The explosion seemed to burst their eardrums, shattering the steel walls, shaking the floor beneath them.

Then all was suddenly quiet.

Illya and Solo raised their heads.

The alarms had stopped. The voice on the loudspeaker had been cut off. The noise of air-conditioning machinery ceased. The underground complex was as silent as a tomb.

"And blind," Illya said. "All their power is off. Now they are deaf and blind, no better than we."

"Look!" Solo said.

All down the corridors doors stood open. Illya laughed.

"I expected that. The doors are spring loaded and open when the power is off."

"All the doors are open?" Mahyana said.

"I'm sure of it. Now, all we have to do is evade the guards. First we leave this corridor. Our position is reported. I don't imagine they have many guards, they would rely on their electronic devices in this wilderness."

They moved quickly and silently until they had put three other corridors between them and the point of the explosion. They had seen no one, but they could hear voices somewhere. Illya faced Mahyana.

"I think the main elevator shaft is straight ahead. It will be out of order, but there will be a cable to climb. They will expect us to break out. That is your job, Mehyana. Go up the cable, try to reach the surface."

"And you?" Mahyana said.

"We came here for a reason," Solo said. "We can't leave without trying to find out what PowerTen is."

"But." the girl said.

"No but, my dear," Illya said. "We have to try."

The brown-skinned girl nodded and turned without another word. She slung the machine-pistol over her shoulder, and entered the open door of the elevator shaft. Then she was gone.

"This way, I think, Napoleon," Illya said. "The sound of machinery has to be the manufacturing area and it is this way."

The two agents moved silently along the corridors. Twice they encountered pairs of armed guards. They killed them quickly and simply with bursts from the machine-pistols. They had five machine-pistols now.

At last they came to their goal. A great cavern was hollowed out beneath high steel walkways. Complex chemical equipment stood silent, motionless below. Men down there moved frantically trying to make repairs.

Illya located the office and laboratory. They shot down the three guards there. Solo laid all the machine-pistols on the floor beside the open door.

"Go ahead," Solo said. "I'll hold them off when they come. Mahyana will lead them off for a time, but they'll be back."

Solo lay on the floor, the machine-pistols ready. Illya began to search the office laboratory.

All was silent in the vast underground complex called The Belly.

Until the voice hissed, "I admire you, gentlemen. Perhaps you cold have escaped."

Marcus Fitzhugh stood in the room, a Luger in his hand. He stood there behind Solo, facing Illya. Behind him Herrara held Mahyana. There were two other guards behind them. They all stood before an opening in the office wall that had not been there.

"You see, Mr. Kuryakin, not all our little secrets were operated on the main power lines. I was aware of our weak spot. I prepared a small circuit of secret corridors on standby power. It seems I was wise. You will now please stand closer together, and do not attempt to reach those weapons."

Fitzhugh smiled again, his horrible burned face twisting with a certain admiration. His hissing voice spoke quietly.

"You will be killed at once, of course. But such devotion to duty deserves the reward of knowledge. You want to know about PowerTen? Very well, I will tell you.

THREE

Solo and Illya stood there and looked at each other as they heard the nature of PowerTen.

"So you see, it is really a very interesting substance. Once ingested it will raise any neurotic impulse to a power of ten-ten time the urge, the obsession, the drive of a normal neurosis. Think of it! I can see that Mr. Kuryakin understands the chemical data I have outlined, but for Mr. Solo and Miss Mahyana let me simplify. Like all alkaloids, say, marijuana or peyote, it induces a state of heightened hysteria. However, unlike anything else known, it has the effect of hypnosis—it can be directed. Under its influence, a man can be made to do what he is instructed, mindlessly and without fear or hesitation, provided the tendency was already there. For example, if some young man, obviously neurotic and disturbed by the power structure of our foolish world, is given PowerTen he will kill a political leader he only wanted to defy before he took the drug. You see the implications? All we have to do is locate young people with the neurotic desire to defy, steal, attack, rebel, destroy, give them PowerTen—and tell them to do what they desire. They will do it!"

Illya nodded slowly. "Happily, without remorse or hesitation. They will feel exhilarated."

"Precisely!" Marcus Fitzhugh said eagerly. "And certain subjects can even be directed to do specific acts, as you well know from our recent results with the African president, the gold theft, the laboratory fire, and the deputy chief."

"Certain subjects?" Solo said.

Fitzhugh frowned, his grotesque face distorted. "At present the drug is still under development. You see, at the moment it will only work on the young, the teenagers. That is because older people have more resistance. They are under longer social conditioning. They subconsciously resist the effects of the drug. But the young! Ah, they are so eager, so vulnerable, they have not had the time to become emotionally cautious."

"The tendency must be there?" Illya said. "Then that."

"Explains the suicides, the mad swimming out to sea, of course," Fitzhugh said. "The drug is still in its early stages. WE hav eto experiment. When we gave it to those young people it heightened their self destructive desire and they acted."

"And the black-jackets, the mob in New York?" Solo said. "This must be your great."

"They are our triumph," Fitzhugh hissed in his un-human artificial voice. "I call them my teen corps. All are perfectly controlled subjects, as long as they get their dosage of PowerTen. They do exactly as we tell them. We find one in a hundred like that, and they are my pride. Once under the drug, they are my tools. You see, PowerTen is also an addictive drug!"

The disfigured genius laughed, "Like marijuana the drug can be ingested by smoking, by chewing, or by injection. Think of it, gentlemen! A drug that will enslave some, cause many to run wild and do what they only had a tendency to do before, cause others to destroy themselves with a smile! A drug which can be distributed in cigarettes, in chewing gum! All the eager, vulnerable young of the world, the unformed teenagers—they will be in our hands, and we will rule the earth with them! A world where we own the souls of all the young people!"

Illya shuddered in the silent office. Solo's hands twitched as if to reach out and strangle the evil genius with the un-human voice. A world of teenagers addicted to a drug controlled by THRUSH! THRUSH would be destroyed by their own suicidal hands under its baleful influence.

"Conceived of it—all teenagers a weapon of THRUSH!" Marcuc Fitzhugh said. "Ruined, destroyed, rendered into mindless weapons who are happy when they kill and destroy! We will own them all! And I, Marcus Fitzhugh, will rule the council of THRUSH because PowerTen is my work, my secret! They are mine, the teenagers of the world."

At that instant the noise suddenly began again. The machinery below began to hum; alarms began to ring. Herrara walked to a box on the wall of the office and opened it to pull a switch and shut off the alarms. The power lines had been repaired.

Fitzhugh seemed to relax, his eyes calming and turned on Solo and Kuryakin. He raised his Luger.

This time the new voice spoke from behind the two guards holding Mahyana.

"Dad, you forgot one little teenager. Man, that was a real boo-boo."

Fitzhugh whirled, an automatic reaction.

The bearded face of Joe Hooker stood behind the two guards. Hooker leaped on the two guards. Mahyana threw one of them. Herrara, caught at the control box, was attacked by Solo. Illya went for the back of Fitzhugh.

But the disfigured insane genius recovered himself. Before Illya could reach him, he fired at Joe Hooker. Hit, the bearded boy was knocked over backwards.

Fitzhugh leaped forward, kicked Mahyana out of his path, and hurtled through the open door, which instantly closed behind him. The disfigured man was safe inside his emergency corridors.

Illya swore softly. The rest of the enemy had been subdued. Solo stood now, holding a machine-pistol. Mahyana stood up, blood still on her shoulder, a dark bruise on hr pretty face where Fitzhugh had kicked. Joe Hooker lay on the floor.

"Like, Dads, he got me some."

"Where?" Illya said, bending over the bearded boy.

"Nowhere, man, like the shoulder. It smarts, you know, like it was crazy. There I was in that box looking to meet the big banjo man and Shazam, the door opened! I split but quick, you know? All the doors was open, and they just plain forgot about little Joe. I saw them taking the chick down some little passageways. I followed, and they never remembered. Crazy."

"Crazy," Illya said. "Can you walk?"

"If I can't, I'll fly. Man, let's split this scene!"

Solo had walked out to the steel walkway above the vast cavern of chemical machinery. Now he called out.

"Look!"

Below, on the floor of the vast chemical plant, Marcus Fitzhugh was shouting to the workers, waving his arms wildly. AS one man, the workers began to run in a howling mob behind Fitzhugh.

They were running for the stairways up toward the office.

FOUR

Illya ran back to the control box Herrara had used to shut off the alarms. Quickly he pulled a switch and whirled.

"I've opened all the doors again. Run for the elevator as fast as you can. I don't know how much time we'll have."

"Go!" Solo commanded.

Solo helped Joe Hooker along the walkway and into the first corridor. Mahyana came behind them. All the doors were open again.

In the control office and laboratory, Illya bent over a console of dials and gauges. He studied the labels for a moment, then quickly turned four dials to full open. The needles on the dials that controlled the process in the vast cavern began to climb toward the red danger areas.

Illya ran after the others.

The first wave of workers was coming up the stairs from the factory floor below. Illya squeezed off a volley from the machine-pistol he carried.

The first four men screamed and fell back against those behind. Somewhere the hissing voice of Marcus Fitzhugh was shrieking in mad anger, forcing the workers on.

Illya raced down the corridors after the others. Two guards appeared in his path and he shot them down, their shots going wild above his head. Illya ran on over them without looking down. The mob of workers was crowding into the narrow steel corridor behind him.

An explosion somewhere behind on the floor of the cavern rocked the corridor. One of the pieces of equipment had gone up. Illya reached the elevator. He turned to fire one more burst before jumping into the elevator-and saw the thick cloud of greenish-yellow gas flowing along the narrow and windowless corridor.

Caught like rats in a narrow sewer, the mob of workers began to scream, to choke, as the gas flowed over them. The narrow corridor was like a long gas chamber.

Illya leaped into the elevator.

Solo closed the door and the elevator began to rise quickly.

Below them they could hear the screams and groans of the mob caught in the deadly gas from the exploded chemical equipment. Another explosion rocked the elevator shaft. The elevator slowed, hesitated, then surged upward. Moments later they were at the top. They stepped out into the fake shaft-head. It was daylight out in the world.

Joe Hooker slumped to the ground in the glaring sun.

Mahyana bent over, trying to catch a breath.

Another explosion shook the earth.

Below, faint and horrible, the screams and groans rose up to the sunlight from the bowels of the earth.

Illya pulled at Joe Hooker. "Hurry. I don't know how long we have before it all blows. That gas can still reach us."

"Lead on kindly light," Hooker said.

Staggering in the blazing heat of the sun, the four beaten, disheveled refugees from the pit below moved across the desolate land, away from the disguised shaft-head. Every few yards the ground shook, heaved to explosions far below.

The screams of the dying continued to reach faintly to the surface. Streamers of greenish-yellow gas seeped up out of the elevator shaft behind them.

They reached the first low rise from where Illya had first spied on The Belly. The sun blazed down. There was not a breath of wind. Mahyana, her shoulder bleeding again, the bruise on her face swollen, ugly, sagged to the ground. Hooker fell and lay there in the broiling sun.

"Can't we rest?" Mahyana gasped.

"Well, perhaps we are far enough, perhaps for a second or two we."

Illya stopped. He and Solo stood there on the small rise of arid burning land and looked back to the fake shaft-head.

Impossibly, unbelievably, four figures had emerged from the towering shaft-head, had come up somehow from the holocaust below. The four wore gas masks and carried guns.

Even as Solo and Illya watched, prepared to battle the last attack, one of the figures tore off its mask and stood shaking its fist crazily toward them.

Marcus Fitzhugh stood in the sun and cursed the men who had destroyed his work.

It was the last gesture of his life.

There was a shuddering heave of earth. Illya and Solo were knocked down.

Then the earth seemed to raise up under the blazing sun.

The tower of the shaft-head leaned, crashed down in a shower of debris.

Heaved once more in a mammoth shuddering surge.

And collapsed.

Far off, the echo of the underground explosion reverberated through the sunny sky, bounced off the low sand hillocks, rolled away into the vast distance.

A great gaping hole lay before the eyes of the four prisoners who had escaped-a hole that still shivered and shook in the sun. All trace of the four enemies who had managed to come after them was gone. Marcus Fitzhugh would do no more work for anyone, unless it was for the devil.

From the gaping hole that was the only visible sign of the holocaust below, streams of gas seeped, lying heavy to the ground in the windless land.

"We had better move on," Illya said at last.

Solo helped Joe Hooker to his feet.

They staggered off in the blazing sun toward the distant road. Illya was not surprised to find his Jeep gone.

After a while, they lost track of everything-everything but the endless miles and the searing sun. They staggered on, falling, getting up to stagger again. There was no water, no food. They had not eaten for a day. As far as their burning eyes could see there was nothing but emptiness.

"How long can we last, Dads?" Joe Hooker said.

"We'll last," Solo said.

"Don't put me on, Dad. I know. There isn't a living cat within two hundred miles, that hissing nut told me," Hooker said. "We'll never make two hundred miles."

"We will make it," Illya said.

"Leave me, Dads. I can't help no more. When you get back you can give me a medal. I always wanted a medal. One thing, like who've I been working for? I mean, who's the leader, Dads?"

"U.N.C.L.E.," Solo said. "But you've really worked for the whole world."

"You had better leave me, too," Mahyana said. "I can help Joe, and I slow you down. Get out and get help. We'll try to stay alive."

Illya and Solo looked at each other. They knew that Hooker and Mahyana were right. Only Solo and Illya, trained and uninjured, could hope to make it out of this endless desert. And then the hope was slim. They had done their work, but was this the end?

"It will be very cold soon," Illya said. "Lie close together for the warmth. Move slowly, but keep moving as long as you can."

"Crazy," Hooker said, smiling weakly.

Mahyana suddenly stared upward at the glaring blue of the sky. Solo whirled. The helicopter seemed to slide sideways in the sky. They all stood and watched with their mouths open as the helicopter touched gently down not fifty yards away. A man stepped out and walked toward them.