Текст книги "The Cross of Gold Affair"

Автор книги: Fredric Davies

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

An arcade, closed and bolted, offered a jumble of aisles and shadows. Well into darkness he stopped, pulled up tight. Pursuit came charging, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, silently, knowing he couldn’t keep running without air. Oxygen starvation played mod light patterns on his eyes, but he swallowed every urge to gasp.

One Thrush thundered past the arcade, the other two came on more Slowly. Since his footsteps no longer echoed down the deserted boardwalk, they knew he had to be hidden, and it was only a matter of time before they flushed him. His breathing became even and his vision cleared, making him ready for the next effort. A possibility of escape still existed.

He edged cagily out of the aisle, and spotted a big thug who had gone on ahead. Keeping hidden as much as possible, he waited until the other two could be pegged, and he patiently selected the instant when none of the three was looking directly at him. He darted across the boardwalk and rolled over the railing, taking it on his belly and hoping the landing would be at least a little bit easy. The drop knocked the wind out of him, but he managed to scramble back under the pilings before his hunters raced to the edge.

The pilings were crossed and recrossed with a random collection of planks and boards, nailed up in an idiot’s design. He wedged himself between them, trying to get as far under their cover as possible.

“He’s down on the beach again. Go on down. We’ll cut back. He can’t get far past us if we’re careful.” They were almost over his head when they separated, their footfalls echoing loudly. The big man sounded twice as heavy as the other two together.

Napoleon worked back past the pilings. He gasped what little air he could get into his lungs, fighting down a reaction to the fetid smell of oil and old fish. Slime and splinters from the posts and boards worked their way through his clothing and into his skin. The itching on his face became unbearable, only because he couldn’t scratch with his hands tied.

The sounds of the Thrushes on the beach floated dimly into his hiding place. He scrunched down and crawled deeper into the maze of crossbars, and suddenly the way opened. There „ was a runway of sorts, and he rose, proceeding as quietly as possible to put some distance between himself and the Thrushes.

I’ve got a fair idea where they were taking me, he thought. That amusement pier looks like a cover for some sort of Thrush operation. If I can only get in touch with

Illya, we might be able to snatch the whole covey. Then he remembered the tracer pinned under his lapel. The weights of gun and communicator were gone, but if he was still a gold blip on that computer display, Illya would be following him closely. There was no way to tell without freeing his hands.

The blackness of night underneath the boardwalk kept him from seeing the turn until too late. He clipped his head and shoulder on a piling, spun, and ended flat on his back. The giant he*d nicknamed Big Stoop yelled from ahead, “Hey! Under the walk! I heard something-bring the light down here!”

Napoleon was beginning to believe that this wasn’t to be his night. He rolled into a sitting position, hunched forward, and managed to get to his knees. It was then he found the wine bottle.

Somebody up there likes spies, he decided, getting to his feet. Bracing himself, he stomped down on the bottle, breaking it with none of the classic glass-breaking sounds. A dull pop, and his foot made a hundred fine fragments of it, leaving the neck and a portion of the side. He kicked the large glass dagger away from the rest quickly, and knelt with his back toward it.

He finally had to stretch out full length and roll his hands over on the shard. He forced numb fingers to grip and pick it up by the neck. Repeating his earlier twist, he regained his feet, and started on down the runway away from the voices.

Two Thrushes with a flashlight were working their way under the boardwalk. Napoleon heard them stumbling and cursing-even with a light, the way wasn’t easy. Plodding as fast as he could, he forced the glass splinter between his wrists, concentrating on the cord and hoping no major veins would get opened in the process.

Gingerly, he flexed his hands and fingers until sweat started running down his face from fear that he couldn’t get through the bonds before they caught up with him. When the twine gave and he could feel warmth flowing back into his hands, he almost fell headlong against a post.

His first thought was for the tracer, which was still pinned under his lapel. Its presence, and the needles of pain from his reviving fingers, wrought a subtle change on him. His ears pricked at sounds behind; his eyes peered more deeply into the dark. When he moved, he didn’t feel as though both feet were encased in lead. His step was more stealthy, his movements controlled. The hunted had become the hunter.

“Two behind, and only one ahead. I can take him by surprise, and probably double back on the other two with his weapon, and take them from behind. Illya should get here by then, and without these lads to give the alarm we could wind this whole thing up.” He flitted silently away from the stumbling Thrushes.

Renewed strength and initiative naturally led to ideas. Napoleon chinned himself on a crosspiece and swung up into rafters, finding the passage much clearer up near the floor of the boardwalk. He stepped from rafter to crosspiece, rapidly working towards the single Thrush, staying near the outer edge of his catwalk, until a rotten plank cracked under him. He twisted like a lizard and caught a piling with arms and legs while the loosened board gave way and fell, clattering as it struck posts and beams.

A light broke into his hideaway, pinpointing the falling board. A quiet spitting noise followed, and Napoleon knew Thrush was taking their game of hide-and-seek seriously. Another bullet followed the first into the shadows below him, and Napoleon shinnied up his piling away from the action.

“Apis, put that thing away!” screamed the little radio operator, Arnold. “Mr. Porpoise wants Solo alive. You shoot him, and I’ll shoot you.”

“Sorry, Arnold,” answered a bull-like bellow from much too close. “I won’t do it again, honest.”

So his target was spotted, and Napoleon had the good news that they didn’t intend to shoot him down. He swung himself back over the outside of the walk, up over the railing in an acrobatic pullover. The big Thrush was standing on the beach, not two dozen feet away, his whole attention on the fallen board where he was sure Napoleon was still hiding.

“Come to papa,” Napoleon murmured to himself, willing Big Stoop in closer. Standing out on the sand, there was no way to get at him; if he’d just move in, intent on attacking that rotten board-and then the Thrush threw his head back and roared.

“He’s on the boardwalk again. Hey, Arnold, he’s back up there on the boardwalk!”

“So much for plan A,” Napoleon thought, rolling back out of sight. “Now to execute plan B: run!” He sprinted down the deserted beachfront. Behind, he heard the tromp of an elephant; his big friend was topside again, too, and the other two were probably right behind him.

He wiped sweat from his face on one sleeve and then the other. His breath was coming in burning gasps again, and the thundering steps were getting closer.

Napoleon burst into extra speed, spying a street and buildings ahead. He rounded the comer and ran full tilt across the opening, halting in the blackness of an alcove. Not yet in sight, the giant roared, “He’s stopped again!”

The trio charged into the street. Arnold quickly spread all three into a pattern Napoleon couldn’t pierce, and started them slowly walking toward him, searching every cranny. Arnold drew his own silenced pistol. “Mr. Porpoise wants him alive, but if we can’t stop him any other way, shoot! Try not to make it fatal.” Napoleon silently seconded the motion.

Waiting until they were almost on top of him, he spun the remains of his bottle far down toward the boardwalk. It hit the railing and bounced, breaking as it hit below. The reaction to the sound was all he could have hoped for: the three Thrushes took off in hot pursuit, leaving him free to take an alternate path … but with the street so well lighted and all doors shuttered, the problem seemed to be in finding any alternate at all. Coney Island in winter seemed to get rather suburban and respectable; he wished he knew how far away and in what direction he could find the coffee houses and bars that would still be operating for local patrons.

He turned and debated running through the mass of girders and beams making a deep, twisted lattice behind his hiding place. Then he looked up, and his face loosened into a huge grin as he realized where he was. He was face to face with the framework supporting the Cyclone Racer, and was about to take his first free trip on a roller coaster.

He leaped for the lowest crosspiece, and had to make do with embracing an I-beam instead. The chase had used up some of his strength, but he had plenty to shinny up the beam until he could reach the bar, almost twice his own height above the ground. His fingers grabbed, he chinned himself, and threw one leg up over it. Skeletal shadows crisscrossed and merged in the framework above, but he reached up and leaped, caught the next bar, and swung himself up again.

The climbing fell into a pattern of leap, grab, lift and swing, rapidly carrying him skyward. Above, the girders held shining rails out over the boardwalk and back into the amusement park inland. By working his way across the roller coaster, Napoleon would flank his pursuers, giving himself a second chance to pick them off singly. His wrists and arms started complaining under the strain of carrying him up level after level, and he had just enough wind for the exercise. But there wasn’t much call for yodeling demonstrations on Coney anyway, not with three gunmen out after him.

He mounted to the rails, and discovered he could move freely by stepping from tie to tie. He paused momentarily to scout the opposition, feeling something like a sparrow on top of The Happy Prince as he looked out and down at the beach. Two Thrushes were stalking an imaginary quarry in the sand, while the third stood guard over the boardwalk, in front of the customer’s entrance to the Cyclone Racer.

“The long way around may be the short way home,” he decided, and started climbing up from his low-point towards the long incline of the first drop. He got away from the steel slot when he crossed the bottom-spot of the loop, and looked up at the big drop. From its lowest point, the slope seemed impossibly steep and incredibly high. I could have been wrong about this being the short way, he thought. One look at the shadowed crossbeams he would be using for footholds if he climbed straight across convinced him he wasn’t wrong: the shorter route around the coaster s course looked twice as risky.

It was more like climbing a ladder than anything else, a ladder built for men twelve feet tall. His legs began to shake with weariness before he was halfway to the top. He made frequent stops, wondering why anyone would want to get on a roller coaster for free and then go in the wrong direction; but, once past the first big drop, if the hunters hadn’t changed position the rest would be easy.

Stones rattling below alerted him. He stared down across a three-story drop to see Arnold, climbing like a mountain cougar from level to level, closing the distance between them. The big Thrush was busy watching, his pistol at ready like a deadly toy far below. Then a strange mechanical sound rang out, and Napoleon froze. His hackles rose as he recognized the roller coaster starting up.

He climbed faster, racing Arnold and the car to the top of the first drop. Twelve feet to go, and he saw it edging up; the maintenance car, normally used to check out the condition of the track, was about to squash him flat. He turned, crouching, and spotted Arnold ducking down over the side of the tracks below him. Between the car and his little friend hanging in wait, Napoleon had less choice than he would playing thimble-rig.

He stood up, facing back down the steep incline. Spreading out his legs to put one foot on each track, he leaned forward and let go. Instantly he was sliding down the tracks. His clothes whipped back in the wind of his passage, and the car behind screeched as the Thrush inside applied brakes. They really did intend taking him alive, but it didn’t look now as if they could. Every bit of brake he could apply with the burning heels and soles of his shoes only served to slow him down minutely as he rode two bannisters at once to the bottom of his slide for life.

“Here he comes I” shouted the big fellow on the ground, running to meet him. Arnold, swinging to the ground, shouted instructions. Napoleon reached the bottom of his ski slope inches in front of the car, leaped off into space, and aimed directly at Big Stoop.

The Thrush kept coming, attempting to field him, and for the first time in his life was sent flying. Napoleon rolled, years of combat training taking command. Dazed and winded, he sprawled beyond his big cushion, and rolled into a karate stance, shaking his head. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his balance and be ready for the two who hadn’t set themselves up as bowling pins.

Arnold had gotten caught behind a fence as he came down, but the third man, having stopped the car and leaped to the cement near Napoleon, grabbed at him. Reflex, duck, seize a wrist, crossover, bend and throw. The Thrush sailed inelegantly into the girders of the Cyclone Racer, just as Big Stoop stumbled to his feet, looked around, and started coming towards Napoleon. He grimaced at the man’s size, and prepared to sidestep and chop.

“Apis!” thundered Arnold from behind. The giant stopped, and Napoleon’s sidestep was knocked completely out of synch. Big Stoop reached out and plucked him into the air, dangling him with one hand. Napoleon brought a forearm up into the exposed neck, followed by a backhand across the eyes.

“I got him, Arnold,” the giant laughed, ignoring Napoleon’s hostilities. Arnold stepped forward, his face stretched into a strange smile. The third Thrush lay very still, moaning.

“Bring him along, Apis, and help del Grado. Mr. Porpoise isn’t going to be happy about having to wait.” The little Thrush faced Napoleon, well out of arm’s reach. “You led us quite a chase, Solo. Pity it was all for nothing, but don’t worry; we only want to ask you a few questions.” The voice through his smile was a thin snarl.

Apis shifted his grip to Napoleon’s shoulder, lowering him to the ground. Without effort, he picked up the fallen Thrush with his other hand, and the four of them started moving back over the field they’d run across. Napoleon reached up and took the tracer from his lapel under cover of wiping sweat from his face.

Gambol had been a dub about frisking him, but that was no reason to think these pros would make the same mistake. As they passed through the gaping entranceway back to the boardwalk, Napoleon pinned the tracer to Apis* belt. With any luck at all it would still be there when the Great White Hunter arrived with the cavalry.

Section II : “Does Napoleon have a future?”

Chapter 5

“Let’s be reasonable about this.”

“Mr. Napoleon Solo from U.N.C.L.E.,” said the fat man, speaking in a soft, clear voice that carried over the water and emphasized the quiet that normally existed in his aquarium room. “I am Avery D. Porpoise, an executive of Thrush.” The air was stifling. Napoleon estimated the temperature at over eighty, and the humidity must have been nearly enough to make it dryer in the pool. The change from violent exertion in the chill night outside made his voice crack. “You aren’t on Thrush Central-” he said, jerking to a halt as Arnold twisted his right arm sharply behind his back.

“Thank you, Arnold,” said Mr. Porpoise, taking a sip of his drink and settling the glass back down on the water in its yellow styrofoam float. “You must take Arnold seriously, Mr. Solo, because he has just warned you to speak softly. If you insist on stirring up a lot of noise in a room I have designed for my own personal comfort, he will probably do you some personal damage.

“You’re absolutely correct about my position; I assume your briefings at U.N.C.L.E. keep you informed concerning promotions to the Central Committee of Thrush, even as I am kept informed regarding movements among your superiors. But this is only hair-splitting: I am so close to the Committee that you will probably not meet anyone ranking me during your lifetime. Within a few days, I intend to become Thrush’s paymaster-general, in complete charge of the master financial operations.”

Great frosted lamps in the ceiling kept the room like an oven, and beads of sweat rolled down the faces of all the non-swimmers. Porpoise in his pool seemed perfectly at home, resting in the garish floating chair that reminded Napoleon of the device mothers use to teach infants to enjoy the water.

Napoleon spoke softly, finding that his voice carried perfectly in the big room. “I can only put two and two together, Mr. Porpoise. Since your stock broker brought me in after I asked questions about the upheavals in gold prices, you must be earning your promotion on the New York Stock Exchange. Good luck,” he said-adding as an afterthought, “And you’ll need it, because even with Thrush’s resources, it’ll be easier to lose a fortune trading gold than to win one.”

Porpoise nearly swamped himself in a bout of laughter following Napoleon’s friendly warning. His floating drink rocked on the crests of small tidal waves, and water lapped up on the pool deck; red-faced and heaving with laughter, the fat man made almost no sound at all.

“Oh,” he said weakly, drying his eyes with the back of a wet arm, “oh, that is rich. You’ve just earned your own life, Mr. Solo, because you’ve told me what no amount of questioning could have tom from you.”

The U.N.C.L.E. agent looked questioningly from one Thrush to another around the room, and saw that each was keeping one eye on him and the other on their chubby employer. Obviously, his hysterics weren’t sending them all into conniptions of back-slapping and fair cheer. The fat man brought his laughter under control, and turned to where Gambol stood, bandaged, sweating and very nervous.

“When Mr. Solo questioned you, how much did he seem to know of this operation? Did he seem to be after you personally?”

Under the lights Gambol seemed soft and pallid. He shifted from foot to foot, touching his cut and bruised face. “Like I said, he came in like a man from Candid Camera, asking me big as life to tell him who dealt heavily in gold. If he was setting a trap, why did he spread out his U.N.C.L.E. identification, and why’d he get right to the point like that?” The little broker turned all his worries into anger, and blasted at Napoleon in a hoarse whisper, “Why me, anyway? You’ve got your damned nerve, waltzing in on a Thrush satrap organization and expecting me to just tell you exactly who I’m working for! Do you think this is some kind of game?”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Porpoise, pushing his empty glass over to an attendant for a refill. “Certainly U.N.C.L.E. must have had some reason for sending agents out on a mission like that, and its apparent from where I sit that this is a simple beginning investigation, in which they hoped to learn something about our gold manipulations.

“You,” he said to Napoleon, “are a nuisance. But, my dear Gambol, I doubt they even suspected you at all.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and sipped from his new drink before continuing. “I wish, however, that they had picked a more skilled agent. After all, you did bring him directly here. If he was followed, you may have led U.N.C.L.E. right to my little pleasure palace.”

Somehow it was harder for Gambol to bear the soft voice with Porpoise’s eyes closed than it was with the little red pig eyes boring into him. He sweated more profusely, and stammered in his own defense, “Arnold said to bring him in! Arnold said to get him and bring him here, and I even sent out men to look for other agents before I left. And I had him frisked when he was out, and took his gun and his communicator!”

Porpoise remained aloof during Gambol’s outburst, resting behind his eyelids. When the broker quieted down, the chief Thrush made little noises of disapproval, and reached behind his chair to adjust his position. All but his face submerged, and the quiet voice seemed to come up from the water itself as he pronounced sentence on Gambol.

“Your office was visited by a top U.N.C.L.E. agent, and he was probably not alone. You did quite well to call here and inform us about Mr. Solo, his presence in your office and his interests, but you should never have brought him here yourself. I would far rather you had remained in your office to present a normal face to whatever follow-up

U.N.C.L.E. might have had in mind to Mr. Solo’s call. I’m sure one of your goons could have delivered him here with a bit more efficency than you have shown… .” He stopped, and his bright eyes opened to stare in sudden comprehension at the ceiling. “Gambol,” he said, “what did you say you removed from Solo’s person?”

“His gun and communicator,” stammered the broker. “So he couldn’t-”

“Yes, yes,” said Avery Porpoise, turning his head to where Napoleon stood under guard. “Frisk him thoroughly, Apis ” he said to the giant standing ready. “If he is clever enough to escape when bound, as I’m certain Gambol would not be, he must be clever enough to be carrying some sort of device to lead U.N.C.L.E. to him. Not even they could have been confident of following a car through New York traffic.”

Apis moved around in front of Napoleon, keeping one eye on him while his big hands moved under lapels and inside shoulder-paddings. Napoleon grinned at the Thrush, noting on one level that Arnold, on his right, never let go a very solid lock on his wrist. “I’m really as harmless as a glass of old port after supper,” he said, flinching as Apis’ search tickled him. “With your being twice my size, and your friend ready to break my arm, I don’t feel the least bit inclined to try breaking you over my knee.”

Porpoise’s oily, quiet voice came up from the water. “Apis is only taking ordinary precautions in his search. He knows you are harmless without weapons under the circumstances, with so many of my men standing by, but he finds it impossible to overcome years of training about the need enemy spies feel to escape.”

Napoleon shrugged and tried to ignore the methodical investigation of his clothes. It was hard to keep being nonchalant when Apis began fondling the buttons of his suit jacket. Harder still, when one after another the buttons were ripped off and held up to the light. Apis tsk’ed over each of them, put it down and ripped off the next. The bottom button weighed more than all the others together, and Apis looked at it very carefully.

“I don’t think I should set this one down too hard,” he said.

One of the other Thrushes came forward and took the little bomb away from him. Stepping most cautiously, he left the room quickly and returned to watch the rest of the inspection.

As the search went lower and became more embarrassing, Porpoise continued chatting. “You need try none of your clever tricks, Mr. Solo, because you shan’t be harmed. Soon well just turn you loose, quite alive and in good health.” Napoleon stared in complete disbelief at that, and was taken aback as the floating head raised up slightly, opened one piercing eye, and stared at him.

“Yes, I’ve decided just to keep you awhile. Under questioning, you would have told me nothing, unless I chose to hypnotize, drug and dismember you. Such things revolt me, although I admit a strange interior fascination for them.

“But you are concerned that I not overextend myself in the stock market. Mr. Solo, with no torture at all you have told me that U.N.C.L.E. does not in the least suspect the methods I am using to do more than make a little money. They suspect nothing, far from being able to bring legal action against me. When we close out our stock transactions, I’ll abandon this comfortable site as well, and possibly buy Disneyland for a playground with my profits. I’ve always wanted to move to the coast, anyway.”

Indicating the whole Coney Island Thrush operation with a wave of one dripping hand, he said, “This doesn’t fool you for a moment, however. This is obviously too small to be Thrush’s entire New York base. Oh, we naturally have a finger in some of the arcades and sidewalk vendor concessions, but all that is operated from Manhattan, in secret in a location much like yours, but not hidden quite so complexly behind a tailor.” Napoleon winced, only partly from the treatment Apis was giving him in his search. This wasn’t the first time Thrush had said plainly that they knew the exact location of U.N.C.L.E/s New York headquarters.

“Long before your friends can locate you or whatever device you may have used to lead them,” said Porpoise, “we will have… Apis! What’s that on your belt?”

Apis whirled like a dog trying to catch its tail, and Arnold’s free hand lashed out, snatching at his partners belt.

The tiny tracer bug clattered to the tile floor and skidded towards Porpoise’s pool. Apis, continuing his spin, landed on it with one size sixteen sneaker.

He stood there triumphantly, like Goliath louting before the armies of Israel. In the instant that he allowed himself to stmt over the tracer’s remains, Napoleon whipped free of Arnold and planted a foot square in Apis’ seat. With a great waving of arms and a roar far beyond Porpoise’s noise restrictions, Apis went off balance and toppled headlong into the water, raising a tidal wave and swamping his employer. The styrofoam pool toys were scattered on the waves, and water slopped up over the edges, drenching everyone’s shoes.

Napoleon stood still, beaming happily at the havoc as Arnold recovered him and pinned both arms in a no-nonsense hold. All eyes in the room were turned on Porpoise’s bobbing form as Apis climbed out of the pool. Sputtering and coughing, Porpoise inflated his chair’s pontoons and raised himself up out of the water. He looked around, and let his gaze settle on Napoleon. Apis stood ready to shred the U.N.C.L.E. agent if his chubby chief would just give the word.

“Now, my dear Napoleon,” said Porpoise as he regained his equilibrium, “what on Earth did you gain by that? You’re securely locked in this room, and surely you didn’t yearn to fight my entire crew? They wouldn’t fight you one by one, you know; if Arnold hadn’t grabbed you quickly, they’d have ganged up most unfairly, and held you until Apis could beat you to porridge. What was this all about?”

Napoleon smiled beatifically. “Let’s be reasonable about this,” he said. “You could do few things more horrible than lock me up for a few days and let me go. You act as if I have no importance whatever. I’ve lost slathers of ego, standing here while you dissected my assignment and worth, and your oversized friend got fresh with me. No torture, no brutal murder. A man has to have some outlet for his pride, Mr. Porpoise.” He relaxed, slouching jauntily in Arnold’s grip. “I’m an incurable pool pest, and at the very least I’ve accomplished a goal I set myself the minute I saw your setup.”

With the whole house in his hand, he opened up the Solo smile full on the human beach ball paddling in front of him. “I sank your drink, didn’t I?” he asked.

Porpoise sank back into the water, covering his eyes with one hand and waving the other feebly, to hasten Napoleon’s departure. Arnold marched him past a dripping, frowning Apis, and down a corridor as Gambol squealed, “How did he get that thing on Apis’ belt, anyway? Isn’t it pretty suspicious, finding that thing there, on one of your own men ?”

“Gambol, you are a low-life, a yellow, rum-dum underachiever. Solo led my men a pretty chase out there and tangled with all three of them. One of them may not recover from this particular beach party, but you took him with no risk and no fight. That was where he ought to have been searched, not after he’s roughed up my men and had half a hundred chances to plant his tracer on someone.” Porpoise’s next words were lost to Napoleon in the twisting of corridors, but moments later he recognized Gambol’s quavering, liquid yell.

“Judge not,” he said to Arnold, “lest ye also be judged.” Arnold looked at him stonily. “I read that in an old book,” said Napoleon apologetically.

Once away from Porpoise’s steam-bath climate the temperature dropped alarmingly. Arnold whisked his prisoner along in the increasing cold until the trip ended before a blank wall. Napoleon looked questioningly at his guide, and Arnold backed off to the far wall.

“When the door opens, step through and don’t move once you get inside.” He operated a hidden catch, and the wall developed a round seam that produced a circular door. The cut-out part of the wall rotated inward to reveal a cabin belonging between the stars.

The other side of the circular door was covered with wheels and levers. It looked like something from a bank safety-vault. The floor and walls were of even, glare-reducing linoleum, pleasantly off-white. On the slanted floor, on the walls and ceiling, Napoleon saw equally-spaced handholds. He realized the room was meant to suggest a trip under zero gravity, where a man might want to use any surface for a floor. Movement in free-fall would be a mere trifle with handholds every few feet.

Covering two walls, a control console spread itself in gadget-crazy confusion. Knobs, verniers, display panels, buttons, alarm-lights and oscilloscopes were all dutifully labeled so that anyone, provided he could read and understand a hundred instructions, could operate the mockup spaceship. Out a fake porthole, stars flickered and occasionally a ringed planet, not looking much like Saturn, would disturb the imitation interstellar heavens, as the view made the ship seem to move.