Текст книги "The Cross of Gold Affair"

Автор книги: Fredric Davies

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

“Its like the Planetarium,” said Mai, when the spell was broken by another switch, taking them back to interstellar space.

“It’s like being out there,” said Charlie. Illya looked at him, and saw that the boy was frozen in front of the porthole. He brought back Saturn and Mars-a few times, almost as much by chance as by skill, and then the trio went to sit down while he continued to work. Charlie made up a verse that went, “Where have all the planets gone?” and then the three of them were singing together, harmonizing through folksongs, one-world songs, and low-camp like Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.

They were building a tricky roundelay around the Batman theme when Illya accidentally triggered a meteor shower outside the porthole. The sudden silent fire, coupled

with the tension of not knowing when Porpoise’s men would return for them, broke up the singing and started Illya’s palms itching.

He brushed sweat off his forehead, wishing he had so much as one U.N.C.L.E. wire-tracing device. Behind him as he bent back to the board, Mai’s clear voice came on strong with her new doggerel, “Where have all the Thrushes gone?” She finished the verse on a high note of fun and confidence, pounding on the floor with both hands.

Illya clapped, and the boys cheered heartily, raising the roof to relax their nerves. Before the noise had died down, Arnold opened the spacelock door and stepped through.

“Pipe down all that,” he said. “If you insist on singing and yelling, we can open up with gas in here. Tear gas, sleepy-drowsy, or vomit fumes.”

“You don’t suppose they’d have anything a little groovier, do you?” said Andy to Charlie, but Mai hushed him and stepped up to the Thrush.

“You aren’t going to tell us we have to give up the right to freedom of expression,” she said. “You aren’t saying we can’t sing, and be free. These are the things souls are made of, and you can kill our bodies, Arnold,” she said, shaking her head mournfully at him, “but you should never try to crush our souls.

“Singing does no harm, anyway. You’ve got good, sturdy walls, and that ugly little fat thing in the water has the best insulation in the world around him. We’re singing for us, and none of you in there has to listen to a note of it. Would you stifle pure, innocent fun? Are you some kind of superior beings, judging us and destroying our kind of art?” Before he could answer, she changed the subject and placed both hands on his shoulders.

“Arnold, what’s really bothering you is your poor nose, and I want to apologize for what I did to you out there on the boardwalk, when you jumped us from behind.” Arnold looked puzzled, trying to figure out why she was apologizing.

“You were just doing your job, protecting Mr. Porpoise’s funhouse from us. I only turned and bit your nose because I was surprised, that’s all. Really, it wasn’t because I was mad at you. You’re another person, with reasons for what you do, and you need food, warmth and love just the same as we do. We aren’t angry with you; in fact, we love you. We need to love you.”

“We do!” said the two boys, catching the rhythm of the spell Mai was weaving. Arnold tried to shrug off her hands, but she kept putting them back on his shoulders. Illya judiciously refrained from comment on the need to love Arnold.

“We love you because we see the real you. Everybody has an inner self that needs to find another person and love them. Were all like that, and were trying to find you right now.” She stepped closer, and Arnold stepped back. She pulled him towards her, trying to kiss his eyes, and he broke and jumped through the circular door.

“Look here. I’m going to lock this door, lock the door on the other side of it, and turn off the monitor in here. Sing anything you like, but lemme alone with that love stuff.” And he was gone, and the three kids hugged each other and Illya in a burst of stifled laughter at the routing of the dangerous little killer.

They rolled into song with new gusto then, singing purely for the sound of their own voices. Mai’s soprano led the others, and Illya added his second tenor whenever he wasn’t concentrating heavily on the switches and knobs of the console. Their exuberance carried through Silver Dagger, Green-sleeves, and more innovations with the verse-form of “Where have all the flowers gone?” before Illya had to concede that the spaceship console probably wasn’t going to show him the way out. He spun the dials one final time and muttered, “Napoleon found a way out of here.”

“You bet,” said Charlie. “Out of here, and into the drink, and all the way to the beach. But he looked like he must have traveled by way of a meatgrinder. Man, I hope you don’t find us the same way out.”

“Don’t knock it,” Andy answered. “If Arnold decides to come back and play some of his gas games we won’t be real happy with the world at all, at all.” The two took up humming the background to the old Greek song Mai was singing. Her fingers deftly rewove the flower coronet that the fight with Thrush had crushed. Of her audience, only Illya understood the words to the song, and as he examined the floor and walk of the Spaceship Room, inch by inch, he found himself joining in on the chorus.

“You’re good, Illya,” Mai said, breaking off the song. “Granted it’s not too swift being prisoners and all, but I’m glad to meet you. You know any more old songs?”

Illya straightened up from his fruitless search; his mind fled back to his childhood in Russia, the warm springs of Georgia, and the old Russian ballads filled his memory. The look of expectant pleasure on Mai’s face filled him with wonder. There was much to be said for a girl who could get excited over learning a folksong while faced with almost sure death.

He taught the three flower children the words of an old Russian lullaby. Charlie and Andy immediately went into a minor key harmony on the ancient tune, while Mai’s pure soprano soared two octaves above to carry the melody. Illya wasn’t sure that the song would put many babies to sleep, but he had to admit that their rendition was beautiful. The four continued singing, as Illya continued his search for any sort of doorway. Occasionally, one of the three would extend the doggerel of “Where have all the Thrushes gone?” to include another, even more improbable, continuation.

Every last inch of the Spaceship Room was finally inspected and probed, and no way out. Illya started to crawl into the adjoining alcove to the tune of When the Saints Go Marching In. The angled floor of their prison became perfectly horizontal in the alcove, and Illya stopped to inspect the juncture closely.

“This floor is steel!” he exclaimed, interrupting a complicated roundelay concerning porpoises. The three flower children rushed forward. “Keep singing!” the Russian commanded. “Keep Arnold and his crew at bay. This may be our ticket out.”

The flower children took up their favorite doggerel with gusto, and Illya continued to test out his theory. The hairs on the back of his hand stood up and he snatched it back from the electric field. There was no telling just what that floor was charged for, whether to trigger a trap, or fry him on contact. His eyes detected that the wooden planking

painted on the alcove floor had one subtle flaw. Two of the planks weren’t split by just a painted crack. That crack was real, and the floor was really two slabs of steel, side by side.

“Keep on singing; I think I’ve found it,” he said, as he searched his pockets for something to trigger the device. Finally his jacket was elected, his pockets being empty. He rolled the jacket into a ball, and, standing well back, tossed it into the alcove. The four prisoners watched it bounce from the far wall and descend to the floor. The floor snapped open to reveal a field of knives, and a figure in black.

The jacket fell into the knives, half in the ocean and half held up out of it. For many heartbeats no one said a word.

Chapter 12

“I’m all right, Doc/’

NAPOLEON WOKE UP with the driver shaking him. They were drawing up before the tailor shop that fronted for U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Del Floria came out to pay the fare and helped the wounded agent inside.

“I need a big dose of first aid,” said Napoleon, indicating the lacerations on his body that were starting to bleed again. “But I also need a change of clothes, Del. And I must speak with Mr. Waverly immediately.”

While he passed behind a curtain into the old brownstone and headed for the Medical Department, he knew the tailor was setting wheels in motion to have the U.N.C.L.E. personnel ready for him at every stage. He arrived at Medical to be stripped and examined by two doctors who operated without any sign of curiosity about the strangeness of the damage he’d survived. They probed each wound for pieces of wood and dirt, and pronounced him ready for the Mediclean unit.

“You can certainly be glad the bug-chaser is in working order tonight,” said one. “You’re riddled with splinters, and ordinary methods would probably just made a good cut at

stopping infection. In a few days when it showed up, you’d have to go through everything over again. There aren’t any serious wounds, however, and you’re ready to get in.”

With a little help, Napoleon stepped into a tiled chamber and watched the door close behind, making a perfect seal. The little room was like a man-sized bullet, with barely space enough for him to move around. Overhead, the tile arched up to a dome, giving him space to raise both arms full over his head.

From every side a hissing noise preceded jets of warm disinfectant. The streams blasted his body from the chin down, and he closed his eyes and worked the fluid into the pores of his face and made a shampoo of it for his salt stiffened hair. He moved about in the churning spray, rubbing his whole body to help penetration into every cut and abrasion.

A finer set of sprays followed the first, and he held his damaged members close to the nozzles, permitting atomized liquid to massage the hundreds of wounds. Soap and water, applied by warm, wide nozzles, doused him completely, and it was a very clean Napoleon who stood looking at his pink, wrinkled skin with pleasure when the floods stopped. Warmed air whipped around him, evaporating the last of the rinses completely, and then the chamber heated up. The floor stayed warm, but the walls steamed up and the air became moist and drew sweat out of him. He grinned at the tile, remembering Arnold’s supersonic torture room in the Space House, comparing it to this friendly Swedish bath.

Another blast of air dried him, and he was ready to leave.

One doctor came to him to apply bandages to the severest cuts, preventing bleeding and later chances of infection. Napoleon found it hard to believe he’d ever been hurt, considering the euphoric feeling that followed his thorough shower. But the slashes in arms and legs were very real. Despite temporary lack of pain, he had to be bandaged heavily.

A new set of clothing waited outside the Mediclean laboratory, and he refused help in getting dressed. He smiled broadly at the doctor, feeling better than he had any time

since his first encounter with Gambol hours before. “I’m all right, Doc,” he said, and made his way out into the corridor under his own steam. He only allowed a pretty U.N.C.L.E. clerk to escort him to Waverly’s office, he told himself, because he liked pretty girls.

“Mr. Solo, I am pleased to report that we have a definite lead on the distributor of stock secrets,” said Waverly when Napoleon had seated himself at the circular conference table. “Mr. Kuryakin reported on your abduction by the broker Gambol, and while he drove after you he gave us the clue we needed to crack a rather intricate information-relay device. Departments of Finance, Research, and Cryptography have examined the market reports, and a certain crossword puzzle, with great success “

Napoleon sat upright, wondering if the night’s escapades had deranged him somehow. “Crossword puzzle, sir? Crossword puzzle?”

“Indeed. While you were being led to Thrush through the actions of Mr. Gambol and his associates, Mr. Kuryakin discovered a communications link in today’s crossword. It would seem that Avery D. Porpoise has been commanding his troops in a very curious manner. Of course, we have no definite proof against the man.”

Napoleon looked at his chief for a moment, struck speechless by the news. He stared at Waverly, at the bank of computers and tape drives behind Waverly, and at the bandages on his own arms and hands. “I’ve just been knocked around and snatched, chased and imprisoned by a gang of Thrushes,” he said. “They live in the biggest no-fun funhouse on Coney Island, working for a bad-humor man named Avery D. Porpoise. If on top of all the other trouble that that soggy little butterball caused me today he is also writing crosswords for Illya to solve, I’m going to devise some totally original and excruciatingly slow death for him. I always thought you had to sit up all night with a toothache to make up crossword puzzles.”

Waverly allowed himself to look slightly amused. “I have here the dossier on your intended victim, which covers what we know of his history up to a few years ago. When Mr. Kuryakin’s hunch pointed to him, we put together what is

known of him and found him to be a most unique individual. I would caution you, however, that torture will in all likelihood not affect him in the least.”

He put the folder down in front of him, and spun the table to position it directly before Napoleon. The data on Porpoise was unspectacular up to a point. Under Identifying Marks, some researcher had summarized all that had been or ever would be of interest concerning Avery D. Porpoise:

On 2 August, 1944, Maj. Porpoise, then in British Intelligence, was captured by Nazi agents while entrusted with a high priority mission in the north of France. The pressure of German High Command conflicts and backlash from the attempted murder of Hitler the preceding month threw the lone Intelligence officer into an unreal focus, and Nazi doctors became almost maniacal in their attempts to wring his mission from him.

Imprisonment and starvation had no effect on him except to strengthen his resolve not to talk. Collateral reports from others held nearby verify that he became completely convinced that the security of his nation depended on his continued secrecy, although in point of fact the mission’s failure had crippled a Resistance effort and the whole story could subsequently have been told. Maj. Porpoise did not allow this in the face of questions, and his inquisitors could only keep digging for what seemed to be a vital message.

Enduring privation gave him an inner source of power for what came next. Hitler’s growing irrationality forced the prison doctors to bum the captives hair and eyebrows. His stoicism at the pain and the High Command’s orders made them follow up with a systematic destruction of his beard follicles, and then application of fire torture to every patch of hair anywhere on his body. Pelvic, limb and pubic hair were scorched off, and today Avery D. Porpoise is covered with white scar tissue, completely bald.

“He’s a repulsive little beast in the flesh,” said Napoleon,

“but I didn’t see enough of him to notice all that.” He flipped the dossier back to Waverly with a shudder.

“Those scars on his body are actually marks of great heroism, despite his current activities, and despite the misplacement of his heroism. He’s somewhat less than a man, now, crisscrossed with scar tissue and turned obscenely fat through years of self-indulgence, but one must conclude that his pain threshold is superhumanly high when inspired as he was in World War II.

“It was his misfortune, however, that the Crown did not reward his refusal to talk under such treatment. His Majesty’s government naturally awarded him a 60% disability pension for life, and the Prisoner of War ribbon with, I believe, a bronze star. To indicate the torture, I suppose. They were quite uninterested in his story of saving the nation, because after all the mission he had started on was a thorough fizzle.”

“Kind of hard-nosed, I’d say. What else did he want?”

“A medal wasn’t quite enough, we can assume. He resigned his commission when they didn’t make him a general, and he never claimed a shilling of the pension.”

“Probably he just wanted somebody to clap him on the back and give him the ‘Jolly good show, old chap!’ routine,” said Napoleon. “A promotion-yes, Porpoise would have wanted recognition on all sides. He was probably sorry England didn’t have an opening for the job of King just at that time.”

Waverly frowned slightly. “In any event, he sold out in disgust to the highest bidder. His recent knowledge of the Intelligence service was considered very valuable, and for a while it looked as though post-war German underground operatives would get him. But he joined the neighborhood covey of Thrush in early 1947. All his subsequent activity has been in England and Africa, an undistinguished career in Thrush’s financial department. We noted his entry into this country, but from that point he seemed to have gone into retirement. If Major Porpoise had continued in His Majesty’s service he might well have become a member of U.N.C.L.E. by now. As it is, we will all be relieved to close out his file.” Waverly shut the folder and dropped it into a crowded basket of files.

“We’ll close out his file well enough,” Napoleon said with a frown. “Now that Illya has, if you’ll excuse the expression, solved the crossword puzzle. I only wish he could have managed the timing a bit better; I’d really rather not have spent the last few hours the way I did.”

“Speaking of timing, Mr. Solo,” his chief answered, a touch of concern coloring his usually dry tones. “I believe Mr. Kuryakin entered Mr. Porpoise’s establishment just as you were making your exit. You both might have improved upon your timing. Further, and more to the point,” said Waverly, “is the distressing lack of communication in the past hour. At last word he was on the beach at Coney Island, intending to head into the Space House to rescue you. Naturally we couldn’t risk contacting him when you showed up in such abused condition, but it is well past the alarm point; he certainly should have called in before this.”

“I came out a side door, sir, and he may well have been taken by the search party that was sent out to get me. I didn’t know he was there. If he went in and didn’t report, they probably have him; some of the residents of that fun house are far from slouches, and the place itself is wired for sight, sound and general unpleasantness. May I suggest the obvious course is a full-force attack on the pier, to retrieve Illya if he’s there, and wipe out the nest?”

“As Chief Enforcement Officer, that is precisely your area of responsibility, Mr. Solo. From the information we have been able to gather, you will be removing the core of this stock market fiasco at the same time. You may use my desk, if you wish.” With a gesture, Waverly took one of his pipes and began pacing the room, tamping it. Napoleon slipped into the vacated chair of command, and tripped a switch on the communications panel before him.

“Yes, sir?” said a girl’s voice from elsewhere in the building.

“Solo,” he said. “Get me the Enforcement Duty Agent, and while I’m on the line with him please find the supervisor of our STEP coordinating team and ask him to come into this office for a word with me.”

“Yes, sir.” ,

“Two other things. Alert the helicopter to stand by for

me starting thirty minutes from now for a run to Long Island; and if Mr. Kuryakin reports at any time, interrupt me immediately and tie him in here.”

The Enforcement Agent standing the night duty was delighted to talk to his superior. Napoleon smiled for the first time with real excitement as he felt the enthusiasm surging through the phone.

“Matt, I want your squad to meet me in ten minutes down in the Communications area, in laboratory 17C. We’re going to get Illya out of a jam, and I want to brief you on it down there.”

“Yes, sir!” snapped the communicator. “We’ll be there with bells on, chief; all we’ve done all week is shine our gear, except for the day-men who backed up your action in the brokerage. Our night crew is getting pretty itchy.”

Napoleon looked up from the communicator to greet the long-faced U.N.C.L.E. man entering Waverly’s office.

“I’m sorry not to be more familiar with your work, Dr. Angers,” he said, offering a seat while Waverly stood by, watching. “I must confess most of my activities have been confined to dry land. Let me outline our current problem, and ask your help in solving it.”

Spinning the conference table, Napoleon placed a map of Coney Island in front of Angers. “We plan to assault this amusement pier by land, with a standard operation by my Enforcement personnel. However, I’m afraid this attack will fail in one important respect, in that it will give the Thrush contingent time to kill Illya Kuryakin. We have reason to believe he’s held captive there, but Thrush has had no incentive to harm him yet; we don’t want to give them a chance.

“Now, I escaped from the fun house atop this pier via a trapdoor opening into the sea. This exit is designed as a fall onto a bed of knives, and it’s safe to assume Thrush would be taken by surprise if we entered that way. I visualize the whole thing starting with men placed under the trapdoor-can you get me in as far as that starting point?”

Angers looked to Waverly and Solo for permission, and started loading a big curved pipe that made his face look even longer and sadder. “I believe I know how to get you in, and at the same time stop anyone else who might try to

get out.” His audience waited while he pulled on the well-used old pipe, examining the map with one eye. He looked up from the map and analyzed the visible bandages on Solo, comparing them with tie calm story of escaping the death-trap. “If you can get up past those knives, I can get you to the pier, and mount a solid guard while you do it.

“We have men training in conjunction with the Navy’s Submerged Test Engineering Platform operation. They were working together at the Brooklyn Naval Yard facility until military spending was curtailed and the Yard had to be closed; thereafter, the Navy has been using our undercover training grounds as a base for STEP in this area.

“One of our men has been accepted by STEP’s marine mammals, and now serves part-time as their trainer. If we didn’t have him there, the Navy would probably furnish enough men; but he’s one of U.N.C.L.E.‘s best frogmen, and I know he can position four harbor seals around that pier in an iron pattern. You couldn’t slip past his seals even if you knew where they were. He, and one of the animals, can take you in from the sea to any point you name. While you’re about your business, they’ll be on guard waiting for word.”

“Great. I can get to Jamaica Bay in a few minutes by copter. While I’m getting my land team ready, I’d appreciate your help in alerting STEP’S U.N.C.L.E. operatives that we want to mount a top priority mission within the hour.”

As Napoleon stood up, Waverly spoke.

“You’ll lead them yourself, then?” he asked. He didn’t need to mention the night’s work and the ravages Napoleon had sustained so far.

“As Chief Enforcement Officer…”

“Mr. Solo, I know your responsibilities. But I hardly need point out that you’ve put your body through a rather brutal evening and it could probably use some rest. An undersea expedition just now would be most difficult, finishing up with an unpredictable but potentially dangerous reception at the hands of Thrush.”

“But I’ve come down through that trapdoor, and I know exactly what it looks like. I know the layout of that Space House, and the size force we’re likely to encounter. You can

send another man in if you wish, sir, but in my opinion a little local anesthetic will numb these cuts. This display isn’t a shaving nick compared to what those Thrushes will do to Illya if we muff our attack.”

Waverly cleared his throat, frowning. “There is no question of removing you from the operation, unless you elect to place yourself on sick call. If your condition degenerates to the point that someone else must perform that service for you, it will be the first time in your career. You must pick the man best suited for the job, and I can do nothing but remind you not to involve the United States Navy in any way.” Waverly and Solo looked at each other, and both understood.

As Napoleon left, Waverly continued to work on his pipe and to pace. He waved to Dr. Angers to sit in his chair, and the pacing continued while Angers made arrangements for the task force Napoleon had requested.

Below, Napoleon strode into laboratory 17C to find Matt and eight men sitting and smoking, waiting for him. He greeted all of them, and went right to the end of the room where Illya had demonstrated the 315 data-display optical device. He stared at it for a few seconds, and then started moving his hands over the console as Illya had done. Power came up, and he got a picture.

“Gentlemen, here is New York City. With a few adjustments we can focus in on Long Island. So. The computer can then take us close in, expanding the aerial view to show just the south part, near Lower Bay.” He talked more smoothly, finding the controls relatively simple when once started.

“Now, with this two-mile stretch of Coney Island in view, I think we can discuss the assault. Here, near the roller coaster, is an amusement pier with a sprawling funhouse at one end.” The maps, drawn by cathode rays from digital photograph recordings, could only show major topographical features where Napoleon wished he could have the original photographs. He noticed sadly that there were no golden blips on the screen-but it was hardly likely Thrush would let Illya keep his tracer once inside the funhouse.

“You want us to crash a funhouse, Chief?” asked Matt.

“I want you to come down on this beach in a skirmisher’s formation, and half-circle the funhouse. From as far away as you can see each other, I want you to wait in the sand for my signal. When you get it, you’re to move in close, tighten up the circle approximately here, so the nine of you will be only five or six yards apart”-he used a pencil to point to positions on his automatic map, relative to the pier -“and turn on the full Flush Routine.”

“Just get ‘em out?”

“Right. We have no reason to do anything but detain anyone coming out of there. Later, we may get them on charges of kidnapping, illegal possession of weapons, and a dozen others; right now, we want to get in and get Illya out of there. I’ll be hitting them from behind, off a submarine, and trying to give them good reason to let you flush them.”

“And what’s the signal?”

“If things continue all night as they’ve been going, every light in that building will be on when we get there. If so, and if I don’t have to resort to flares or an explosion to notify you, I’ll tell you to strike by simply turning all those lights out.”

His men grinned as they pictured the scene. “Lights out,” said Matt, “and we turn on our floodlights and bullhorns, and invite the gentlemen outside for a little parlez-vous.”

The unit was on its way out their assault exit, fully armed and equipped, when Napoleon strapped himself in the U.N.C.L.E. copter’s jump seat. The pilot hovered for a moment near the Pan Am building to avoid the flight pattern of the commercial chopper from Kennedy Airport, then he stood his little machine on its side and put on full speed across the river. Fifteen minutes after leaving Matt and the land task force, Napoleon was debarking from his helicopter near the north, seldom used gate of Floyd Bennett Field in Long Island.

Section IV : “All’s well that ends.”

Chapter 13

“Is there a Berlitz course in Seal?”

BEFORE THE copters blades stopped, two dungareed sailors blocked down the wheels, and a bright young ensign helped Napoleon to the ground.

“Do I have to request permission to come aboard?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the ensign. “And the nearest fantail is across the harbor in drydock, so you don’t have to salute anything, either. But they’re waiting for you in the Sea-Lab area, if you’ll come with me.”

They took a jeep across the tarmac and through the air-base’s north gate, the ensign driving with Napoleon hanging on in the passenger seat. A nearly invisible path of dry, level earth led through the marshland north of Bennett, facing Jamaica Bay, and took them on a roundabout path curving through mazes of low trees that hid them from the base and the nearest civilian housing. The young ensign pulled up abruptly, with his lights picking out a single long building painted battleship gray. He got out first, and almost made it around the jeep to hold the other door before Napoleon shook himself free of the panic handle and got out unaided.

“Through this door, sir,” he said, unlocking the building. “We will be met before we penetrate to the training rooms.”

Once out of the cold they found themselves in a long

corridor with no interesting tourist attractions. Their shoes echoed dully along asphalt tile, blending with a steady vibration almost below hearing level from all sides. The whole establishment seemed alive with sounds of steady activity and a beating of ocean. Nothing relieved the sound and the monotonous color scheme until they had traveled half the length of the corridor, when the far door opened.

The ensign kept on up to within three paces of the man who entered, and saluted smartly, getting a friendly nod in return.

“Mr. Solo, this is Lieutenant-Commander Bransen. He’s the U.N.C.L.E. representative in STEP’s program and will accompany you from here.” He turned to go, visibly fighting an urge to salute Napoleon.

The new escort was a tall Norwegian in dark-blue denim trousers and an ancient-looking sweater. He seemed to wear his rank lightly-he looked more like a fisherman plying the herring trade in some sub-zero fjord than a Navy officer. “Call me Gus,” he said, holding out one big hand in greeting. “We’re all ready to get the show on the road, as soon as you and I suit up. How would you like to go to the check-out area by way of the zoo?”