Текст книги "The Assassination Affair"

Автор книги: J Hunter Holly

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Solo stared up the ladder in amazement. Gloryanna touched his arm. "That's only Mr. Saturn."

Solo winced. "Oh, no. Does he always talk that way?"

"He's a great actor, Napoleon. Very artistic. You'll see." Solo was afraid he would see, and waited for the sight, his right hand ready to slip out his gun. But the figure that appeared on the ladder relaxed him. First came ankle-high felt boots; next a pair of off-blue trousers; then a black, gold, and red striped dressing gown. The man's head came next, underlined by a silk ascot. Mr. Saturn leaped the last few rungs and landed grace fully beside Solo. His left hand flourished an eight inch cigarette holder with a dead king-size cigarette in the end of it.

Solo estimated Saturn's height at six-foot-six, and his weight barely one-seventy. The man was so thin that one good knotted fist to the stomach would go straight through and break his backbone. His head was long and his face lumpy with bones, his artificially silver hair dropping across his temple in dramatic style. He was a caricature, something dug up out of a theater trunk.

Saturn said, poutingly, "I called out but you failed to answer. I really must insist on knowing your business here. The theater is not open."

"Oh," Solo said, then lied, "I wasn't aware of that. But I can't say I'm sorry because I did manage to meet you. You can't be anyone but Mr. Saturn, himself." Solo firmly believed that with this type, flattery would open all doors.

"Saturn at your service." The thin man bowed. "But you, sir – who are you? The young lady, I already know."

Solo gave his name right out. If Saturn was a Thrush operative, he was low level. He was surely incapable of running a big project like Operation Breadbasket. There was only a self-satisfied gleam in his eye to mark him as easy prey for Thrush, an easy pawn. "I'm Napoleon Solo."

"An inspired name!" Saturn gushed. "An actor, naturally. I can tell by your stance."

"Mr. Solo isn't an actor at all," Gloryanna said. "He's -"

"A lover of the arts, only," Solo finished. "I was passing through Riverview, saw your signs, and hoped to see a performance. But you look a long way from opening night."

Saturn sighed. "Ah, yes. The tribulations. I came into town happily, balloons flying, banners streaming, and found only a morass of moroseness. It seems that the crops are failing or something. When doom sits upon the world, even drama must give way."

Solo's eyes still searched into the corners of the barn for anything that might be a lead. "You have a large company with you, judging by the trailers. It must be costing you a fortune to stay here inactive."

"True, Mr. Solo. I have a good-sized group of men. Most of them aren't performers, of course. They are stagehands, etcetera."

"It's a one-man show, then?"

"Not at all, dear sir. We have many, many acts. Tumblers, strong men, poetry readings, ballet, bits of classic drama, everything worthwhile. We use local talent where we can find it. I personally asked your delightful companion to read one of our roles, but she refused me."

Gloryanna blushed. "I'd be petrified."

"You'd be glorious, my sweet," Saturn said, and leered at her.

"Come now, Mr. Saturn," Solo said, "You can't travel a show like this without trained actresses. You must have a woman in your suitcase somewhere."

"They have a woman, all right." Gloryanna said it almost angrily. "Some kind of super woman. I think she really does come from the moon, the way she walks and the way she looks."

"Thank you, dear child," came a voice from the loft. "You just keep on thinking that."

Solo stared up the ladder again and this time the figure coming down was no caricature. It was all woman, her long legs swathed in the silk of full-legged lounging pajamas, her magnificent breasts barely contained by more of the silk, her wrists rattling with beads. She came down the ladder facing forward so each step was sensuous, snakelike, as she leaned back for balance. Black hair cascaded to her waist, and black eyes gleamed from behind long lashes. She was the first truly aware woman Solo had met since Rachel had run from him, and he turned his interested smile full on her.

Saturn stepped between them with one of his grand gestures and introduced them. "Napoleon Solo, this is Galaxy Talbot. A truly fine talent."

"Obviously," Solo said.

Saturn cleared his throat. "She is a fine ballet dancer." Solo grinned hard at the woman. "It seems to me that the last time I saw you it was pronounced belly dancer. And your name was something like Nasheba. I couldn't be mistaken."

Galaxy had moved away from the ladder, her head high, her body swaying, but now she stamped her foot. "You make me mad, Napoleon Solo! You actually saw me and remember me!"

"Why be mad at that?"

"My agent never told me I was so good I made a lasting impression. I would have stayed with my career."

"But this engagement paid more?"

"Pay! In this place?"

A hand tugged at Solo's sleeve. It was Gloryanna, her eyes fixed hatefully on Galaxy. "We'd better go now, Napoleon," she whispered urgently. "I have to get the car home."

"Not yet. I've only begun to soak up the atmosphere."

"There's nothing here to see," she insisted.

"Patience, Gloryanna." Solo pried her hand loose. "A few more minutes."

"Well, I'm leaving! I'll go find – you know who. He'll pay attention."

Gloryanna was stamping out the door before Solo could stop her. He let her go. Women seemed to be running out on him right and left lately, but it was always running to safety, so he felt relieved when she disappeared.

"Hates competition, doesn't she?" Galaxy said, tossing her long hair over her shoulder.

Mr. Saturn came forward with all of his commanding height. "Since your friend has left, Mr. Solo, perhaps you'd better follow. We have work to do and we're not open for business."

"Don't you dare kick him out, Saturn," Galaxy said. "He's the first human being I've seen in a week and I feel like having a talk."

Saturn waved his long-fingered, white hands. "Do it outside, then. All of our equipment is in here – costumes and everything – and I prefer not to have strangers wandering about."

Galaxy took off, too, and Solo had nothing to do but trail after her. Luckily she went through the length of the barn, so he had his chance to check around. Near the end of the building there was a door set in the wall, low, with steps leading down to it. It had to go under ground, into the hill on the other side. He spotted some freshly dug dirt at the edges.

"Where does that go?" he asked Galaxy innocently.

She didn't pause in her swaying steps. "To a root cellar or something. How should I know? I wasn't raised on a farm."

A new root cellar beside an old barn? He underlined the door on his mental list of things to examine more closely. There could be a shiny new laboratory down there. So far, that door and the paper were his only gains. Plus the fact that no one had yet made a hostile move.

They went down a ladder to ground level, where Solo saw abandoned stalls and stanchions for cows, and then stepped out into the sun. The brown fields were empty before them. Galaxy leaned against the barn, letting the sun bathe her face with gold. She already had a deep tan. Solo stared at her, at the empty fields, and back at her. Now was probably his best chance to investigate her and find out if he had a real bird in the hand or just some more window dressing. She could be part of the plot, or a pawn.

"How did you come to accept this job?" he asked, turning his interest in her full-on to make her talk.

"That wasn't hard. Their dancer ran off somewhere, I got a hurry-up call, rushed out here, and – vacationsville!

"You haven't performed yet?"

"Only on the streets of the town."

"I don't understand," Solo said.

"Every time I go into town, it seems to be a performance." She rolled her head back and forth, spreading the sun's rays evenly. "I have an audience just watching me obey the traffic light or walk down the street."

"I can understand that." Through the soft caress she gave him on the cheek, he continued the questions. "You've never performed with Saturn, then? Not anywhere?"

"Not once. We no sooner made our grand entrance when this drought came and killed our ticket sales."

"It's no drought, Galaxy."

"Then, whatever else it is that farmers are always fighting." She closed her dark eyes, bored. "A plague of locusts, maybe."

He thrust home the final test. "Not locusts, either. Perhaps thrushes."

"Well, birds, then. Honestly, Napoleon, I didn't come out here to talk about farming. I hate this place and I hate the sun and I want to come back to life. I thought you might help."

Solo took her arm and guided her into the shade on the other side of the barn. Her answers had run true. Even through the mention of Thrush. His work was obviously finished here for the moment. He was standing just opposite the place where the inside door led underground, and there was nothing to be seen from outside. The cellar, or whatever, was entirely under the barn hill and had no windows. He checked his watch. He'd better give Illya another hour for his prowling with the balloon. He sat down on the brown grass and pulled the woman down beside him.

"You've decided to pay me some attention, after all?" She smiled. "I really think you prefer big blondes."

"Not at all. It's hot and I'm tired and this is a peculiar setting. If you want my avid attention, why not do a little dance for me, love?"

"All right, Napoleon, but I'm warning you – what I start, no one else can finish."

Solo leaned against the barn and watched her begin the swaying and undulating that had first led him into the dismal little nightclub to see her perform. It was a perfect picture. The sun, the heat, the dark beauty of a dancer – he could squint and imagine the dead fields to be Arabian sand. He forced himself to relax and enjoy it, beating a rhythm for her. Illya was somewhere be hind that grove of walnut trees about five acres away, chasing balloons. And Illya had to have his time.

Chapter 11

"Illya Draws the Short Straw"

ILLYA SPED AWAY from the Flower Hotel, beating Solo and Gloryanna. When he reached the gateway to the big estate, he went on by, hunting for a place to hide the car. If the estate was crawling with Thrush agents, he wanted to remain anonymous as long as possible.

A quarter of a mile down the road he found a sign that read CATTLE CROSSING. By it was a little lane. He turned off there and made a sharp left to stop the car behind a high stand of sumac. He got out, already overly hot from being on the sunbaked road. He longed to abandon his jacket but didn't dare. He needed his pistol and the coat to cover it.

Following the cattle lane, he went onto the brown land. It was bare of trees. He had nowhere to hide if he needed it so he walked nonchalantly, hands swinging, his mouth pursed, ready to whistle an innocent tune. But he didn't whistle. He listened.

There was little to hear. Not even the sounds of birds. They had all left the fields and taken to the woods. He didn't blame them. Birds weren't meant for dead brown stalks lying on the ground.

He came to a fence, went through the ramshackle gate, closing it dutifully behind him, and headed for the barn roof he could barely make out and the grove of walnut trees. If the balloon was there, it was low and well hidden.

He strode along, forcing his legs to be fluid although his stomach was tensing wickedly. There was danger here somewhere. He felt it on his skin, on the nape of his neck.

He reached the walnut trees and buried himself in them, drawing some relaxed breaths as he was no longer an open target. The grove was two hundred feet deep and he traversed it quickly, liking the shade. He inevitably came to the end and in front of him was another field, barren and unearthly. Settled in the center was the balloon.

It was a giant, striped red, black, and gold, with a golden basket slung beneath. Tethered securely by two heavy ropes, it swayed as the breeze pushed it one way and then another. It was alone. That was his main concern.

He started across the withered grass and the balloon seemed peculiarly alive swaying before him. No one tended it, which was a bad sign. If it wasn't worth tending, then it probably wasn't worth investigating. But the golden stardust had to be the method of spreading the chemical. It made sense, and so little in this affair did make sense. First there had been Dundee, then Adams on his own terrible tangent, then these ruined farmlands. If everything led to the Cosmic Theater balloon, it was worthy of Thrush.

He approached the balloon, still walking easily in case there were unseen eyes on him. It hovered three feet off the ground, and when he touched the carriage, it tugged away from him. He scanned the ground for traces of stardust and found nothing.

"Anything you want, mister?" The voice came from behind him.

Illya turned quickly, knowing it was too quick for the part he was playing, but he was startled. A man was coming from the walnut grove – a big, battered man with the look of countless other Thrush apes he had dealt with before.

"That's rather up to you," Illya answered, settling composure on his face. "Are you giving rides?"

"Nope. Nobody's interested anymore but the kids. You like balloons?"

The man was beside him and Illya measured his own slight weight and height against the barrel chest of the other. He had to keep on with the charade. "Childish or not, I've always wanted to ride one. I never have. There aren't many around."

"How right you are. Had to have this baby made up on special order. I tell you, it's a great ride. Not like your airplane, where you're surrounded by metal. You just float around up there with the birds and clouds."

Illya caught hold of the basket carriage and pulled it to him, craning to peer inside, "That's how I've pictured it in my mind's eye." He was uneasy with his back to the big man, and held himself alert. There was no trace of stardust on the ground. Perhaps inside the basket – if he could manage to get inside, "I saw your ads in town when I was passing through, and decided, here's toy chance. I'm disappointed. Could you be persuaded for – say ten dollars?"

"Sorry," the man answered. He was at ease, and Illya gave himself an "A" for acting ability. "But get into the carriage and see how it feels, if you want. It sways a little bit." He opened a lock on the carriage and pulled the door wide.

Illya took the big step up, catching his balance against the sway. The carriage door closed and locked behind him. The basket itself was four feet deep, so he was only chest and shoulders above the top of it. He again scanned the floor for stardust, and it was again clean.

"Now," the man laughed, "I suppose you want to see the glitter. No" – he waved Illya's protest down – "don't be embarrassed about it. I've worked with carnivals too long not to know that expression – like when an adult is itching to ride the merry-go-round but hasn't got a kid with him for an excuse. So – see the glitter. It's stored in that metal box on the floor. Open it and pick up a handful."

Illya laughed and went to one knee in the swaying basket to get his prize. As he dropped, there was a sudden lurch of the basket, throwing him forward. He toppled on his face and scrambled to stand up, yelling, "Hey, out there! Take it easy!"

By the time he had regained his feet, he saw that there was no taking it easy anymore. The man had detached one mooring rope and was fast doling out the other. The balloon was rising. It sailed off the brown grass, the black, red, and gold bag taking the air like a bubble.

Illya walked gingerly to the edge of the carriage and peered down. He was already up thirty feet. He put a smile on his face, keeping up the pretense. "Did you change your mind, mister? Because if you did someone had better come with me. I don't know how to operate one of these things."

The balloon kept rising. Forty feet. Fifty. It jerked to a halt as the man pulled on the tether. He jumped nimbly out of Illya's sight under the basket and shouted up, "Throw your glitter, U.N.C.L.E. agent. Throw yourself out if you want. But you'll drop fifty feet and I won't pick up the pieces!"

Illya ducked into the shelter of the basket and drew his pistol. It had been a two-way game, then, with both of them playing innocent. He sneaked his head and gun up over the edge of the carriage, but immediately knew it was useless. The man was directly under the basket. He couldn't find him for a target. And worse – he heard the Thrush calling someone on a communicator. Pieces of the words reached him: "Got one of them… here fast... no sweat."

"We'll see about the no sweat," Illya muttered. He wasn't going to be trapped like a puppy in a Christmas stocking for very long. If his target wouldn't come to him, he'd go to his target.

He stared at the belly of the balloon, estimating what might happen if he shot a hole in it. As though in response, the shout came from below. "Don't bother trying to shoot the thing down, U.N.C.L.E. man. It's armored. A new process. Do you think we're stupid, or something?"

Illya didn't answer, thinking his own thoughts. Reinforcements were coming from Thrush, so he didn't have much time. He'd take the man's word that the balloon was invincible. There was another way.

He heaved himself onto the narrow edge of the carriage, setting up a terrible sway. He dangled one leg over the side, waiting for the balloon to balance again. If he could find a handhold and lower his body upside-down on the length of the carriage, he could get off a shot at his target underneath. If that failed, perhaps he could catch the tether and forcibly pull the great bag to the ground. He'd try the shot first and use the tether for his escape.

Grasping the rim of the basket with his left hand, he lifted his other leg and lay along the curved edge. He had to go head first or get a leg blasted through. There were loops imbedded halfway down the basket, holding the balloon onto it, and he could grab for one of those.

Using his knees to hold himself, he dropped his left hand down to one of the loops, and caught it, and grasped it hard, damning the heat-sweat that broke out all over him and threatened to reduce his grip to nothing. He slithered groundward, changing his hold from his knees to his feet, keeping firm with the left hand on the loop. It was working, but using all of his breath. If he could get down to a toe-hold on the basket rim, he'd have one chance at a shot. He slid his feet cautiously, catching with the laces of his shoes, ready to slither the rest of the way.

The man below him, like some devil out of a nightmare, tugged on the tether rope, flailing it back and forth. The basket lurched and Illya lurched with it, his feet slipping, his left hand and arm twisted and burning with pain, holding him up, but barely.

A movement started in his left breast pocket and his communicator slipped out, falling like a silver dart to the brown grass. He couldn't even grab for it. Fighting to keep himself from the same fall, he floundered about with his legs, holding his body stiffly upside-down in a one-hand-stand on the rope loop. His ankles caught the basket rim and he grabbed it. He tried desperately to get his gun back into the holster but it was useless, and without two hands, he was going down head first. With a terrible sigh, he let the gun fall. The man below would know he had victory for sure.

The drop of the gun was the signal for the man to stop shaking the tether and the balloon quieted. Illya took advantage of every second of equilibrium and heaved himself back up, using his right hand as a grappling hook. He was on the rim with his stomach, and then his chest. He dropped his feet inside the carriage and fell bodily, panting on the floor.

As he lay there, relieved to be alive, he reached over and flicked up the lid of the stardust box. It was empty. All this, and it was empty.

He sat up but didn't stand, wanting the protecting basket around him. The victors would come soon enough.

He wondered where Napoleon was. Probably, with his jaunty friend's good luck, he was basking in Gloryanna's smile and eating a homecooked meal while convincing her father that he was a sincere and harmless man who never noticed the tight fit of her red slacks.

Illya swallowed hard, searching for some moisture in his body against the terrible heat. He stared at the underside of the balloon and muttered, "I might at least have brought a box lunch."

–

Fifteen minutes later a little parade came from the direction of the road. Illya watched it with mixed emotions. It would be Thrush reinforcements, but it would also mean he could get down out of this baking basket. It consisted of a station wagon and a pickup truck, both fire-red and white, and it bounced across the dried fields.

He peeked over the edge of the carriage as the parade stopped and people emerged from the vehicles. The first man out was a cartoon character, tall and thin like something dragged out of a casket, dressed in blue trousers and a loud printed shirt that no corpse would tolerate.

The balloon man came out from under and said, "He's up in the balloon, Mr. Saturn. The neatest capture I ever made. He's unarmed, helpless, and hot as a piece of butter in the sun."

Mr. Saturn clasped his hands with a flourish. "Wonderful, Charles. Now we can play a bit."

Another, broader man emerged from the truck and came to Saturn. "Not long, actor-boy. The shipment has to go out tonight and there's a lot to be done, so we cant fool around." He was immediately backed by four more men, all recognizable as low-on-the-totem-pole Thrush muscles. Illya wondered at it. Why such an important operation as this crop killing affair was left in amateur hands, he couldn't understand. If Mr. Saturn was in charge, then Thrush hadn't planned well.

"I realize all of that, Barber," Saturn said, "and the shipment will go on schedule. But we can spare a few minutes to eliminate an U.N.C.L.E. agent, can we not? A few imaginative minutes?"

"Imagine away," Barber said. "I'll give you half an hour."

Saturn spurred himself into action. "Pull the U.N. C.L.E. man down and let's see what we've caught."

The balloon was yanked down, going in glides and spurts, and Illya stood up, making himself visible, noting the sudden appearance of guns in the hands of the six gorillas. The basket jolted against the ground, then was allowed to slide back to hover three feet high. Charles, the balloonman, opened the door, and Illya jumped out among his captors, returning their stares with his own noncommittal one.

Saturn towered over him. "Well, U.N.C.L.E. man, how does it feel to be in the firm hands of Thrush?"

"The same as it has felt a hundred times before," Illya said. He kept his hands quiet, away from his body, not wishing to call down a storm of lead.

"I must think of something appropriate for you." Saturn drew a thin hand across his hot forehead. "It may take a while. Can you wait?"

Illya focused his eyes on the guns for an answer.

Barber hurried Saturn. "You don't have time, actor-boy. Whatever you're going to do, do it. Dundee will be here before you know it, and if you're not ready -"

Saturn went slightly pale. "I detest that man, Dundee, wholeheartedly. He is vulgar and insensitive. But – tell me, Barber, what do you usually do with U.N.C.L.E. men?"

"Kill them," Charles said. "That's all they're good for."

"By hand?" Saturn was repulsed.

"By bullet," Barber said.

"Too plebian." Saturn peered down his long, long nose. "That's why you fail to be promoted. Thrush is noted for its evil imagination, and if I'm to keep rising, I must do something worthy of Thrush." He came close to Illya, studying him. "I had your cohort right in the palm of my hand this afternoon, young man. Right in the palm of my hand."

"I'll bet you did," Illya said, noticing and liking the use of the past tense. Obviously Napoleon hadn't been taken, and where there was a loose Solo there was always hope.

"Now, what is it you remind me of?" Saturn thought aloud, taking his time, pacing. He scanned the landscape. "We have here the elements of a climatic scene, if we can only piece them together. The backdrop – farmland. The leading character – a smallish man with a straw-colored mop of hair. Yes!" He stopped pacing and pointed a narrow finger at Illya. "You turned out to be a strawman despite your high-sounding U.N.C.L.E. position, didn't you? We'll let you play your role right out to the end."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Barber asked.

Saturn strode for his station wagon. "Bring him along. I want more seclusion than we have here. The back pasture, I think. It's sheltered by woods on three sides and – yes, bring him along."

Saturn was already in the station wagon when Illya reached it, surrounded by the ugly Thrush guns. He was pushed into the back and crowded by two burly men whose deodorant protection had already run out on them in the heat. The wagon bounced forward, took to a lane, and sped to the rear of the estate.

Illya spied the selected site before they entered it. It was a broad field, full in the sun, with forest rising on three sides and big rocks scattered in its dried grass. It had never been cultivated. He wondered what this frustrated Macbeth could have in mind?

The station wagon braked abruptly and Saturn had center stage again. "Bring him out into the field, right to the middle. Someone fetch two of those old fence posts" – he pointed to the place where the fence had fallen – "some strong wire, and some straw out of the truck."

Illya stumbled between the gorillas who poked at him with their guns. He saw a man coming with straw filling his arms. Three guards stood by him while the others gathered the posts and the wire. Illya had a queasy feeling that he could see into the future and knew what was coming.

"Okay," Barber said to Saturn. "You've got everything you ordered. Now what? And you don't have much time."

"Just a bit of work, Barber. Set the largest post up here – in the ground – and make a crosspiece of the other one. Wire it so it will support weight. Move this big rock and you'll have the posthole already started. It will save time."

"What the -?" Barber demanded.

"Use your mind, Barber! I said this U.N.C.L.E. agent was a straw man. Now we're going to let him become one – literally. A scarecrow!"

Barber's big face was smothered in confusion, then it split into a grin. "Scarecrow! Beautiful! I hand it to you, Saturn. It's beautiful. He can't scare Thrush, but maybe crows, huh? Get busy, boys. Make the rig for him."

"Yes, the rig." Saturn smiled, eating up the praise. "And the goodly hot sun will do the rest."

Illya moaned to himself. He had thought of dying many times, and of many ways of dying, but this – as a scarecrow in a dead field under the blaze of July sun? It wasn't worthy.

He had no time to pursue the pessimism because Saturn pulled his jacket off him, ordering the sleeves stuffed with straw. It was done, they dressed him again, and Saturn walked around pulling at bits of straw to make them stick out of his sleeves authentically. He bent and stuffed some into the legs of Illya's trousers.

"Perfect. Even Dundee will have to admire me for this," Saturn said. "You play your part wonderfully, Mr. – what was your name?"

"U.N.C.L.E. man," Illya said. "Remember?"

"If you really want to die anonymously, so be it. Every man has that right."

"The posts are ready," Charles called. "But I say he needs a little extra send-off. You can't just capture an U.N.C.L.E. agent and let him die in peace. You have to leave some evidence to scare the rest of them."

"Right," Barber echoed. "Let's make some physical contact. Give him some lumps to think about while he dies."

Saturn nodded. "Good thought. Without it, U.N.C.L.E. might think this elaborate death was just the aberration of an actor. Well, I'm no actor and they may as well know it now."

Illya stood between the two Thrush gorillas, felt their hands grab his arms, and prepared his body to take the pummeling it was going to get. He relaxed into the strong grip of his captors, leaning on them, so that when the blows came and his body recoiled, they would absorb some of the impact as they held him up. He consciously set his stomach muscles, positive that after a few smashes to his face the men would concentrate on his midsection. He adjusted his mind to think of the coming fists as no more than the hard throw of a medicine ball. But all the time he knew it wouldn't feel like a medicine ball at all.

The first fist darted for him, catching him on the cheek, and he rolled with it, but the second caught him full force. His mouth was hit and his teeth cut his lip, bringing salt and blood. He let his cries fall where they might. This was a good old-fashioned beating that didn't call for heroics, and he didn't care if they knew they were hurting him. Open hands and closed hands smashed into his face, and then, as he had guessed, they moved down to his stomach. The sun was unrelenting, his own sweat blinded his groggy vision, and he swayed.

Pound, pound, pound. And some vicious kicks. He couldn't accept it anymore and got off a kick of his own, well placed, that sent a gorilla rolling on the brown grass. For his effort, the kick was returned two-fold. His head wobbled on his neck and all that was holding him up were the strong hands of his restrainers.

"Enough," came the voice of Saturn. "I want a live scarecrow and you're killing him."

The beating halted, but Illya hung limply. Let them do the work, he thought. Let them lift him about. He wasn't using another ounce of his sparse energy.

Lift him they did. The cross bar wired to the fence post was run through the sleeves of his jacket and his jacket was buttoned across his chest so that he was hanging by his arms, limp, ragged, as a scarecrow should hang. His feet were tied to the main post and then Saturn was busy replacing the fallen straw. Saturn stepped back to survey his work, judging it perfect. Illya's arms dangled from the elbows at the point where the cross bar stopped supporting his jacket, his hair fell across his forehead, his neck was limp, and he spouted straw from arms and legs.