Текст книги "The Corfu Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"I think so," he mumbled, and accepted the loan of her arm to sit upright. His head thumped like a brass bell filled with mud. The old woman stared fearfully at him as he put delicate fingers to his head. There was a tender place at his temple and his finger tips came away red.

"The doctor has been summoned," she told him. "He will be here soon. It was an assassin?"

"Something like that. You didn't see him, I suppose?"

"Me? Praise be to Heaven I did not. I was on the stair. I heard a shot, then another, and another. I remained still, and screamed. And I waited for some time, then screamed again. What would you? It is not good, to be shot. Then Jules came, with questions, and we waited a while more. All was silent. We opened the door and found you, like this."

Heavily deliberate steps crackled across the floor and an old man with a white moustache came to stand and stare down at him.

"He escaped, monsieur. Through the bathroom skylight and up. That was formidable! The window has not been opened since I can remember. Ah, the doctor comes now. Do you wish that I summon the police?"

Kuryakin had been thinking as hard as his aching head would permit. He declined this last offer.

"It would not achieve anything, would it? The man is away, and with no traces or description, what can we do? I also wish to leave very soon. I would rather not be delayed with many questions. You understand?"

He reached for his wallet to facilitate their understanding, and his fingers brushed a folded piece of paper that he had not noticed before. He put it aside, passed crackling bank notes to the staff, then seated himself on the edge of the bed to make the doctor's inspection easier.

"You were fortunate, monsieur," the medical man informed him, after the blood had been sponged away and the bleeding halted. "This much to one side—" he held a finger and thumb very close, "—and you would never have needed a doctor again." Kuryakin thought that over carefully. It must have seemed to his assailant that he had been shot dead. And possibly it would be a good idea to let him go on thinking that. At the leg wound the doctor looked grave, and shook his head.

"For that, you should be in bed for a week, at least. If it is not convenient here, I can arrange an ambulance and hospital for you."

"That's all right. Just fix it so that I can travel. It will be cared for but I have a very important appointment to keep. Please?"

The doctor departed eventually and Kuryakin, while appreciating his professional skill, was glad to see the back of him. He needed time to think. The crisp memory of a grim, snarling and murderous face, dreadfully familiar, shook up all his preconceived ideas. He reached for his communicator, then stared at it a long while before putting it back in his pocket unused. That was out. He recalled the defection of Frank Stanton, and the total revision of communication methods that had made necessary. Now Solo had gone bad too, with all the inside information he had. Kuryakin set his jaw hard. All at once he felt very much alone.

But there were other channels. He screwed his head round stiffly, to stare at the telephone and think hard, in an attempt to remember the proper routine. Then he rose and limped round the bed to get at it. On the way he saw a dark slim object lying along the edge of the carpet, easy to miss if the light hadn't caught it just right. He kept his eyes on it as he settled on the bed again, lifted the telephone from its bracket and asked for a LOUVRE number. In a while there came to his ear a male voice in a bad mood. Yes, it agreed, this was the UNCLE Carpets and Furnishings Emporium and Wholesale Dealers, but there was no one present at such an hour except himself, the night watchman, and what else would anyone expect? Kuryakin wasn't put off. UNCLE Carpets was the front for U.N.C.L.E. Paris in just the same way that U.N.C.L.E. New York had an innocent front office.

"You will please inform M. Raymond Boncourt that his elderly and very impatient avuncular relative wishes urgently to speak with him. Il y a un situation tres desagreable." There was a click and a wait of approximately forty seconds, then a totally different voice asked, cautiously:

"Volga?"

"Right. Seine?"

"Oui! 'Allo, Illya. Why the round-the-houses approach, mon vieux?"

"Because all other channels are dangerous. Very dangerous. Leaking."

"Oh! All the other channels? You are positive?"

"Confirm. It is very bad. The little Corsican has turned his coat."

There came an audible gasp of shock. "Bleu! That is very bad. And very hard for me to believe."

"Me too. I got shot, twice, finding out. I am most probably dead right now."

"Comment? Oh. I comprehend. You need a funeral cortege, yes?"

"Nothing elaborate. Just get me out of here fast. I have to get this sad news to Greatuncle as quickly as possible. What about flight times?"

"A moment!" The voice went away, came promptly back. "A flight leaving Orly in thirty-five minutes. That suit you?"

"That will do very well. Now bring on your ambulance and carry the body away."

With that fixed he racked the telephone and went to pick up the odd object he had seen. As soon as his fingers touched it he knew what it was, and that Solo must have dropped it in the struggle. To the innocent eye it was no more than a propelling pencil with an eraser. But that eraser served as cover for a very fine lens, and the clip was the trigger that operated the camera up to a maximum of twenty exposures on a cunningly arranged roll of microfilm in the barrel of the pencil. Kuryakin slipped the pencil-camera into his pocket and pondered a while. Then he recalled the folded slip of paper that he had felt in his pocket, and groped for it. He unfolded it very carefully, because the paper was extremely thin and opened out into a fair sized sheet. It was an odd wiring diagram, not too well drawn, and at the first glance it didn't make much sense. Kuryakin scowled at it. There would be plenty of time, later, to puzzle out what it meant. His immediate problem was to account for its presence in his pocket.

A wild thought insisted on being present in his mind. Perhaps Solo had not dropped his pencil camera by accident—but deliberately. And had added this enigmatic diagram at the same time. But why? It was tempting to believe that Napoleon was somehow playing both sides against the middle and acting some peculiar part, but there could be no doubt at all about his recent invasion. That had been intended murder.

Back in the office of M. Lafarge, Solo reported his success with a confident grin.

"Nothing to it. He gave me a fight, sure. I expected that. He was one of their best men. But not any more."

"You are absolutely sure?" Lafarge insisted.

"I didn't hang about for a medical report, if that's what you want. But I shot him I was as close to him as I am to you now. He went down. I waited, outside, to see the doctor come, and go away again, shaking his head. And then the meat-wagon came, and went. And so did I. What more do you want? He's dead!"

"Very well!" Lafarge shrugged. "I suppose it is fortunate that you were here to spot him. But unfortunate that now we shall not do business with the Soviets. That would have been profitable. Alas. Now, about this other matter. For two days you will remain under cover. Then, it is all arranged, you will fly direct to Miami Base, which is in Coral Gables. There you will be met. You will collect one dozen more radio-modules. You will leave again, almost at once, but you will not return here. You will proceed direct to Corfu, to Madame la Comtesse herself. These are her instructions. You understand?"

Solo looked up from cleaning his pistol and snarled angrily. "You bet I understand. I already knew all that, Louis."

"But how could you? The orders are sealed, and private to me!"

"Never you mind how, but I know exactly what the Countess wants from me, at any time. I just know." And he put up a hand to stroke the top of his head.

The little man with the busy steam-press in Del Floria's had to look a second time, and grin, before he was sure that it was Illya Kuryakin. The golden straggle of moustache and beard was bad enough, to say nothing of the bulky jacket and hairy pants, but what put the topper on it was the rakishly askew circlet of white bandage around his head. The little man widened his grin, opened his mouth for a brisk comment, then met the glacial stare in those blue eyes and forgot entirely what he had intended to say. Instead, he manipulated the trap that released the robing room panel; and wondered in silence just what the hell Illya had run into this time?

A similar stifled twist of amusement showed on the lips of the pretty receptionist as she pinned a badge on Kuryakin's lapel.

"I'll tell Mr. Waverly you're on the way up," she said, and her finger was on its way to the intercom automatically until he stopped her.

"You won't," he said coldly, "use that. You won't do anything at all until you hear directly from Mr. Waverly, which will probably be by telephone. This is an emergency. The condition is black!"

He walked stiffly away from her, fighting the tendency to limp. His leg ached. His head hurt. But that was only the minor stuff. There was a fire in his mind that he could hardly wait to unload. For once in his uncertain career he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing Alexander Waverly completely surprised.

"Mr. Kuryakin! You should still be in Paris!"

"Let us hope that a certain interested group of people also think so, and believe that I am, permanently. Don't touch anything yet, sir. I have to report that Thrush has got Napoleon Solo. Alive!"

For a long breathless moment the lead-lined office crackled with an utter silence. Then Waverly sighed and sat back.

"Have they, indeed? Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin, you look weary." He took up his desk telephone, pressed a button on it, and spoke. "Miss—close all forms of communication to and from this office except this telephone line to you that I am now using. Then issue firm instructions to cease all outgoing messages of any kind until I personally countermand that order. Is it understood? Good. Now, Mr. Kuryakin, I fancy I can guess what you mean by saying Thrush have got Mr. Solo, but I would prefer that you told me. In full detail, please."

The old man was a good listener. Apart from one early move, to reach out for a pipe to fondle in his sensitive old hands, he kept quite still. His leathery face remained impassive, his eyes down turned and half-closed, and he asked no questions until the account was complete. Then,

"There can be no doubt it was Mr. Solo?"

"None at all. I had some doubts, myself, at first. It is possible to fake likenesses, to impersonate with care, but you can't fake the way a man moves, or handles himself in a fight. That was Napoleon, all right."

"Hmm!" Waverly sighed again. "May I see the exhibits you've brought?" Kuryakin dipped into his pockets while the old man took up his telephone. "Send Mr. Cronshaw along to this office at once, please!" At the reply, he added:

"Advise him that it is to do with his new pencil-camera device, and to bring appropriate equipment."

He took up the pencil, put it down again, brushed his finger over the paper diagram, was about to ask a question when he saw the three extra objects lying to one side.

"Bullets?"

"Yes, sir. I thought it worthwhile to extract those that were fired in the room. We can compare them with the rifling-pattern of Napoleon's gun, which ought to be on file. I'm sure it was him and his, but it can't do any harm to confirm."

"Agreed. But these would at once confirm one thing, at least—that his intentions were lethal."

"That's what puzzles me, sir. I've tried to believe that he was playing some kind of trick, but hardly with real bullets. I'm afraid there is no doubt about it. He was out to kill me."

The words were not easy to say. Waverly nodded in sympathy. He knew better than anyone just how close these two men had been. Kuryakin was something of an enigma to everyone, and Solo had managed to get closer to him than anyone else. Now he had turned renegade, Kuryakin was, in a real sense, utterly alone.

Jeremy Cronshaw came briskly in, carrying a developer-projector outfit, and took up the camera-pencil without further word.

"This won't take more than a minute or two," he announced. "This is a fast developer film, in here. I'll be able to project it for you right away, soon as it's dry." His busy fingers made skilful movements under a black velvet shroud, then there was a hum as he switched something on. His sharp eyes wandered to the much creased paper.

"What's the diagram, Illya?"

"I'm not sure. I studied it a long time, on the flight. It seems to be some kind of communication wiring, but badly drawn."

"It's a mess." Cronshaw sniffed and studied it. "Doesn't mean a thing unless you know what values to insert here and here. Could be a kind of transceiver, though. Without the power source. Excuse me." He straightened as the humming stopped in his machine. After a few more dexterous moves, he requested the lights to be dimmed and switched on his projector, aiming the picture at a small screen on the wall. It took a moment to get the focus, then they all saw a foreshortened picture of a head, seen from a point about three feet above the forehead. By the hair, it was the head of a woman, but there was one small patch where the head had been shaven clean.

The next picture showed the same head, but where there had been a patch of bare skin, there was now a dark orifice.

"A cranial operation!" Waverly murmured. "At a guess this must be some work done by Countess Louise. The next picture, Mr. Cronshaw!"

This time the screen showed a chart similar to those hung up for the benefit of anatomy students. It was of the human head in outline and profile. An arrow pointed to a specific area of the skull, on the top of the head. The next picture was once more a head, but this time in full-face, and again the arrow pointed down at the top of the skull. One more picture, and this time both Kuryakin and Cronshaw leaned forward excitedly.

"That's the diagram again!" Kuryakin declared.

"Right!" said Cronshaw; "but this time the values are properly put in. And you know what?"

"I know." Kuryakin sighed. "It's that damned radio-module thing. Any more pictures, Jerry?"

"Soon find out." Cronshaw moved switches, but the rest of the film was blank. He switched off, restored the lights. Waverly blinked, then his face contorted into a frown.

"Have you two seen something I've missed?"

"I've seen it," Kuryakin said, very quietly, "but I don't know that I can believe it, entirely. Except that I recall, now, while I was fighting with Napoleon, I had his head and was banging it against the leg of the bed. And he had a small, round bald patch, just where it would show in that film. Jerry, that module doesn't need a conventional power source, does it?"

"No. It's designed to function from body heat. I know what you're thinking, Illya, but it's fantastic. You can't just stuff a thing like that into a man's brain!"

"Perhaps you can, at that. Could we have Dr. Harvey in here, sir? This is something she could pass an opinion on."

"Of course." Waverly took up his telephone again and gave the order. Then he gripped his pipe for a moment in bleak thought. "I believe," he said, "that I am guessing what you two are thinking. That somehow that woman has discovered a way of inserting one of those modules into a human brain in such a way that she can exercise remote control by virtue of the matching other. And you," he looked at the Russian, "believe that Solo has one in his brain at this moment?"

"It would explain a lot, sir. If it's possible."

Susan Harvey came in with brisk professional step, took one keen look at Kuryakin and made instant and appropriate movements with her black bag.

"Hold it, Dr. Harvey." The Russian halted her. "You can look me over later. Right now we'd like you to see some pictures. Jerry?"

They waited until she had seen all the film and the lights were on again, then Waverly took up the thread.

"The suggestion is, Miss Harvey, that something could be, and has been, inserted into the skull of a living person in the manner shown. Would that be possible?"

She took her time before answering. "I would prefer time to look this up before being dogmatic about it, of course, but offhand I would say yes, it is possible. So far as surgery is concerned, the brain is a special case. It is not sensitive to pain, and large areas of it are apparently without function. Patients have survived extensive brain surgery, have had large areas of the brain removed, in fact, and been no different. In the case shown, the arrow appears to be indicating the pineal area. Virtually nothing is known about the function of the pineal organ. If it has a function at all, which is doubtful. In structure it resembles an eye. There is a persistent but quite unfounded superstition that it is a kind of 'third' eye. It has been believed, at various times, that it is through the pineal eye that the soul and body are joined. It's safer to say that we know very little about it, or what purpose it serves. As for inserting something in the skull just there, that would be simple enough. It would depend on the size and nature of the insertion, of course."

"The thing we have in mind," Kuryakin said heavily, "is about half an inch long and the caliber of an ordinary pencil lead. It's a miniature transmitter-receiver, powered by body heat."

"In its military usage," Cronshaw added, "the man in the field would have it taped to his jawbone so as not to interfere with his movements. It's designed to convert into audio frequencies."

"That's rather beastly." Susan Harvey repressed a shiver. "I suppose someone with that thing in his head would hear voices."

"He would hear commands. Instructions," Kuryakin declared, with sudden inspiration. "And he would obey, or suffer. Imagine what a simple power boost would do! And the person at the other end, the controller, would be able to listen in and hear everything that went on, all the time!"

"Well," Waverly sighed and put down his pipe, "at least we know this much, then. Mr. Solo is in the hands of the enemy, but not willingly. He is under compulsion by this fiendish device. The next question must be, how do we get him back?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

AS the whole of the efficient organization that was U.N.C.L.E. seethed into fervent activity to deal with the problem, Waverly was at pains to make one point clear.

"We want Mr. Solo back," he said, facing a team of experts from all sections, "preferably. But failing that, he must be killed. He is much too dangerous to be left in that woman's hands." It was a bitter decision and there was more than one sympathetic glance for Illya Kuryakin, but no one questioned the correctness of it. The United Network Command was too important to be risked for the sake of one member.

For two days, Kuryakin did less than anyone. Try as he might, his brain was too bothered by various factors, and in any case he was in urgent need of rest and recuperation from his wounds. Susan Harvey attended him as often and regularly as her time would allow, but he was difficult, both as a patient and as a person. In neither valence would he render any clues as to his feelings. Never, she felt, had she made less impression on a man. It was as if she was transparent, as if he couldn't see her, no matter how carefully she tried to make herself pleasant and attractive. He had interest in two things, and two things only. One was for news that Solo had been sighted. The other was for some outcome to the ceaseless quest for some efficient way of getting that telltale module safely out of Solo's head, if and when they did manage to catch him.

Answers to both came in quick succession on the evening of the second day. Kuryakin had taken up residence in one of the spare small apartments within the crumbling brownstone facade, so as to be on hand in the event of any news. Susan Harvey had come to visit him, ostensibly to change his bandages but in secret fact to try out on him the effect of her newest and most brief mini-dress. She had long and extremely attractive legs, and she knew it. He would have known it too, had he taken the trouble to look, but he didn't. She sat, now, directly opposite him and crossed her lovely legs with deliberate abandon. Then she sighed and shook her head in despair.

"All right!" she declared. "I'll tell you!"

"Hmm?" Resounded indifferent. "Why?"

"Jerry Cronshaw made me promise not to, because it's still in the uncertain stage, but he thinks he is getting close to a way of jamming the output of those modules with a directional beam."

"Hah?" Kuryakin sat forward at once. "That's more like it. If we can catch him, and jam the signal effectively until we can get him operated on—the operation is straightforward enough, isn't it?"

"Nothing to it," she declared. "I can do it myself."

"That's great!" The change in him was startling. She felt a twinge of sharp envy that he could care so much more about his friend than he did for a woman—meaning herself.

"He really means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

"It's not that, exactly." His grin was instantly wry. "It's just that he's not safe, running around on his own, and with that radio voice inside his head there's no telling what he might get up to."

"Oh well." She took courage from his flippancy. "If you're feeling that much better, how about going out somewhere this evening, to celebrate?"

"Celebrate what?" he asked pointedly. "The redundancy of female attire? You can't surely be serious about going out in that?"

"Why not?" she demanded, tugging ineffectively at an almost nonexistent hem. "What's wrong with it?"

"There isn't enough of it to be wrong. You'd be arrested!"

"All right!" she shrugged. "We'll stay in and celebrate, then..." Her suggestions trailed off as the telephone shrilled for attention. Waverly's voice came.

"Mr. Kuryakin? Is Dr. Harvey with you? Good. I want both of you in my office, a once, please."

"Is it Napoleon?"

"I think so."

"We're on our way!"

Waverly's outer office was full of silent grave-faced attentive men. Number One, Section One, waiting until the new arrivals were settled, swept them with a steady gaze.

"The wheels are beginning to turn," he announced. "Last night another military center was raided and another consignment of the radio-modules was taken. This time we have had instant cooperation from the military as to critical wavelengths, and those modules will be useless to whoever has them. That is by the way. We know where they are. At this moment they are being held within Thrush-Miami head quarters. Our man on the inside informs us that the Thrush station is standing by for an important courier from Paris, who is to collect the modules and carry them to Corfu. We believe we know who that courier will be."

He swiveled to snap his fingers and the display screen lit up to show detail of a rambling old house in Coral Gables, standing in semitropical grounds.

"If it's Solo, we are going to have one hell of a job snatching him out of that rat's nest," a deep voice declared.

"That is not the intention, here. If, as I think, it will be Mr. Solo, our strategy will be to let him enter, make his pick up, and leave again. We will take him later. A point to stress. This operation must be done with great care. For one thing, we must operate completely outside our customary style, in a completely unorthodox manner, because we are dealing with a man who knows all our routines. For that same reason we cannot afford to use anyone who is known to him by sight."

"That won't work!" Kuryakin objected instantly. "Napoleon knows just about every enforcement agent on the staff. All the top rank men, anyway. If we pull out all of them we might as well quit right now. We'll be so crippled, we won't stand a chance!"

Waverly half closed his eyes, stroked his jaw with his pipe stem as he weighed the objection, then shrugged in resignation.

"Very well, we will have to make do with very careful and elaborate disguises. Now for the essential strategy. I'll sketch it, and if anyone can suggest improvements, please interrupt as we go. We have very little time to waste."

Napoleon Solo sat back in the taxi, apparently quite at ease, but in fact very much on the alert. The pick up operation had gone very smoothly, just a trifle too smoothly for his peace of mind. Surely there should have been some sign of opposition? The cab crossed the Tamiami Canal, and once again he could see the airport lights.

"I'm certainly sorry I couldn't stay awhile and visit with you boys," he said. "You seem to have a nice place here. In the daylight, they tell me, the scenery is pretty good too!"

"The way I heard it," one of his escort chuckled, "the scenery is kind of outstanding where you're going, too. They say the Countess is a real dish! What's your word?"

"I'll tell you." Solo grinned. "You take Helen of Troy and the Queen of Sheba. Then you add in those two Italian lulus, Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia. Then Brigitte Bardot, the best parts of Jane Mansfield and Liz Taylor. Stir and save the cream, and you aren't even close!"

"I don't wonder you're in a hurry to get back. How's about asking us all out there for a vacation, sometime?"

"The expenses come high, but I'll give it a mention."

The cab swayed, slowed and halted. The small group climbed cautiously out and looked around.

"This is too easy," one of them muttered, as they formed an apparently casual but efficient surrounding escort for Solo. "I was half hoping some of your U.N.C.L.E. buddies would want to horn in. They must be slipping!"

"Just goes to show!" Solo made a throwaway gesture. "Without me—nothing! I bet they don't even know I'm here."

No one offered to call him on the wager. The little party halted at the edge of the landing field.

"This is it," said the man in charge. "Our job is to see you on the plane, that's all. And there it is!"

"Right!" Solo kept his grin, squeezed down on the sudden tension that gripped him, and made a goodbye gesture. "See you again, sometime."

He set away to walk across the open space. His eyes were constantly moving. He saw nothing suspicious. Neither did his sharp-eyed escort. They were not meant to. But he had instincts, and they were tickling him now. Nor were they false. Ever since landing he had been carrying, unwittingly, three unobtrusive electronic bugs, planted on him by disguised agents. From that moment, attentive monitors had listened in on his every word and, by cross-reference, had been able to pinpoint his location at all times.

Those three "fingers" pointed unerringly at him now as he dawdled across the open, so as to be the last passenger aboard. In this moment the haunting, echoing, nightmare "voice" in his head was mercifully silent. He knew "she" was there, though. He had never been able to forget it, right from the moment the needle had first entered his skull. Silent, painless, yet in some uncanny fashion always there, like a never-ending tension in his head.

He was almost to the gangway now, and no one anywhere in sight. The last straggle of passengers had vanished into the dark doorway up there. He swept one last glance around, wishing his nerves would ease off a little. It was hard to be easy and nonchalant when every instinct he had was screaming a warning. He mounted the tread and ran lightly up the slope, pausing at the top to turn and wave to the watchers he couldn't see but knew were there. It was done. He had made it. He turned to step inside.

A slim, very erect figure moved out of a side door and stood facing him, obstructing the way. A man all in black, even to the jet-black hair and Mephistophelean beard. Only the blazing blue eyes and chill grin remained to give him away. Solo stopped as if he had walked into a concrete post. Ice touched his nerves.

"You!" he gasped, and in that second an infernal buzzing started up in his skull, making him cringe, blurring his vision. "You!" he croaked. "But—I shot you, didn't I? In Paris?"

"So you did, Napoleon." The familiar voice came cold and firm over the hellish racket in his skull. "So you did. And now it's my turn!"

Solo snatched for his weapon, but it was also his turn to be too late. The pistol in Kuryakin's fist spat once, and Solo felt the pang, right in the middle of his forehead. It spat again, but he never felt that one at all. He sagged slowly forward, unseeing and uncaring. Kuryakin caught him gently, settled him over one sturdy shoulder, turned and went, heavy-footed, to where the aircraft's emergency escape hatch stood gaping open ready. It was on the far side of the cabin from the watchers. To the pop-eyed passengers he offered a genial grin.

"It's quite all right, folks. This is only a film sequence for a TV show. Won't keep you more than a minute. Fun, isn't it?"

Beyond the open hatch, down there on the concrete, stood a pickup wagon, all ready. A couple of husky agents stood on its roof. They reached up for the Russian's limp burden, lowered it gently down and inside, then made room for him to jump down himself. Seconds later the wagon rolled away, swiftly and silently, to a far corner of the airfield. There a charter plane stood, propellers clicking over. Ten minutes more, and the plane was airborne over Hialeah and heading north.

CHAPTER NINE

PART of the aircraft cabin had been set aside as an emergency operating room. Solo lay inert on the narrow bed as Susan Harvey checked his pulse and respiration and announced herself satisfied. Waverly and Kuryakin were standing anxiously by.

"It's going to be all right," she said. "You planted the anaesthetic darts just right, Illya. He'll be ready in a moment or two."

"You'll be able to locate the exact spot of the insertion?"

"No trouble to that, Mr. Waverly. Here, you can see for yourself." She lifted the unconscious man's head and showed where a small flap of skin and hair could be lifted up easily. "Plastic plug in place. I doubt if I'd have to use instruments, other than a small pair of forceps. Still, I'll scrub up and do it thoroughly."