Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­10] - The Moby Dick Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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"Wish we could see a bit more," Ahab commented. "Of course it may clear by signal time."

Cleo St. Cloud sniffed. "I hope some silly RAF pilot doesn't bang into us, Victor."

Ahab said, "Yes, there are quite a few planes up. Poor nitwits. Trying to evacuate the entire city of London." He glanced across at Solo. "That must be Kuryakin's work, eh?"

Solo simply shrugged.

Ever since he wakened in a plain-walled room, his mind had been clicking frantically, hunting for a way to stop the devastation that would descend upon London in a roaring, gigantic wall of water.

Commander Ahab and his cohorts had managed to elude discovery because of the unique location of their airfield. It consisted of the top three floors of a grimy warehouse covering an entire city block. Long out of business, the warehouse displayed boards where window glass had once let in sunlight.

The floors of the top two stories had been removed, providing a chamber the size of a hangar. Into this Solo was led shortly after waking up. He boarded the aircraft, a stub-winged plane with a cluster of jetpods aft and a rotor-like arrangement on top, just behind the cock pit.

From the window of the lushly appointed interior, Napoleon Solo watched the motorized roof of the ancient building roll back. Commander Ahab, already aboard, discoursed on the marvels of THRUSH, particularly the development of a vertical takeoff aircraft no larger than the conventional business or private jet.

Straight up past the rolled-back roof the sleek plane shot, straight up into thin clouds. Then the aft jet cluster took over, thrusting them forward in a normal flight attitude.

They'd been aloft for a little less than two hours now. Solo had consumed two cups of tepid tea and munched one damp, leftover cruller served by the plane's steward, a THRUSH thug with a butler's striped vest which barely concealed the pistol in the waistband of his pants. This worthy was currently guarding the entrance to the cockpit, a few paces behind where Solo was seated.

The two other THRUSH minions, Hadkins and Blightsome, relaxed in another cove-shaped lounge at the rear of the cabin. Hadkins had his gun in his lap. He was reading an illustrated motor sport publication. Blightsome, however, had done nothing but glare at Solo all the time they'd been in the air. Blightsome's foot was a clump of white bandages, the result of Solo letting the Daimler fall on it that morning. Blightsome never let go of the butt of his pistol.

Now and then he gave Solo a humorless smirk to indicate that he was just waiting for his opportunity to enjoy a bit of revenge.

Three against one, even counting out Commander Ahab and Cleo.

Upon awakening Solo had also searched for his pocket communicator. Apparently they'd taken it from him while putting him into the flyer's coverall. He had to make a move somehow. And soon.

"I wonder—" Solo began. "My throat's getting dry."

Ahab clapped his pudgy hands. "Feeling the effects of tension at last, eh? Splendid, splendid! You U.N.C.L.E. types usually try to pretend you're constructed of stone."

Solo fixed a discouraged expression on his face. "I have a right to be tense. We've lost."

"Quite right," Ahab agreed. "Most gracious of you to admit it." He summoned the combination thug and galley attendant. "More tea for Mr. Solo, Thrasher."

"Hot this time, if you don't mind," Solo said. Now that he had decided to act, take a chance no matter how rash it might be, he felt a bit of his old aplomb returning. "The last two pots were about the same temperature as a retired vegetarian's showerbath."

Grunting at the insult, the galley man retreated behind a curtain. Solo heard the pop of a gas ring being lighted.

Pointedly, Solo stared again at the expensively veneered console panel which divided the cove seat across from him. The closed cover concealed the console's contents from view. Solo kept staring. Finally Ahab noticed.

With a flourish he touched a button. The console's lid snapped all the way back into the depths of the lounge seat, revealing a double row of bright-colored studs. Ahab's eyes sparked with pride as he waggled his fingers at .the control board.

"You've guessed, haven't you, Solo? Yes, this is the center from which I shall consummate Project Ahab. However, lest you get overly ambitious, hoping to jump over here and throw several of these controls to upset things—" Ahab paused significantly. "Blightsome? Come up here, please, and keep Mr. Solo covered at close range."

The Thrushman with the round lump of bandage on his foot limped up the aisle. The private plane's jets whispered eerily. Rags of thin cloud slipped past the fuselage.

Ahab indicated a large yellow button on the console.

"This is the control which will raise the curtain on our aquatic novelty act, Mr. Solo."

Solo eyed the malevolent-looking yellow thing. "How does it work?

"It broadcasts a signal on a frequency which is eventually picked up under the North Sea. In the event something should happen to me—a foolish attack on your part which would result in temporary struggle before Blightsome shot you—"

"The signal is so arranged that it is automatically relayed through the master control board of the Moby Dick cruising somewhere to the north of England. Thus the temporary commander aboard the sub can detonate the explosives also. By the same token, should something happen to his craft, and the charge fail to detonate because the sub and its relays were out of action, I have merely to set this—"

He indicated a purple button.

"—and we recycle for direct signal from our plane to the explosives. No middleman, so to speak. In addition—"

A bright blue button.

"—we have controls to abort the Moby Dick in its entirety—blow it up. And also—"

A black one.

"—to do the same to this aircraft. A whole range of checks and balances, you might say."

Solo licked his lips, staring at the controls just a short distance away from him. He realized it was a temporary checkmate. Commander Ahab's black eyes were slitted down, all humor gone. The THRUSH chief watched him speculatively.

Ahab wanted him to try for the control panel. Actually expected him to do so. Ten seconds ago, Solo had planned to do exactly that. He discarded the plan.

With a swirl of curtain, the THRUSH man appeared from the galley, carrying a silver serving tray. Blightsome reached across the aisle. He dragged a low taboret over between himself and Solo. The galleyman put down the tray. Solo picked up his cup.

The surly man took the teapot and begun to pour.

As the dark, rich liquid fell in a stream into the cup, the THRUSH agent managed to spill some of it onto the back of Solo's hand. It scalded.

"Hope it's warm enough for you," the man grunted, hardly able to conceal a snicker.

Solo's skin hurt ferociously. He was having trouble holding the cup. Ahab was peering out the window at the clouds again. The cup jiggled in Solo's hand. In that split second he realized that the THRUSH galleyman's deliberate ploy of burning him gave him the perfect opening.

He swallowed once, said a mental farewell to all the thousands of pretty girls in the world he'd never gotten around to meeting or kissing, and upset the teacup straight into Blightsome's face.

"Too blasted hot—" Solo yelled like a man confused. It was an act, a cover, misdirection. He dropped the cup and grabbed for Blightsome's gun, got it away from the startled, cursing man.

Solo used his knee to lift the taboret and tip it over with a clatter. The noise made the galleyman leap back in alarm. Commander Ahab was using both hands to shut the console cover, evidently believing Solo would go right for it.

Instead Solo jumped up, bashed the stumbling galleyman across the nose with the gun to drive him out of the way. He seized Cleo St. Cloud's wrist. "Sweetheart, it's time for you on stage again."

He thrust her forward. Squealing and clawing at him, she presented quite an obstacle to progress. But he managed to slide the cockpit door aside by reaching around her.

Inside the cockpit the pilot kept on the controls, while the co-pilot snaked a gun out of his harness. Solo shot fast. The man doubled forward, retching, a dark hole in his right cheek.

Behind him as he crowded through the cockpit door, Solo heard confused scrambling, profanity. He spun, starting to slide the cockpit door shut. He had a fragmented picture of Blightsome lurching in the aisle, face dripping scalding tea as he leveled his pistol. Solo was a fraction faster. His bullet took Blightsome in the middle and sent him rubber-legged and dying all the way back along the aisle to the plane's rear.

The slamming cockpit door muted Ahab's enraged bellows. Solo shoved past Cleo, moved to the right, out of the line of fire. To the pilot, a pasty-faced young man with fantastic eyes, he said, "Take this plane down. Land at the nearest airfield."

Carefully the pilot licked his lips. "No."

Solo had banked on this. "Take us down or I'll kill you where you sit."

"Shoot me," the pilot replied. "I refuse to obey your orders."

Distraught and sobbing, Cleo squealed again as Solo caught her wrist, dragged her forward to where the pilot could see her from the corner of his eye.

"This is Miss St. Cloud." Solo's lips were peeled back in an ungentlemanly expression. "She's Commander Ahab's little friend. Your commander grows very angry and does nasty things to people who damage his possessions."

The dart struck. The pilot's right cheek showed a muscular tic. Apparently he knew of Ahab's potential for wrath. Solo pressed on:

"Commander Ahab will do something very nasty to you, my friend, if I shoot Miss St. Cloud through the head. Which is exactly what I'm going to do unless this plane starts losing altitude."

Fear, uncertainty glittered in the pilot's eyes. Struggling, Cleo St. Cloud burst out, "It's a rotten bluff. Don't listen! An U.N.C.L.E. agent would never kill a woman—"

Wiggling his left hand around her head and down over her mouth, Solo managed to silence her. Cleo began gnawing on his fingers with considerable savagery. Solo tried to ignore this minor distraction and concentrated on the pilot. The man's cheeks were filmed with sweat as he tried to weigh his duty to THRUSH against his personal well-being, should his decision turn out to be responsible for the girl's sudden demise.

Solo had to keep the man from thinking too much. So he shouted at him: "Start this plane down right away or she gets it! Bam, bam!"

That jarred the man's nerve sufficiently. He took a deep breath, grasped the control wheel more firmly, inched it forward. The nose of the sleek jet began to drop into the tattered cloud. Solo took time to gulp a deep breath of air.

It was his only respite. With a horrendous jerk, the nose of the plane came up again. The pilot goggled. He hadn't moved the controls. Then understanding dawned. He tittered.

"Override controls in the rear," he said. "I forgot them. Commander Ahab is flying the plane. I can do nothing."

Desperately, Napoleon whirled around. He shoved Cleo St. Cloud out of the way, rolled back the cockpit door. A bullet chopped wood paneling out of the wall inches from his face as he dodged back. One glimpse had been enough.

The galleyman, not Ahab, was flying the plane. He was using a set of controls which were mounted to a pedestal that had apparently sprung up through the floor near the cove seat. Crouched beside him was Hadkins, the other THRUSH agent with the bowler. Hadkins' gun was trained on the cockpit. He had fired a moment ago.

The pilot yelled in terror. Solo craned around the door's edge once more, triggered a shot. Hadkins uttered a low shriek, spilled over' on his side. The galleyman, alone, turned white with fright as he held onto the auxiliary control wheel mounted in the pedestal. The air craft had leveled out but was bumping along somewhat erratically.

And where was Commander Ahab? Napoleon Solo couldn't see him anywhere in the rear compartment.

The galleyman kept one hand on the controls and reached for Hadkins' fallen gun with the other. Solo stepped through the cockpit door, wigwagged his gun muzzle.

"Both hands on the controls, please," he said.

The galleyman lifted his right hand back and fastened it on the auxiliary wheel.

Quickly Solo glided down the aisle. He stopped opposite the cove lounge seat. He kicked the top of the console with his heel. The lid snapped back. Then Solo moved to his right one pace. He jammed the muzzle of his gun down on the bright blue button and pushed.

Somewhere on the surface of the North Sea Solo imagined a tremendous mushroom gout of water, flame, thunder and spray as the THRUSH submarine blew up. "So long, Moby Dick," he breathed.

"A foolish gesture," said a voice in the rear. "Don't lift the gun!"

Solo kept the muzzle down hard on the blue button. Commander Ahab had thrown back the curtain surrounding the galley where he'd been hiding. He menaced Solo with a pistol. White straps crisscrossed his chest. He wore a parachute pack over his hastily-donned overcoat. His cheeks puffed in and out with rage.

"You have cost us billions of dollars, Mr. Solo. Billions!" Spittle streaked out with the words. "But your cheap little act of bravado cost you a moment's advantage—and that is what will lose the game for you and win it for us."

Ahab lashed out with his right foot. His toe hit some kind of electric control plate set low in the galley's outer door. Four explosive bolts popped. The door fell off and disappeared, tumbling down the sky.

Wind howled into the cabin as Ahab screamed, "There is another detonation device somewhere in London, Mr. Solo. It's in a place you could not possibly find in the time left. But I will reach it. I must, for THRUSH, even though I will drown with the rest of them. Good– by, Solo. I won't kill you because I want you to be alive at four-thirty for the last trick. Mine—"

Ahab whirled and plunged through the door.

Solo darted around the terrified galleyman, battered by the wind pouring into the cabin. He hung precariously in the galley's open door, looking below. A white circle bloomed just above heavy clouds, sank swiftly into them. He heard a brittle laugh, whirled.

Cleo St. Cloud stood in the aisle, clutching her midsection. A random patch of gray light from one of the windows caught her gold wristwatch and made it glitter. Her makeup was smeared. Rather blearily, she laughed again.

"I haven't got a parachute, Solo," she said. "But I wouldn't be any good playing prisoner the rest of my life, anyway. We all carry these, you know." She lifted her watch hand, tapped the crystal which flew back to reveal a small empty compartment "One pill each. I just took mine."

Raging, Solo ran forward, grabbed her arm. "Where is Ahab's detonator located in London?"

Cleo St. Cloud's face was rapidly draining of color. She wasn't faking. She had taken something.

"Good luck, dear man from U.N.C.L.E. You'll never find it—"

"But you know where it is?"

"Of course I do. Of course I know where—"

She clutched her midriff, choking. She fell onto one knee, gave Solo a last, twisted smile and flopped over.

The pilot was standing up in the cockpit, peering out, bewildered. The galleyman had raised his hands in the air. Apparently he didn't mind capture. With a start Solo remembered that no one was flying the aircraft. It began a sickening nosedive just at that moment. Walking forward, he aimed his pistol at the pilot. Solo's face looked haggard, skull-like. He pointed the pistol right between the pilot's feverishly watering eyes and said:

"Land this plane. And get on the radio and call London airport. There'll be a lot of traffic on the bands if they're trying to evacuate. But you get through. When you do, I'll give you a relay frequency. We're going to contact a man named Waverly. We're going to get an emergency medical team to stand by at the airport, no matter what effort it costs."

Solo's voice was ragged, spilling out the plan even as he thought of it. "If any one of those things fail to happen because you caused trouble, you will be dead. Are you clear on all that?"

A sickening whine of jets as the plane continued its downward plunge. For one awful moment, fanaticism flared in the pilot's eyes. Then self-interest burned it out.

"Yes, sir."

He stumbled back to his seat.

The plane slowly pulled out of its dive. Kneeling, Solo placed his cheek next to Cleo St. Cloud's lips.

Warmth. He felt thin warmth. He was fighting the race of poison through her bloodstream.

But he was cutting it close, very fine and close. He shuddered at the price of failure.

Stumbling up to the cockpit, he saw London boom for below as they cut through the lower layers of cloud. The radio was rattling with confused voices.

"I'm trying to get through," the pilot said. He sounded a trifle desperate.

"Give me the mike." Solo grabbed it.

Three minutes later, the tricycle landing gears of the jet bumped the London airport.

Solo scanned the area. He saw the incredible pileup of cars and pedestrians on the roads at the airport's edge. He'd relayed his message to Waverly in the war room of the British government. A first-aid team had been answering a fire call less than a mile away, and was on its way to the airport now.

The pilot brought the plane to a stop and turned off the engines. Tears of disappointment leaked down his cheeks. Through the cockpit window Solo saw a cross-marked ambulance streaking to ward them.

With heavy steps he walked into the plane's rear to see whether Cleo St. Cloud were still alive.

TWO

OFF IN THE darkness of the empty hangar, a portable generator whined and hummed.

It was a serve-wracking sound, somehow. Counterpointing it rose a frantic squawk of auto and lorry horns from beyond the concrete walls. Barely perceptible was a sustained roar which Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin knew to be the voices of Londoners fleeing in mobs along the public roadways nearby.

The pair of U.N.C.L.E. doctors had flown in moments ago in a helicopter parked on the roof of the hangar. Illya had been with them. They had joined the first-aid team in setting up an impromptu operating table made of old crates. Portable lights hooked to the generator had been hastily rigged, while two members of the first aid team pumped Cleo St. Cloud's stomach. After a swift examination, one of the U.N.C.L.E. physicians had confided to Solo and Illya that it was going to be a near thing.

A solution bottle hung upside down on a hangar stand. Through the flexible tubing attached to the bottle, near-colorless liquid dripped down into a needle taped to Cleo's left arm. Second by second the truth drug flowed into her.

Gritty-eyed and exhausted, Solo consulted his watch. Twenty-eight past three.

One of the U.N.C.L.E. doctors approached the agents.

"I think we're ready."

"Will she respond?" Illya asked. "If we make a single mistake at this point—"

The physician glowered. "Mr. Kuryakin, I can't guarantee results. That young woman was nearly dead when we started on her. Right now we stand an even chance, no better. The strain of an interrogation under drugs may be just enough to tip the scales. She could go instantly."

The two agents and the doctor started toward the circle of light. In its center, Cleo St. Cloud lay, surgical sheets hastily spread over the packing cases. Her cheeks were the color of putty. She hardly seemed to breathe. Solo knelt beside her, placed his face close to hers.

"Cleo," he said with soft intensity. "Listen, Cleo. I am a courier from THRUSH Central. I have an emergency message for Commander Ahab. I must reach him, wherever he is in London. You've got to tell me where he is so I can deliver the message."

Seconds ticked by. Cleo St. Cloud's lips trembled. She uttered a light groan.

Then her face seemed to contort, as if she were feeling great pain.

The words leaked out in a whisper:

"THRUSH Central? Message for—message for—"

Her head lolled to the side.

Solo glanced up, alarmed. One of the doctors said, "She's fighting you. It's her training."

"Cleo?" Solo began again. "It's all right. You won't be violating any confidence. I'm working for THRUSH. You must tell me where I can find Commander Ahab."

Once more the strained, light shuddering from the girl: "No. No, mustn't. Against orders—"

Frustrated, Solo stifled a curse. One of the doctors was keeping his fingers on Cleo's pulse. He glanced at Solo apprehensively. "The strain's starting to tell."

Standing a few feet back near the periphery of the light, Illya watched Solo anxiously. Solo bent near the girl again, wiping perspiration from his nose. In Illya's right pocket a low, sustained beeping began. He pulled out the rod-shaped pocket communicator, twisted the three-part barrel to align the markings, whispered into the top end of the small rod: "Channel D is open."

Mr. Alexander Waverly's voice crackled faintly: "What progress, if any, are you making, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"This is the critical moment, sir. So far she's refused to reveal the whereabouts of the detonator station."

"Let me know the moment you have something to report," Waverly replied. "The Prime Minister is ready to call off the entire evacuation, tidal waves or not. The city is in total chaos. Casualties are mounting too fast to be tolerated, and no one's getting out because the roadways are so clogged.

"You and Solo must locate Ahab and give me word that you have. There must be no tidal wave set off. But there must be an end to the evacuation within an hour as well, or the results will be nearly as bad as if THRUSH had accomplished its goal in the first place."

Mr. Waverly paused, lowered his voice: "I am relaying the Prime Minister's sentiments, Mr. Kuryakin. He is near the breaking point. I realize the situation facing you and Mr. Solo. You must come through. Else London is lost."

"But sir," Illya said. "If Miss St. Cloud won't give us the information—"

Waverly interrupted: "We are counting on you, Kuryakin."

With a feeling of complete dismay Illya looked again at Solo, kneeling by the jerry-rigged operating table. Cleo St. Cloud's head was moving slightly back and forth, in negation. Solo raked his fingers through his hair. Illya said: "Yes, sir. I understand. Out."

He replaced the communicator in his pocket. He walked forward into the light. Wearily Solo stood up.

"You'll have to increase the medication," Solo said to the doctors.

"Extremely risky," one of them replied. "You may lose her altogether."

"We're not getting anything now. Do it!"

Frowning, the doctor moved to the suspended bottle and unfastened a pinch clamp. The Pentothal dripped along the tube at a faster rate. Solo waited two minutes, then tried again:

"Miss St. Cloud—Cleo. Listen. THRUSH Central is going to be very angry with you. THRUSH Central—very angry." He repeated it a little more loudly. "Where is Commander Ahab? Tell me or you'll face disciplinary action. Tell me where to find Victor Ahab."

Again the girl shuddered. Her lips formed a word: "Sub—" She repeated it: "Sub—"

Illya's nerves broke. "It's no good, Napoleon. Ahab isn't on the sub."

"Quiet!" Solo's face was a mask of anxiety. "She's still talking."

In the silent, sepulchral gloom of the huge hangar, Cleo St. Cloud groaned and repeated: "Sub—sublevel. Second down from the street. Parchley—" Another violent shudder shook her body. "Parchley Machining Company." Suddenly her face wrenched into lines of anguish. "Now I've—told you. Don't discipline me. Don't hurt me—"

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were running for the iron stairs which led up to the door that opened onto the roof landing plat form.

As they clattered up the metal risers Solo said, "We can get the coordinates of the Parchley Machining Company from Waverly."

Illya pulled the door open. They were blasted by wind from the revolving rotors of the U.N.C.L.E. 'copter standing on the concrete pad. Illya raced for the open hatch. Solo paused a moment in the doorway, looked down into the interior of the hangar.

The physicians and the unconscious Cleo resembled doll figures far below. Solo had never imagined that he'd be thanking a THRUSH agent for anything, yet he was doing it silently now.

He hoped he hadn't killed her.

Solo ran for the 'copter, jumped inside, slammed the hatch and watched the London airfield fail away beneath them.

THREE

TWELVE MINUTES later the 'copter swooped low along a grimy street in an industrial section of the city.

In the street, a mob surged along underneath them. Poor people, men, women, even children. There were a few pistols in the crowd, one rifle. It spat at them as the 'copter pilot jockeyed the craft toward the roof coping of the shabby brick building with the single word PARCHLEY painted on its exterior.

Napoleon Solo dodged back from the open hatch as another rifle bullet tore a hole in the 'copter's skin inches from his head. Curses, howls of rage rose from the mob below. The faces turned up at them were full of hate because the 'copter represented a means of escape.

Another bullet smacked into the craft, starring the window on the pilot's side. He jerked back instinctively. The 'copter lurched. Its skids scraped the roof coping. The pilot fought for control, got the craft again. The roof was six feet below. Solo took a grip n his pistol and jumped.

Illya landed a second later, scrambled to his feet. The clouds had broken up somewhat. The air was clearing. It promised to be a sparkling late afternoon. A beautiful afternoon for millions of people to die, either under a crushing wave of water, or tearing at each other in their blind urge to escape what ever unknown fate menaced them. There was no time to think more about it.

Solo's shadow ran out ahead of him as he raced for the roof door. Without looking at his watch, he knew it was almost four. Breathing hard, he took the short flight of steps down to the top story of the building. Illya was right behind.

They ran along past large bays, where engineer's drawing boards stood unattended under weak fluorescent lights. There was an elevator at the hall's end. Solo and Illya waited for tense seconds while the cage rose from the main floor.

Solo indicated the call board above the doors. "The second sublevel is the bottom one."

"No telling whether Ahab has any helpers with him," Illya re plied.

"I'm only concerned that Cleo was telling the truth."

Illya's brow hooked up. "You don't possibly suspect—"

"THRUSH has brainwashed its people with false information before."

The doors clanged open. Soon they were being carried downward. Solo let out a deep breath, leaned against the pale tan wall of the elevator.

"Whichever way it turns out, Illya, we gave them a good run for it."

"I would just as soon survive to enter next week's track meet," Illya replied.

Solo's stomach jumped a little as the cage stopped suddenly. The moment the doors opened he and Illya plunged straight ahead into a shadowy basement. Solo dodged to the left, Illya to the right, out of the bar of light spilling from the elevator. Solo crouched down be hind some sort of power lathe.

Across the aisle Illya was in position behind the first of a series of bins which contained long tubes of aluminum or some other light alloy. Several hundred tubes of a standard diameter stuck up from each bin..

Cautiously Solo poked his head out from behind the lathe's legs.

Fire and smoke stitched their way thunderously from the far end of the aisle. Before jerking back

Solo had a quick glimpse of Commander Ahab, his clothing rumpled, shooting at them with a powerful snooper-scope machine rifle.

More slugs thundered, ripping up clouds of dust and stone chips from the concrete floor. In the echoing silence following the thunderous bursts, Napoleon Solo peered out again.

He no longer saw Commander Ahab down there. At the end of the aisle, he saw only a large metal control board with dials and blinking lights. The board was mounted in a recessed section of the cinder block subbasement wall. Ahab had been standing in front of this board shooting at them. Now he had disappeared.

Solo cleared his throat. "Commander?" he called, The syllables bounced, echoed: Commander Commander Commander Commander—?

At length, the booming reply, "Yes, Solo. I'm here."

"There are two of us," Illya called. "Better give up."

Floating at them, Ahab's laughter was maniacal. "Ah, gentlemen, but I am closer to the control board than you. And while it's true that you have found me, my nearness to the board dictates that I set Project Ahab in motion. A bit ahead of schedule, perhaps. But the effect will be the same.

"Come try to take me if you wish. I shall throw that large white toggle in the center of the board—I'm sure you can see it—before you reach me."

Now Solo's belly was churning. He glanced at Illya, bobbed his head toward the board at the aisle's end. Illya caught the signal. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents leaped up and started a wild headlong charge down the aisle to try and close the distance between themselves and the large white switch which loomed from the middle of the board.

Ahab's bearded face and torso popped up above the last lathe on the left. The machine-rifle cradled against his side bucked. Orange-yellow spurts of flame leaped from the muzzle. Illya cried out, spun on suddenly boneless legs, fell.

The slugs from Ahab's weapon blasted pits in the cement near Solo's feet as he shoved his friend out of the line of fire behind one of the tubing storage bins. He crouched over Illya, made a hasty examination. Illya had taken a bullet in his left rib cage, low and near the waist. He was breathing lightly.

"Where are you, my dear friends?" Commander Ahab boomed. "This is the most unseemly show of hesitation. Or have the odds been reduced? Is Mr. Kuryakin dead? Perhaps I'll wait a moment longer to throw the switch. After all, it's only a foot or so away. Perhaps I'll wait for you to try again, Mr. Solo. You are going to try, aren't you? It's your duty—"

Stung past reason by the mocking voice, Napoleon Solo leaped up and charged.

He fired to cover himself as he ran. Ahab had changed positions, was now hiding behind the last of the tube storage bins on the right side of the aisle. He popped into sight, hair disarrayed, face grotesque with laughter, the machine-rifle spitting. In mid-stride Solo felt a bullet slam into his left thigh.