Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­09] - The Brainwash Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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"After all, Solo, my plan is deep into fruition–many international bankers agree with my theories–as advance through the brainwashed Monsieur Caillou. Do you begin to understand?"

Suddenly the midget helicopter vibrated from bow to stern. Yvonne screamed. Only Caillou, sprawled on the small floor space, did not react.

Solo fought the controls. Nothing happened.

The copter veered abruptly, flying upward at a furious burst of speed.

It continued in a roll, going all the way over.

Solo worked the foot levers, the hand controls. The small plane trembled, finally righting itself, but not through anything Solo was able to do.

"Do you begin to understand?" Maunchaun's voice taunted. "You are on radio control now, Solo. That is another wonderful feature of our midget birds. They can be flown without pilots. I am this moment directing your flight… As you have been every moment in these past days, you are completely at my mercy."

Solo did not answer. He looked around the small cockpit.

Maunchaun's voice taunted, "Looking for parachutes, Mr. Solo?"

Illya lifted the two packs silently.

"Only two of them?" Maunchaun's voice was filled with mock concern. "Will only two of you be able to leap from the copter, Solo? Who will be saved? Caillou? Will he live long enough to get to earth? And if he does, long enough to get to medical aid? The secretary? You? Kuryakin?"

The midget helicopter held a steady course, now that Dr. Maunchaun had demonstrated his complete mastery of it.

Ahead, Solo saw the buildings of Paris, near and yet impossibly removed, as if on another planet.

He abandoned any attempt to control the chopper.

The radio speaker crackled. "Do you see the Eiffel Tower ahead, Solo?" Maunchaun's taunting voice inquired.

"I see

"I have electronically set your helicopter on a collision course with the upper stories of the tower, Solo. The course is locked. It cannot be altered. I need no longer concern myself with you or your fate. The copter will be smashed—friction-bomb pellets are aboard, will demolish further the ship and you people. You will be destroyed beyond any hope of identification by any chemical or other scientific means. Good bye, Mr. Solo. You waged a persistent battle."

Yvonne was pressed against Illya's shoulder. Her body shook.

Solo said. "Yvonne."

She turned, seeing he held one of the chute packs ready to harness it upon her.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "It does not matter about me. I am nobody."

"I got you in this," Solo said. "I'm getting you out of it. Now. Hurry! We've got no time to argue about it."

Her head tilted. She stared beyond his shoulder at the Eiffel Tower taking black shape directly ahead in the distance, seeming to hurtle toward them on its collision course.

She looked at Illya's battered face, at Lester slumped beside her, at Solo. Finally, her eyes brimming with tears, she nodded.

Solo harnessed the chute on Yvonne. He pushed open the door of the copter. She hung a moment on the brink. Then she hurtled outward, plunging downward.

Solo and Illya stared after her a moment as she careened over and over in space. Suddenly the lines of her chute streamed outward on the wind, the striped nylon whipped in the wind. Her skirts and the chute filled with air, and she went floating, sails and skirts like bright balloons in the sunlight.

The radio speaker crackled. "Solo? Are you still there, or have you abandoned the ship like a good little rat?"

"I'm here," Solo said.

"Why don't you jump? What's left, Solo? One chute? For three? You have little time left to choose the one worthy to live." Maunchaun's voice dripped sarcasm. "It will be a fearful, fiery death. You might live for some moments after the copter strikes the girders of the tower. I don't envy you your death, Solo."

Solo said nothing.

He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of the chute. He nodded at Illya, who worked swiftly with him, tightening until he was securely harnessed in it.

"Minutes left to you now, Solo." Maunchaun taunted.

Solo didn't even bother listening any more. He reached out, took the handcuffs chain-linked to the metal band at Illya's waist. He clicked one handcuff about Lester Caillou, the other to his own wrist. He secured his hand to the re1ease clip of the chute, thrust open the copter door.

"Hang on," he said.

Caillou and Illya clasped their arms about him. For one moment Solo stared at the huge black tower erupting through the trees toward them.

Below, the town stirred, aware of the small machine bearing toward the tower.

Solo thrust outward, leaping into the air, jerking on the ripcord at that instant.

As they leaped, Illya threw the handful of friction-bomb pellets with all his strength against the instrument panel.

For one moment longer the small plane held its unwavering course directly toward the upper reaches of the Eiffel Tower. Then it erupted in mid-air, fragmenting in blooms and plumes of fire. The parts of the plane flew wildly, like bright pinwheels.

The chute opened, jerking hard against the weight of the three men. It puffed tense and filled with air, staggered aimlessly across the atmosphere, dancing, bobbling, and finally righting itself, plummeting downward.

Solo heard Illya's relieved laughter. Then he heard Caillou laugh, too, and his heart leaped because he knew for the first time that Caillou would make it–to the waiting doctors and to full recovery.

They had won.

Solo heard more wild laughter, and realized, almost with a sense of shock, that the laughing was his own. It poured out of him.

They rocked earthward, laughing in triumph and the sheer wonder of being alive.

On the concourse below, an incredible crowd was gathering form, coming from everywhere, converging beneath them. Staring down, they saw that most of them were tourists, with cameras clicking.