Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­05] - The World's End Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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Solo chose a black negligee. Then he dumped Miss Fong into the king-size bed, wrapped her in the negligee and drenched the room with a perfume atomizer from the dressing table.

The room reeked with Essence d'Amour. Solo glanced at the slumbering THRUSH valkyrie.

"I hope you can explain your loyal, efficient appearance to General Weng after the big blow, sweetie," he said. He kissed his fingertips at her and ran for the door.

Five

On the bustling Hong Kong street outside the plush hotel, Solo merged into the polyglot crowd. He walked briskly for five minutes, trying to organize his thoughts.

As he walked he kept glancing up past the bizarre shop signs with the Chinese characters and English legends side by side. A small cloud had rolled across the sun. Around him, clipped British accents mingled with singsong dialects in typical midday unconcern.

At an intersection Solo found a rickshaw and hopped in. "Hotel Hong Kong International, chop-chop."

The rickshaw driver set off down the cobbled way at a brisk run. He shrieked and cursed at pedestrians and small European cars which got in his way.

Solo knew he had major trouble on his hands the moment the rickshaw driver pulled into the wide, sweeping semicircular drive of the Hotel Hong Kong International.

The wind had a banshee sound. The sky was virtually black. Electric lights had come on in buildings along the streets. Further down from the hotel, a power line had fallen. A frightened man, hurrying for shelter, ran into it and died in a waterfall of bluish sparks.

Solo ran up to the knot of Crown Colony police at the hotel entrance. He looked like a ghost, but they looked little better.

"– unnatural, that's what it is," one policeman was saying, staring at the sky.

"I have to get in the hotel," Solo said, starting past them.

A revolver was thrust hard into his midsection. The policeman with the bushy red mustache blocked his way.

"No you don't, sir. We have our orders. No persons can be admitted to the International without the proper identity card from the management."

"I lost my identity card!" Solo had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. "My name is Napoleon Solo. I'm an agent of the U.N.C.L.E."

"Be that as it may, no identity card, no admittance. If anyone tries to break into this hotel without identification, we're authorized to shoot. Now sling your hook before we all get killed in this bloody storm."

Solo grabbed the man's sleeve. "You don't understand! The International is going to be destroyed. You have to get the delegates out of there -"

"What delegates?" the policeman bawled.

"The delegates to the Seminar on Asian Cultural Resources."

The policeman's shout was emphatic: "Never heard of it. Now I warn you, move along -"

"But this storm is being manufactured!" Solo yelled over the din of rain and wind.

"Balmy!" the officer exclaimed. "I knew it the minute I spied you mixing it up with Charlie Luke. This bloke's a drunk or a hophead or worse, lads. Let's give him the

heave-ho!"

"Wait, wait, dammit, you don't understand! My name is Napoleon -"

With a thud Solo landed on the cobbles at the foot of the drive.

He came up like an angry animal, his temper raw because the fools wouldn't pay attention. He took an impulsive step toward the half dozen policemen who had assisted in his departure. All at once the strain showed on their faces. They drew guns.

The ring of police pistols hemmed Solo in. A hissing lightning bolt sent weird blue fires dancing in reflection along the gun muzzles.

The mustached officer said, "Be of, now, or we'll shoot you where you stand."

For one crazy moment, Solo wanted to wade in. Then reason checked him. He whirled and raced across the street.

A few stragglers fled past him. Portions of a roof went sailing over his head. On the fifth floor of the International several windows blew out with great explosions of glass.

The very street under his feet seemed to rock as the force of the storm increased.

Soaked and shivering, Solo darted into the comparative cover of the devastated fried eel restaurant. He pulled out the pocket communicator and pressed the concealed spring stud which opened the secret control panel. With the communicator close to his face, Solo said:

"Open Channel D."

It was the last resort. In a moment, a clear, controlled voice from the box said, "This is Alexander Waverly speaking."

"Solo, sir. I'm in Hong Kong, and -"

"Solo! Great heavens, man! I thought you had been killed."

"No sir. It's Illya. He was captured while I escaped from Tibet. THRUSH has probably put him to death by now, along with our contacts there who -"

"Mr. Solo," Waverly interrupted, "what is that dreadful racket? I can barely hear you."

"Just a bit of rain we're having," Solo's face was harsh. The street ran with rivers of rainwater now, rainwater which carried debris and now and then a pitiful human

corpse.

Solo explained what had happened. He concluded, "The THRUSH storm generator is working perfectly. But I don't know where Weng has set it up. I can't get past the police to warn the delegates at the conference. Is there an U.N.C.L.E. man inside the International? I could call him with the communicator if I knew the frequency -"

Solo's last hope faded as Mr. Waverly said, "We have no agents inside the hotel. We were relying upon you and Mr. Kuryakin. Forget the hotel, Mr. Solo. The repercussions of this can be far greater than simply the destruction of the conference. You must find the storm generator and smash it."

"But it could be anywhere in Hong Kong. It could take hours. By then -"

"Find the generator, Mr. Solo!"

Rain lashed from the inky sky and dribbled down Napoleon Solo's face. He stared a moment at the small box cupped in his hand. Mr. Waverly was asking the impossible. Unfortunately only the impossible could save Hong Kong from annihilation.

More windows burst. On a high balcony a frantic guest slipped on a terrace, hit the railing, spilled over and fell, howling. Down the street the entire wall of a brick warehouse caved in under the wind's pounding.

The crackle of Mr. Waverly's voice pulled him to his senses:

"Mr. Solo? Do you hear me? Find the generator."

"Acknowledge," Solo said. He pressed the button which silenced the communicator.

He leaped forward as he heard a grinding sound overhead. He landed face first in the torrent of water filling the street. A few feet behind him the facade of the building had given way, and dumped several tons of wood and masonry onto the spot where he had been standing.

He'd acknowledged Mr. Waverly's command. But where in the maelstrom did he start'? He staggered up and said under his breath, "The incredible we do in five minutes. The impossible takes a little longer."

Slipping, stumbling, Solo began to run back in the general direction of the hotel where he had left Miss Fong unconscious. Weng had told him that she did not know the transmitter's location. Had he lied? Solo doubted it. THRUSH discipline regarding secrets was both inflexible and uniform. Lower echelons were kept in the dark.

Still, Miss Fong was his only hope.

All around him buildings collapsed, fallen power lines hissed, people shrieked in fear. And despite the rain, fires were breaking out. Solo ran until his lungs ached.

He had gone only a few blocks when his pocket communicator began to beep frantically.

Act IV: "It Never Rains But It Pours…"

So far Dr. Dargon had been unusually cooperative. This indicated to Illya that the scientist intended to betray them at the first opportunity.

Illya was tense. The slightest odd sound or innocent-appearing shadow brought cold sweat to his forehead.

Dr. Dargon had led them through a series of maze-like passages. They had climbed three stairways and ridden two elevators. In between sucks at his tooth, Dargon kept assuring Illya that he was showing them the only safe escape route. Consequently, the further they went without detection, the more Illya became convinced that Dargon was attempting to lull him into false security.

It had taken them nearly half an hour to wind their way upward to this brilliantly lit corridor with gray cinder block walls.

"Only a short distance more," D argon whispered.

"And then we fall through a trap door into a pit of ravenous bears?" Illya asked.

Dr. Dargon's hands fluttered near his waist. "No, no, I assure you -"

"Please spare me your assurances," Illya cut in. "Where is the hangar?"

Dargon indicated blue steel doors in the distance. "Just through there."

They moved ahead. Mei walked close to Illya on his left side. Her pretty face showed the ravages of fatigue and pain.

"Mr. Kuryakin, do you think you can fly the airplane the doctor told you about?" she said.

Illya shrugged. "He described it as a Nova Class IV two-jet fighter-bomber. I have had some training with that type of aircraft. Enough to give it a try, anyway. While I'm at the controls you will have to watch our guide."

The girl paled. With some weariness, Illya said, "For heaven's sake why are you trembling?"

"I – I have never been in an airplane before."

He didn't bother to tell Mei that he had been boasting about his flying ability. He could pilot smaller planes under reasonably normal circumstances. He had not taken over the Air Pan-Asia jet because of the weather, and his lack of formal training on huge commercial aircraft. He quite possibly might crack them all up on one of the Himalayas, provided they got that far.

"We'll come out of this all right," he reassured the girl. "I'll use the plane's radio to call Hong Kong and warn those at the conference to evacuate the Hotel International. There are many people depending on us, Mei. We have to come through."

Kuryakin, he thought to himself, you are a shameless liar.

Dr. Dargon had reached the blue steel doors. He turned around. Ceiling lights flared off the lenses of his spectacles.

"I can offer no guarantee that the aircraft will be in the hangar, Mr. Kuryakin."

"For your longevity's sake," Illya said, "I hope it is. Please go ahead."

With a bob of his head Dr. Dargon extended his hands in front of him, as if to use his palms to push the door open. His gesture brought instant pandemonium.

Sirens and bells went off. Illya was getting rather used to the racket by now. Sections of cinder block wall pivoted back and the impersonal lenses of television cameras began scanning the corridor. Illya gave Dargon a smack in the back of the head with the captured pistol.

"You filthy double-crosser! I didn't see you touch anything -"

Dr. Dargon giggled. "The detectors concealed in the frame of these steel doors are extremely sensitive. They detect even heat emitted by human bodies. Thus the slightest change in corridor temperature activates the alarms. No physical contact is necessary for -

down here! Save me!" Dargon squealed, glancing past Illya.

THRUSH had appeared at the corridor's far end. Illya dragged Dargon around in front of him to serve as a shield. He squeezed off a shot at the officer in the lead of the pack. It was Major Otako.

Illya's bullet missed. The major flattened against the wall. His S-scar shone with pallid ugliness. Illya said over his shoulder, "Try the door, Mei."

After a moment he heard her say, "It is locked." Panic edged into her voice.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot! It's I, Dargon!" the scientist cried, struggling in Illya's grip.

Major Otako seemed unconcerned that the THRUSH intellectual was currently serving as Illya's shield. Otako wigwagged with his swagger stick. "What are you waiting for, men? Fill the old gas-bag with bullets if necessary. His work is done. I want the U.N.C.L.E. agents."

Savagely Illya tightened the crook of his left arm around Dargon's neck. "Well, Doctor," he snarled, "they have as few scruples as you. So we'll all die together, unless you know how to open this door."

Dargon thought it over only for a second. "The – the middle hinge. It contains a removable section. Inside you will find a small button."

Mei bent over the hinge. Illya squeezed off two more shots. They tore holes in the cinderblocks but missed Otako. The THRUSH soldiers had formed two ranks. The ones in the first were kneeling, aiming their rifles. Illya felt a tug on his robe. He turned and leaped through the door, pulling Dr. Dargon with him as a volley of shots ripped into the wall around the opened door.

Illya and Dargon sprawled on oil-stained concrete. Illya jumped up. He dragged Dargon by the collar. Their shadows sprang out before them in the huge hangar. Behind, Otako screamed frenzied orders.

The fuselage door of the Nova IV fighter-bomber stood open. A mechanic poked his head out. He yelled as the party of three escapees came pelting toward him.

The mechanic tore a pistol from his coverall pocket. Illya shot. The mechanic dropped out of the fuselage door and thudded on the cement.

"Inside, and don't stand on ceremony," Illya said. He shoved the flailing Dargon up to the fuselage door and gave him a kick aft to help him along. Then he spun around and fired a shot which felled a THRUST soldier.

Major Otako was urging his men forward. He had found a submachine gun which he was leveling at Illya as the latter boosted Mei into the plane and scrambled after her.

A second after Illya closed the hatch, bullets began to ping their way along the skin of the aircraft. No holes appeared. Evidently THRUSH had built well, using some armored alloy.

Illya tossed the gun to Mei and indicated Dargon. "As the major put it so eloquently – if he moves, fill the old gas-bag with bullets."

He raced for the cockpit. Bullets spanged and thudded against the cockpit windows as Illya dropped into the bucket, ran his eye down the controls. He hit two of the labeled switches. The wide corrugated steel door of the hangar immediately began to grind aside on a motorized track.

The cockpit windows now displayed several star-marks from the impact of bullets. By peering through these, Illya could make out the THRUSH soldiers ringing the plane, pumping shots at it relentlessly. Major Otako looked irate. He actually trembled. Illya threw switches with desperate haste.

Outside, Otako tossed aside the gun in disgust. Signaling several others to follow him, he disappeared.

The Nova IV fighter-bomber was a huge, sleek craft with an immense V-swept wing. The plane's two powerful jet engines were located at the tail. Illya found the controls for switching these on. He did not do so immediately. Instead he followed the pre-flight check list, a small card hanging above the instrument panel.

Never before, Illya supposed, had the check been done so fast. Slap, slap, snap, snap. He threw switches practically without looking at them. He hoped he was hitting all the right ones. At last he ignited the jet engines and felt the Nova IV strain forward.

He took the controls, swallowing hard. The Nova IV began to roll toward the black field. At last the hangar doors passed out of sight behind.

Illya increased taxiing speed. Mei had come up behind him. Dr. Dargon slumped limply against the cockpit wall. His expression indicated that he had abandoned nearly all hope. Illya sent the plane racing toward the sharp turn onto the main runway, where parallel lines of blue beacon lights along the runway's edge led oil into the darkness and the point of no return.

Abruptly the cockpit was splashed with light. Powerful searchlights from the headquarters buildings crisscrossed the field. Mei shrieked low and pointed behind her.

Out the starboard window Illya saw an open military vehicle rolling alongside the plane, careening and veering to keep pace. The THRUSH driver looked petrified. Legs braced wide apart, Major Otako stood in the vehicle's rear. His fingers were locked on the handgrips of a peculiar weapon on a swivel mount. The weapon resembled a conventional machine gun except for the bright metal coils twisted around the barrel.

Otako's mouth worked. His face was contorted with hatred. Though Illya could not hear the sound above the roar of the jets, he knew Otako was shrieking at the driver, ordering him to keep up with the taxiing jet. Illya measured the distance to the turn onto the runway. Still a good way to go –

From the tip of the coil weapon in the THRUSH vehicle leaped a blood-colored thread of light. It struck the fuselage of the Nova IV and the cockpit glowed scarlet. "Laser cannon," Illya cried to Mei. "Get down!"

The beam of ruby light pierced the fuselage wall inches behind Illya's head. The way the jet was jouncing, he might be jarred back into that destructive beam at any moment.

He knew the Nova IV would never reach the main runway with Otako operating the laser device from the vehicle racing alongside. He said a brief, wordless prayer and hit the controls.

The fighter-bomber's giant tires smoked and squealed as the brakes locked. At the same time Illya swung the plane sharply around to the left, almost heeling it over on its nose. But the effect was achieved.

The heated gasses flowing out of the rear jets with tornadic force were aimed directly across the taxi strip. The THRUSH vehicle could not stop in time. Major Otako shrieked as the vehicle plowed into the streams of heat and fire from the afterburners. There was a sudden, dull explosion that rocked the plane.

Even before the first sound waves hit his ear, Illya was attacking the controls again. Like a drunken bird the Nova IV zigzagged back on course.

Illya wheeled it hard left. The parallel blue lights stretched ahead. He poured on the power and the fighter-bomber picked up speed.

Glancing back, Illya saw a fireball consuming the remains of the THRUSH vehicle and, he trusted, of Major Otako.

Suddenly a sheet of flame gouted skyward from the middle of the runway just ahead. Illya grappled with the controls. He ran the Nova IV off the concrete, around the flame and back again, still maintaining speed. One or two more spectacular booby traps of that type went off before the blue lights blurred into streaks at either side of the cockpit, and the Nova IV lifted into flight.

Illya gulped for air. "Mei? Are you still with me'? I have to watch the controls carefully. Our speed is very fast, and the radar shows the peaks are very high all around here."

Mei's voice came faint, "I am here, Mr. Kuryakin. You – you are a brave man."

In the process of leaning the fighter-bomber into a steep bank to the left, Illya positively glowed.

"Thank you for the compliment, my dear. Now if I can only get the landing gear up and locked away, we'll be off for Hong Kong. Where the devil are the switches? This cockpit is dark as – oh, here we go."

He pressed several studs in succession. The Nova IV continued to climb for a few seconds. It was still banking to the left, giving Illya an excellent view of the ground. He made out the runway lights and the spill from several open doors in the headquarters buildings. Suddenly the jet rocked. Up from the ground boiled balls of green-shot flame.

Illya bent over to peer. "This is very embarrassing."

"What's wrong?" Mei asked.

"Those weren't the landing gear controls. I had no idea this plane would be fully armed with – oh, well. It's one less nuisance for U.N.C.L.E. to worry about. Now we shall -"

Mei shrieked. A white wall loomed dead ahead. "The mountains!"

Illya jerked the controls.

The Nova IV went arrowing almost straight up, clearing the snowy white face of the crag by a slim margin.

"No more conversation," Illya said. "Not until we're safely out of this wilderness."

And with the help of several additional dim lamps which Mei found and switched on, he managed to zigzag a course between the frozen peaks gleaming white and savage under the Himalayan stars.

In about fifteen minutes he had plotted a flight plan to Hong Kong. He hoped the altitude would be sufficient to avoid any Red Chinese interceptors. The jets murmured steadily. Great banks of clouds rolled along in the chill moonlight beneath them.

"We'll never reach Hong Kong in time," he said. "I must radio the authorities."

In the glow from the dash instruments, Illya's face looked wan and weary. "It's no use," he said. "I can't raise anyone."

A noise disturbed him. It was the crazed sound of Dr. Dargon sucking on his tooth.

"General Weng has succeeded! The storm generator is operating in Hong Kong. That is why you cannot contact any regular radio installation. You have failed Mr. Kuryakin; you have failed utterly. Isn't that splendid?"

Illya twisted around and almost hit Dargon on the jaw. The man was so damnably triumphant!

Dargon cringed back against the starboard instrument console to avoid the blow. Illya's face turned red. With a feeling of humiliation he pulled back his fist.

Dargon blinked. His spectacle lenses reflected the cockpit lights so that his eyes seemed to be holes through which tiny, different-colored fireflies could be seen. He tittered.

Illya cursed silently. To strike Dargon would be to admit that the evil organization had succeeded. Dargon realized this. Hence his amusement. Illya silently pummeled his mind for an answer.

In a moment he had one. Carefully he composed his face for the bluff.

"Well, Dargon, I suppose you are correct."

"Yes, it will be impossible for you to establish communication with Hong Kong."

Carefully Illya slid his hand down to the thick folds of his lama robe. His fingers probed until he found what he wanted. In the dark he moved his hand back from his knee.

"So we could not alert the proper authorities as to General Weng's whereabouts even if we wished," he said, trying to sound as dolorous as possible. "Where does he have the unit set up, by the way?"

"On a junk in the harbor. It is a large vessel with a black storm cloud painted on its sail. Quite appropriate."

"In a grisly way," Illya said. "The harbor, eh? Did you select the site?"

"Experimental meteorological studies led us to the conclusion that the harbor basin in the vicinity of Smiling Fish Quay would facilitate the widest sweep for the generator, and afford maximum destruction of the area surrounding the Hotel International."

"I like a man who knows his subject,"' Illya grinned. "Thank you very much, Doctor." He pulled the pocket communicator from his robe, depressing the appropriate stud.

Dargon's eyes seemed to swell behind his lenses. "There is nothing you can do with the information, Kuryakin. Radio contact with Hong Kong is impossible. You said as much. I heard for myself -"

Uncertainty put a catch in Dargon's tone. He licked his lips.

"You're quite correct, Doctor," Illya said. "I cannot establish contact with the Hong Kong authorities by using the radio transmitter in this aircraft. And by the time we land in the Crown Colony, the damage will be done. U.N.C.L.E. however, has thoughtfully provided these little communicators, which your Tibetan cohorts did not discover when they searched me."

Illya showed Dargon the small box-like affair. "It's power is startling, Doctor. And its anti-interference properties are excellent. Let's see what we can do with your tidbits via our headquarters. Watch him carefully, Mei." Then, into the communicator: "Open Channel D, please. Extreme urgent priority."

Following several wheeps and crackles, a familiar voice said, "Waverly here."

"This is Kuryakin, sir."

For once, Waverly did not sound phlegmatic. "Mr. Kuryakin! This is incredible."

"At forty thousand feet above Red China in a THRUSH aircraft, I am inclined to agree."

"I thought you were dead, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya's Words raced ahead of his thoughts: "It's Napoleon, sir. He's the one who didn't make it. General Weng of THRUSH captured him and I'm afraid he – I'm dead?"

"Mr. Kuryakin, evidently there has been a breakdown of communications between you and your cohort." Waverly cleared his throat, "Only moments ago I spoke with Mr. Solo in Hong Kong. He informed me THRUSH had liquidated you. Mr. Solo is attempting to find and destroy the THRUSH Weather generator, which is already causing a storm of catastrophic proportions. A difficult task, since we don't know where it is."

Illya allowed himself a grin. "Sir, I know the whereabouts of the generator. I can't raise Hong Kong on the plane's radio but I should be able to contact Napoleon on the communicator. I thought that he had been -"

"Brevity is the soul of survival for Hong Kong, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly interrupted. "We shall open and clear all channels at once. I suggest that you get busy relaying your information to Mr. Solo."

"At once," Illya said, thumbing off the D band. Simultaneously, Dr. Dargon began to burble and bleat:

"Gulled! Gulled and deceived! You'll pay for tricking me -!"

Before Illya could whip round to fend him off, Dargon fastened his hands on Illya's throat and at the same time thrust forward with all his strength.

Illya tore at the fingers biting the flesh of his neck. Dargon slammed Illya's head against the instrument panel. Various switches and controls were knocked out of adjustment. Warning lights blazed and blinked. The fighter-bomber began to veer and tilt downward toward the cloud bank.

Illya struggled. Dargon was panting like an enraged bull. He pounded Illya's head against the console with a thud, and another, and another.

The edges of Illya's mind grew stained with darkness. The fighter-bomber was into a dive, its altitude dropping alarmingly. Once more Illya tried to rip the murdering fingers from his neck but couldn't get a grip on them. His mind was getting fuzzier by the second…

Two

Another power line came whipping down like an electrified snake, directly in Napoleon Solo's path.

Blue fire danced and hissed over huge puddles of water. Solo jerked back from the puddle into which he had almost skidded.

Two ambulances passed at the next intersection, sirens going at full. One raced on out of sight. A mammoth gust of wind picked up the other and drove it into the wall of a building where it crashed and burst into flames.

Solo staggered into the cover of a shop front, which was already beginning to totter. He pulled the frantically beeping pocket communicator from his sodden shirt.

"Mr. Waverly?" he shouted into the box, "I haven't had time to find it yet -"

"If you would kindly stop bellowing, Napoleon," said a tinny voice, "I know where you can locate the generator."

"Illya! Where are you?"

"Sitting with a headache in a THRUSH airplane. Never mind that. I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were dead."

"The reports of our deaths have been greatly exaggerated. Dr. Dargon told me the location of the generator because he thought it was impossible for me to communicate with Hong Kong. I called Waverly on the communicator. He said that you had escaped Weng's tender mercies. I was in the process of calling you when Dargon tried to throttle me. I apologize for the delay, but it took Mei a minute or so to work up enough nerve to put a bullet into Dargon's stomach. He has designed his last unpleasant device for THRUSH."

More citizens went streaming by in the torrential rain. Their screams of fear trailed behind them. Solo said, "The city can't last much longer in this storm. Where's the generator?"

In thirty seconds Solo had left the shop front a block behind. It promptly collapsed.

A bolt of lightning lit the rain-swept foot of Smiling Fish Quay. The air smelled of ozone and decayed fish. Solo went sliding and skidding along the drenched cobbles to the quay's edge.

The only human being in sight was a fisherman kneeling in a cul-de-sac a few yards away. He was praying to be spared from the impromptu typhoon. Solo bent over. His back kept the rain off Miss Fong's pistol, which he pulled from his belt and checked.

The lightning fizzled into darkness. Thunder pealed so loudly it hurt his ears. Visually Solo tried to sort out the hundreds of wildly pitching junks and sampans moored in this part of the harbor. No lights showed anywhere, except on the distant mainland where they gleamed dimly through the driving rain.

Solo jumped aboard the nearest sampan, which was damaged, but still afloat.

It lurched terrifically under him. A monster wave washed over the deck and nearly pitched him into the water. The rain was coming at him almost horizontally because of the wind's force.

Lightning flared. Solo spotted a whopping sail on a half-broken mast. The sail displayed a large, crudely painted storm cloud. The craft was the third vessel beyond the one on which he was fighting for balance.

With big leaps Solo crossed the nautical stepping stones. He had to grab ropes or a mast as he landed on each boat, because the decks were tilting back and forth through an arc of almost ninety degrees.

The distance between the sampan and the junk with the torn storm-cloud sail was a good seven to eight feet. Besides, the sampan was tilting violently. So was the junk. Solo waited until he thought his timing was right. Then, gun in his right hand, he jumped.

He missed. A wave rolled the junk back out of the way.

Solo hit the water and went down, thrashing and flailing, into the customary waterside Hong Kong garbage.

The moored junk tossed back toward him and the hull smacked him in the head. Dazed, Solo grabbed the rail.

He tossed his right leg up and pulled himself aboard. Bits of refuse clung to him. A stream of water ran out of the barrel of his now useless pistol.

Two-thirds of the junk's deck was covered with a bamboo framework over which a tarpaulin had been draped. Inside the improvised deckhouse a spot of amber light glowed and wavered. Solo crept forward.

The deck pitched again. Solo fought for balance. He fell, making a loud, hollow thud during a lull in the thunder.

Part of the tarpaulin whipped aside. An ugly Oriental in a mud-spotted white suit thrust the muzzle of a big pistol into the dark. Beyond the man, Solo glimpsed General Weng's heaving bulk and the black generator box. Its sides glowed with red highlights from a

small charcoal brazier.

"I do not see anyone -" the gunman began. Solo's shoulder hit him in the belly.

Solo and the gunman careened inside the tarp shelter. General Weng leaped up from a packing box. He wore the sinister switch-belt around his waist. A faint hum rose from the generator box. Solo saw all this in a wild blur as he went crashing to the slick deck.