Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­04] - The Unspeakable Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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Nothing had changed. The long, narrow valley between the brown hills was as empty as ever. Nothing but rocks and dry ground, cactus and stunted trees gasping for life in the arid land. And yet . . .

Illya trained his binoculars on the bottom of the valley. Something was very peculiar. He studied the hills, and the distant ends of the valley.

Then he started his binoculars at the tops of the hills across the valley and worked slowly down to the bottom.

And he saw it.

The contour was wrong! The valley was too shallow!

The natural fall of the land should have made the valley deeper, narrower at the bottom. Now, studying the terrain carefully and knowing what he looked for, Illya saw the places where boulders seemed to suddenly bend in the middle and become flat, where trees on the slopes of the hills were too short. Camouflage!

Almost perfect, it was. From the air it would have been totally impossible to see. Even as close as he was he could not be absolutely certain. The entire bottom of the long valley was camouflage, and beneath the false bottom—?

Carefully, carrying his equipment, Illya began to work his way down toward the bottom of the valley. It was hard going, steep, and he noticed, now that he was farther down the side of the hill, the wide perimeter of completely open space, a wide lane, just before the apparent bottom of the valley.

Illya studied the situation from beneath his lowered brow. The sun was coming up over the rim of the hills and there was not much time. He searched for a better approach route to the bottom of the valley. There seemed to be no way. He would have to chance crossing the open area.

He crouched very low in the dawn light and stepped out from behind a boulder to start across the cleared area. He took two steps and stopped again, crouched like a small animal in the dawn. His eyes stared at a tiny projection in the ground.

He looked left and right. Caught by the first slanting rays of sun, the tiny projections stood a quarter of an inch out of the ground in a long and endless row all the way in either direction.

Illya studied the tiny projections. Mines? He reached into his small suitcase, laid carefully on the hard earth, and brought out his small explosives detector. He placed it beside the miniature projection in front of him. The detector did not register. The projection was not a mine.

He returned the explosives detector to his suitcase, and took out the flat, miniature electronic activator. He set the miniaturized instrument on detect and placed it next in the projection. The dial registered immediately. The small metal projections were the sensors of an alarm system.

Smiling grimly to himself, Illya returned his equipment to the briefcase, and crawled slowly backward until he was again in the shelter of the boulder. He crouched again and studied the terrain right and left. He could risk crossing the open space, but he could not risk triggering an electronic alarm system. There had to be another way down.

Carrying his equipment, Illya began to circle the area slowly, keeping out of sight above the cleared sector. He moved quickly and silently. At last he found what he wanted.

A natural gully-like arroyo cut into the side of the mountain and led all the way to the bottom. There was cover from view all the way. There would be the electronic sensors, but out of sight he could move slowly enough to avoid them. He smiled his quizzical smile—no system was perfect.

He moved down the arroyo, his eyes on the ground. He stepped carefully and lightly, avoiding the electronic sensors that stuck up from the ground almost invisible. He had moved halfway down to where a yawning shadow ahead showed where the space opened beneath the camouflage when he heard the noise.

He jumped.

His eyes on the yawning black opening ahead, aware of the alarm sensors, and yet hearing the noise of footsteps approaching, Illya leaped to a small boulder where there would be no sensors. On the boulder he saw an open space behind it, flat and smooth and hidden. He jumped down.

His feet struck—and sank.

In an instant he was up to his knees, halfway up to his waist from the force of his leap. His legs were under the smooth surface, held, immobile.

Quicksand.

Calmly, he laid his flat suitcase on the smooth surface and pressed against it to raise himself.

Nothing happened.

The suitcase pressed into the soft surface, but his legs did not budge. And slowly, very slowly, he was sinking. He tried to raise each leg separately. He could do nothing. He stopped struggling. The less he moved the slower he would sink. But he sank. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, but he sank.

He heard a noise and looked up. A man stood on the rock above him. The man carried an ugly Thrush rifle.

The man stood there and looked down at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," the man said. "Are you comfortable?"

"Quite comfortable," Illya said.

"Good. Alas, I'm sorry you cannot swim in that sand, or stand either. Interesting material, quicksand. Too solid for swimming, too liquid for walking. You will have much time to consider the error of your associations before you die."

Illya watched the man. If he could shoot the man now, the man's body could fall across the sand and give him a hold to pull out on. The man laughed.

"No, don't try to shoot me. You'd never move fast enough," the man said. "You're a rather small man. It should take about ten hours to sink all the way. I'll be back for the final inch."

And the man was gone.

In the quicksand, helpless and sinking so slowly, Illya remained icily calm. Movement would only sink him faster. He knew now that it was all a trap. The entire security set-up had been designed to force him into the arroyo and, finally, into the quicksand. And he had followed the path like a stupid mule.

But there was no time to waste on his own stupidity. They had him, and there was only one way out. He opened the small suitcase and took out his pencil radio sender-receiver. He clocked it on.

"Sonny, this is Bubba. Red alert! I need help! Sonny? Come in, Sonny."

There was silence. The blazing sun was up above the edge of the arroyo now. As Illya Kuryakin slowly sank, the sun burned like a red-hot flame against his bare head. He continued to talk into his miniature radio as he slowly sank deeper and deeper.

Even with the distance relay, there was no answer from the silent radio. Illya breathed deeply, the quicksand up to his waist now.

"Sonny, this is Bubba, come in! Red alert!"

FOUR

NAPOLEON SOLO led Penny Parsons from the small plane at the Santa Fe airport. He looked up toward the other small aircraft that was now circling the field. Solo grinned. They were after him, but they were also telling him that he was getting warm.

"What is that annoying noise?" Penny said.

The pretty young scientist was staring at Solo. The noise was coming from his suit-coat pocket.

"What are you, wired for sound?" Penny said.

Solo took out his radio and clicked it on.

"Sonny? Relay from Bubba. Acknowledge."

Solo bent to the instrument. "Sonny here, relay Bubba."

Illya's voice came on. A calm voice, yet Solo could hear the tension in the voice of his fellow agent and best friend. Illya was in deep double. Solo looked around. No one seemed to be watching.

"Go ahead, Illya," Solo said. The voice of the small, blond agent had a faint edge.

"I seem to be in a rather sticky situation, Napoleon," Illya's voice said. "Literally, I fear. Where are you?"

"Santa Fe," Solo said. "What's the trouble?"

"Quicksand. About chest high by now. They led me into it very nicely."

"How long do you have?"

"Perhaps four hours, even five. You say you're in Santa Fe?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"A few miles from Noche Triste," Illya said calmly. "That's about two hundred miles from you."

"I'll get a helicopter," Solo said. Penny Parsons was staring at the sight of Solo bent over a shiny pencil and talking. The other small plane had landed and was taxiing up. Solo watched it from the corner of his eye. Two men had appeared in the Santa Fe Airport building. They were looking at him and the girl.

"No," Illya said. "One look at a helicopter and they would undoubtedly come back and do the job more quickly. You'll have to drive."

"It'll be close," Solo said. "I think I have company."

There was a silence from the other end, the distant spot where

Illya stood up to his chest and sinking in the blazing sun.

"We'll have to chance it, and come carefully."

"Roger, right now," Solo said.

"And Napoleon," Illya's voice said. "Bring a rope."

There was no more time. The two men were walking toward Solo and Penny Parsons. Solo clicked off his set. The other small plane was halted, and Solo saw the woman emerge. He smiled. Good old Maxine. He gripped the girl's arm. Penny stared at him.

"Now do just as I tell you," Solo whispered. "We're going on a drive, but first we have to get rid of some unwelcome friends."

"But I—" the girl began.

"Just do what I do," Solo said. Suddenly, his hand on the girl's arm, he began to walk toward the exit. The two men speeded up to cut him off. Behind him, Maxine and another man were in the door out to the field itself. Quickly, Solo doubled back and dragged Penny toward the baggage exit. The two men whirled to follow.

In the doorway to the field, Maxine sent the man with her to block the baggage exit from outside. Solo doubled back again and headed for the restroom area, pulling the protesting girl after him. He was watching his pursuers carefully.

He doubled back toward the street door once more. As he pulled the girl on this last maneuver, Maxine and his two other pursuers came after him on courses that converged. He hurried closer to them until he saw that in a few more steps they would all be at the same spot.

He dropped the smoke bomb at the exact spot they hurried toward.

Thick white smoke billowed up. People began to scream. A wild chaos filled the air terminal building. Solo gripped the girl and dashed straight through the smoke, exactly where his pursuers were struggling to break out of the smoke cloud. Maxine was shouting.

"The other door! Quickly, you fools!"

Solo and Penny Parsons brushed right past them in the smoke and emerged on the other side just at the exit. Solo grinned. He pushed the girl ahead of him through the exit and out into the driveway area. A taxi stood at the taxi stand. Solo and Penny hurried toward it.

The fourth pursuer, the one sent to guard the baggage exit, came running toward the cab, his gun out, all caution gone now. Solo dropped him with a single shot from his special, a shot with a sleep dart. Puh! The man fell and skidded four feet. Solo pushed Penny into the cab and jumped in.

"The nearest car rental agency, driver," Solo said, his pistol still in his hand. "I would suggest speed."

The driver needed no further urging. Maxine Trent and her two henchmen were already coming out of the terminal building. Solo waved to them as the taxi drove away.

* * *

ILLYA KURYAKIN watched the sun going down behind the opposite rim of the valley. The quicksand was up to his armpits now, and in the last hour he had begun to sink faster. He had been in the sand over twelve hours, and all that had saved him was his suitcase.

Flat, the suitcase presented a wider surface to the sand. Not enough to pull out against, it sank much more slowly and by hanging onto it Illya had slowed his descent. But soon the sand would reach his shoulders, and then his chin, and then—

Moving as slowly as possible, using one hand, he raised the pencil adio to his lips again.

"Sonny this is Bubba. How much farther do you have?"

The voice of Solo came in. "About thirty miles, Illya. We're driving as fast as possible."

Illya did not answer. He was saving his strength. Each time his foot moved it sank another fraction of an inch. He kept hoping to find some bottom. But there was no bottom. Soon the sand was at his shoulder, then his chin would he readied, and then . . .

NAPOLEON SOLO saw the car off the highway in the last rays of the sun. It was Illya's car, there was no doubt. A typical Thrush mistake, to leave the car. Solo stopped the car and looked out toward the low line of brown hills. On foot he would never make it.

"Hang on, Penny," he said grimly.

The girl blanched. "You're not! Oh no, the car can't make it!"

"Let's see if perhaps it can," Solo said, and turned the car off the highway.

He drove in the purple desert twilight, bumping and lurching across the barren land. Illya had said there was a tall peak, flat on top, directly behind where he was. Solo could see it clearly ahead against the purple twilight sky.

* * *

THE SAND reached his shoulder, flowed up toward his chin. Illya clung to the flat suitcase that was under the surface of the sand now.

It was dark.

The last purple rays had gone behind the hills, and now Illya sank alone in the pitch dark. His light was in his case under the sand. He had long ago dropped his pistol, it was no use in this battle. Even his pencil radio was gone, slipped into the sand and vanished.

With no radio he had lost contact. There was no one now to talk to, to help him remain sane, to keep up his faint last hopes. Was this, then, the end?

To vanish under a surface that was neither sand nor water?

Gone, and no trace to show where he had gone?

* * *

THE CAR gave out at the base of the first hill, its axle finally breaking under the strain of the impossible drive. Solo leaped out, took his briefcase and the rope, and motioned to Penny Parsons to follow him.

Silently they climbed the low hills. He was directly behind the tall, flat-topped hill, but he could see nothing in the dark.

He put on his infra-red goggles, took the girl's hand, and climbed.

At the crest he looked down at the long valley. The small arroyo was off to the left. Sliding in the dry dirt, he went down toward the dark arroyo.

He could see nothing.

Then he saw the boulder Illya Kuryakin had described. He motioned to the girl to stay where she was, and moved cautiously toward the boulder. He kept his eyes on the ground, stepping over the electronic sensors. He reached the boulder and looked down.

A flat, smooth surface stretched in front of him like a pool of water in the darkness. Then he saw the black object.

"I would suggest speed, Napoleon," Illya said.

Solo smiled. The black object was Illya's head. The sand had just reached the small Russian's chin. As Solo watched, he saw the pale shape that was Illya's right hand.

"Here comes the rope," Solo said.

He tossed the rope. Illya caught it the first time, passed the loop over his hand and into the crook of his elbow. On the boulder Solo began to pull.

Nothing happened.

"The boulder," Illya said.

Solo stepped down carefully, and passed the rope around the boulder. Then he leaned all his weight against the rope end and dug his feet into the hard dirt.

The rope began to give. Solo dug in and struggled ahead, the rope over his shoulder. Suddenly it gave completely and Solo sprawled in the dirt. He jumped up and began pulling more easily.

"All right, enough," Illya called from the other side of the boulder. "I'm out; you'll drag me half over the landscape."

Solo stopped pulling and jumped up to the top of the boulder.

"Ingrate," Solo said, grinning.

Illya, on firm land, stood up and began to pick the thick quicksand from his clothes.

Then the two men moved cautiously back up the arroyo to where Penny Parsons waited. The girl looked nervously around in the dark night.

"Now can we go?" she asked.

"Not until dawn," Illya said. "Much too dangerous to try to go down there again at night."

"You're not going—" Penny began.

Illya shrugged. "Of course. I didn't come here for a swim in quicksand. We still have to find out what there is down there that goes whizz-bang in the night."

Solo handed Illya a spare U.N.C.L.E. special, and the two agents lay down to sleep and wait for the dawn. Penny Parsons sat on the ground and stared at them.

FIVE

MOVING CAUTIOUSLY in the first light of dawn, Illya and Solo reached the yawning black opening beneath the camouflage. They had left Penny securely hidden in a narrow culvert. Now they peered into the maw of the real valley floor beneath the camouflage.

The camouflage reached from one side of the valley to the other, some hundred yards, and rested on supports some fifty feet high. Its length was impossible to estimate—at least two miles along the entire valley floor.

Under the net there were low, flat buildings that almost reached the camouflage above. The buildings told them nothing, and there was no one in sight. Illya pointed to the ground.

"Napoleon, look!"

Solo looked at the ground. He whistled low.

The ground was not ground—it was a smooth cement road. A very wide road, with heavy black marks.

"A runway," Solo said.

"I think we have found where our unidentified flying objects come from," Illya said. He had already described the glowing black craft he had seen fly over him.

"But it's only two miles long, maybe even less."

"Enough with booster rockets," Illya said. "Still, it would take very well trained men to lift off just at the edge there from under the camouflage."

"That's probably why they need expert rocket pilots."

"What I saw flew even faster than a normal rocket," Illya said.

Solo rubbed his chin. "There was radiation around the hole of that explosion. One probably crashed."

"Nuclear propulsion!" Illya said. "And no one has managed to use it for aircraft before."

Solo looked around. "One thing puzzles me. I can see how they manage to take off, but how do they land?"

"Let's find out," Illya said.

The small, blond Russian led the way in a quick dash across the runway to the first low building. The two agents peered in at a window.

Inside the building a horde of black-clad men worked over a long, enormous engine. It was a strange affair, unlike anything Solo or Illya had ever seen.

The agents continued on, running crouched from building to building. Inside another building they saw slabs of black metal-like material glowing in a wind tunnel.

"Heat shield material. That explains the glow on the black plane," Illya said. "At that speed, most materials would melt. They seem to have developed everything."

The third building proved to be a personnel testing installation. Inside it men were seated in big pressure chambers; white-coated men worked over them. There were many glass bottles. As the two agents watched, injections of some pale blue substance were being administered to a group of men.

Then the three armed men came around the corner of the building.

"Quick!" Illya cried.

Solo and Illya ran to a door in the building. It was open. They dashed inside. At the door they listened. The footsteps were approaching the door.

"There," Solo whispered.

A metal door stood open to the left down a dark corridor. Illya and Solo ran for it, entered a large room with benches along the side, and slammed the door shut behind them. Outside in the corridor the footsteps came closer, passed, and faded away.

"Close," Illya said. "Did you see those men being injected, Napoleon?"

Solo nodded. "Yes, I did. I have a hunch that might explain our 'silent malady'. Some effect of a special drug."

"You noticed they were being injected before entering a pressure chamber. I also noticed a jet sled for speed effect testing," Illya said. He nodded soberly. "You know, Napoleon, that black ship I saw moved much faster than anything else I ever heard about. That much speed would have effects on a pilot. I wonder if they have developed a drug of some kind for that purpose, a drug which has side effects?"

"Could be," Solo said. "Let's get out of here and find out."

"An excellent suggestion," Illya said.

The small, blond agent walked in the metal door. He turned the handle, but it would not turn. Illya Kuryakin tried again. Solo watched him. The handle would not turn the fraction of an inch. Solo started toward the door to help.

Solo rose from the floor, floated in the air.

Illya, his hand on the handle of the door, was suddenly above the handle, floating, his body higher than his hand.

Solo floated up and crashed into the metal ceiling. The chief agent tried to force himself down with a lunge. He careened across the room, smashed against a metal wall.

Illya lost his grip on the door handle and tumbled through the air. The small agent cried out.

"Weightless! It's a weightlessness test chamber!"

"You're telling me!" Solo said, floating in the air, smashing against the floor on his back and bounding up.

"We can't handle it!" Illya cried.

"Try!" Solo said.

"It takes training," Illya said, fighting to remain upright in the air, unable to, falling over horizontally.

There was a noise, the sound of metal sliding. The two agents twisted in the air, saw that a metal panel had slid back to show a thick plate glass window. A man's face watched them from the other side of the window.

A fat, round face that smiled benignly at them like a small, pink cherub.

ACT III

ONE EGG IN A CONDOR'S NEST

THE STEEL WALLS of the room were windowless. The door was barred. Penny Parsons sat and was afraid.

"They found me an hour ago. I hoped that you—" she did not finish.

"We'll get you out, Penny," Solo said.

The barred door opened. A small, fat man entered with two silent guards dressed in black. The guards carried Thrush rifles. The small man had the fat, round face that had watched them through the window of the weightless test room. The fat man beamed at them.

"I doubt that you will, Mr. Solo," the fat man said, "but I must say I admire your ability and resourcefulness. You got so much farther than the computer said you would. I have little faith in thinking machines. A man is the true thinking machine."

"Meaning yourself?" Solo said.

The fat little man laughed. "Well, in all modesty, I think that you will find Dr. Ernesto Guerre listed among the geniuses, especially after this project is completed. I imagine Waverly has a fair dossier on me. Too bad it will not help you."

Illya studied the little man from where he sat. The quizzical eyes of the small Russian were interested.

"Dr. Ernesto Guerre," Illya said softly. "I remember. You worked for the Soviet once. Before that—"

"Before that for that fool Hitler, yes. They all did not believe I could do it, but I have done it. And with my brain, not with a computer! I warned them that Diaz was a bad mistake, but they trusted their Ultimate Computer."

"Diaz found out?" Illya said.

"He managed to get past our personnel check and play the part of a rocket pilot," Dr. Guerre said, and laughed. "Luckily, he did not know about the side effects of metabala-G. You were quite correct, Mr. Kuryakin, metabala-G is a little development of mine to enable pilots to stand the speeds of the Q-ninety-nine."

"It affects the speech and language section of the brain?" Illya said.

"It does. We are working on it. But, after all, pilots do not need speech," Guerre said.

"The Q-ninety-nine is a plane?" Solo said.

Guerre nodded. "Nuclear propulsion, speeds never dreamed of, unlimited range. They all said I was crazy."

"Maybe they're right," Solo said.

Guerre narrowed his small eyes, but the perpetual benign smile never left his fat face. "Thrush does not think so, Mr. Solo, and I will give them rule of the world! They are men of vision! Not like your soft world powers. With my work, Project Condor will give Thrush complete world domination!"

"Not with a few aircraft, no matter how fast," Illya said.

"No, but—" Dr. Guerre started to say, and stopped. The happy– looking little fat man laughed. "I think I have told you enough. I dislike men to die curious, but you know enough. Now I think we will find out what you know. Personally, I would just kill you. Very simple, a bullet in the head. But my Thrush friends want to pick your brains."

The fat little man turned and walked out through the door. His place was taken by a smiling Maxine Trent. The two guards had not moved. Maxine smiled at Solo.

"My poor Napoleon, caught again. I'm surprised at you, walking right in like this. I believe you could have escaped after you pulled Kuryakin out of the quicksand. Our man was very careless there. He's gone."

"Hello, Maxine," Solo said. "You never give up, do you?"

"For you, my dear Napoleon? Never. I really have a strong attachment to you. I wouldn't have anyone kill you except me."

"I'm touched," Solo said.

"Besides, I owe you something for that Australian affair. My superiors were most annoyed by that. I think I'll give them your brain on a platter."

"A modern Salome," Illya said dryly.

Maxine looked at the small Russian. Illya grinned at the Thrush agent.

"We won't neglect you, Kuryakin. Our Russian section is most interested in you," Maxine said. "However, I think we'll start with the girl. I want our men well warmed up by the time they get to Napoleon."

"She doesn't know anything," Solo said.

Maxine laughed. "Gallantry, Napoleon? How interesting. But I imagine Miss Parsons knows more than even she is aware of. Take her out!"

The command was given to the two black-garbed guards. They led the shivering Penny Parsons out of the room. With a mocking wave, Maxine followed the guards and the girl.

The room became silent.

"She doesn't know anything," Solo said.

"They'll kill her then," Illya said. "They won't believe her, she was with us."

"I thought she'd be safer."

"You were right as far as it went," Illya said. "After she talked to you, they would have gone after her anyway. The question now is, what can we do for her?"

"First we better get out of here," Solo said.

"I agree," Illya said. "I'll watch the door."

Illya went to stand at the small barred window in the door. Solo bent over and examined the cuff of his trousers. After a few moments he reached down and gently pulled a long thread out of the trousers. He laid it on the floor in front of him and turned to the other trouser leg. He pulled out another long thread. He laid this beside the first long thread.

Then Solo began to twist the two threads together. He twisted them carefully, leaving the last inch of each thread spread apart. He ended with a stiff, braided, stringlike filament about a foot long.

"There are no guards in the corridor," Illya said from the door. "I wonder why?"

"We'll probably find out," Solo said.

Solo was removing the buttons from his suit coat sleeve. He took the four buttons, and tied them together in pairs with a third thread from his trousers. He left an inch of each thread protruding from the button hole. Then he stood up and looked at Illya.

"Did they leave you anything?"

Illya shook his head. The search had been thorough and expert. Neither agent had been left even his shoes or his belt. Nothing but the clothes they stood in.

"Nothing," Illya said. "We're lucky they left you your clothes. Mine were ruined by the quicksand."

Solo handed Illya one set of buttons tied into the tiny pairs.

"This will have to do then," Solo said.

"Ready?" Illya said. "I don't like there being no guards outside. They feel secure."

"Well, maybe we can change that," Solo said, grinning.

Solo picked up the stiff, braided filament made from the two threads from his trousers and carried them to the door. He doubled the string over twice, and pressed it against the door exactly where the lock was on the outside. The string struck there with self-adhesive.

Then Solo touched the two separated ends, rubbed them lightly together, and jumped back.

There was a tiny flash of flame at the ends of the braided threads, and then a blindingly bright glow. The glow, white hot, lasted a full minute. When the glow faded, there was a gaping hole in the steel door six inches across where the lock had been.

The door swung open at a touch from Napoleon Solo.

TWO

THEY SAW a light at the far end of the long corridor. Solo led the way in the opposite direction. The corridor ended in a solid wall of rock. They retraced their steps toward the light at the other end. The walls of the corridor were smooth, unbroken rock.

"It must be a cave in the hillside," Illya said.

"Which explains no guards," Solo said. "Down there is the only way out. That's where the guards are."

The two agents reached the end of the corridor. They peered out and saw that the cave opened into a room. This room was also steel, and two armed guards sat in chairs at a desk. There were windows in this room with light coming through them from outside. The windows were barred.

The two guards were having an argument about the comparative merits of American and South American women. It was a heated discussion, and they did not hear the faint noise made by Solo and Illya as the two agents prepared the tiny buttons in their hands.

"Now," Illya hissed softly.

Both agents pinched the inch of thread that protruded from the buttons, and tossed the tiny pellets out into the room. The guards heard them, turned, their Thrush rifles raised and pointed. That was the last thing they ever did.

Illya and Solo dashed back into the corridor and fell flat.

Two shattering explosions ripped the steel room.

The guards screamed once and were hurled against the steel walls. The table in the room smashed into pieces. The chairs hurled into the air.

Illya and Solo leaped up and ran back into the room. They looked at the dead guards and at their weapons. Both rifles were twisted shards of metal.

There were no other guns in the room. The outside door, blown open by the explosions, hung crazily from shattered hinges.

"No time!" Illya cried. "We'll have to run for it! No weapons!"

Already voices were shouting somewhere.

"Let's go! " Solo cried.

The two agents ran out of the steel room and into the open area beneath the high camouflage. Alarm bells had begun to ring. Far off, near the building where they had been caught, they saw the tiny, fat figure of the cherubic Doctor Guerre. The little round man was bawling orders.

Black-suited guards ran all across the area beneath the camouflage.

In the distance there was a whine, incredibly high, and then the roaring of a motor. The roaring came closer. Illya pointed far down the runway.