Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair "

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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CHAPTER ONE: TIME WAS AND IS

MANUEL PALAGA was a pirate. Ruthless, efficiently calculating all odds against him, hedging his risks, never overreaching himself, trusting no one person though appearing to trust all. He worked the cargo runs around the islands, extended to the African coast, created a network of spies and sources of information as detailed as those of a modern tax collector.

When Palaga ordered his ships out from their hidden coves and bays, he knew to the last golden piece exactly the value of his intended victims. Few failures are recorded, but he was the only pirate captain ever to give his cutthroat crews as high a reward for failure as for success. But if one ship of his fleet of pirateers seemed to be too often unlucky in its efforts, its captain and officers disappeared, the crew being dispersed to other ships.

Those were not the glamorous days so many writers of history have claimed them to be. Most pirates ended their careers by being hanged and quartered, murdered by their own crews or in drunken orgies ashore. But not Manuel Palaga. Murderer and ruffian he undoubtedly was, and no chivalrous upholder of the rights of women. He is believed to have been married and is on record as admitting paternity of at least twenty-four children between 1790 and 1820, though his legal wife died childless.

For the latter twenty of those thirty years, Palaga was shore-based, which accounts not only for certain obvious sexual activities but also for his good health during a period when other pirate captains were suffering from stretched necks and similar hazards of their then overcrowded profession.

Manuel Palaga did in fact become a pirate of the pirates, but not upon the high seas. He had based himself on the shores of a white-sand bay which had a natural harbour of flame-pink coral. The land was lush in its semi-tropical climate, having abundant fresh fruit, root crops and water. It also had periodic hurricanes, but none worse than the storms Palaga and his ship had survived at sea.

He had been resting his crew, replenishing his ship's stores and counting his own piracy spoils when another pirate ship sailed into the bay. Palaga promptly invited the captain and officers ashore, gave them to understand he had been granted governing rights of this island with its pleasant bays and coves, and charged them harbour dues. When they refused to pay, he accused them of piracy, held a mock court and hanged them all.

His men emptied their ship of its pirated cargo, bound its crew to their own masts and set the ship on fire. But Palaga's men had overlooked a number of kegs of gun powder. When the flames reached below-decks the vessel went up in a million flaring pieces. It also raised a huge curving wall of coral in great chunks, and in so doing cleared a deep channel through which even large ships could enter the bay in safety. Skilled engineers could not have made a more perfect deep-water harbour.

Palaga built wharfs, erected storage sheds, and from 1810 to 1820 created a township, its staple industry based upon trade with all seagoing craft. He sold fresh water, fruit, vegetables and other supplies. He bought pirated goods at his own prices from pirates already harried by a growing number of British, American, French and Spanish patrol ships and obtained contracts to service and supply the patrol ships, selling to them – at high prices – many of the goods stolen from cargo ships they had failed to protect on the high seas. From this trade grew the more solid import-export business which, for fifty years, made the island, for its size, one of the richest in the world.

After a lifetime of pillaging, murder, extortion, rape, arson, blackmail, forgery and the building of a city, Manuel Palaga was peacefully paddling with some of his favourite children when he stepped on a stone fish and died in agony half an hour later.

There was no lack of heirs to his fortune, nor to his leadership, the island being known as "the island of a thousand bastards".

The island is, for that matter, still known by this description, though its people long ago corrected Manuel's oversight and brought in a few priests to restore some until then unobserved moral values. Among the islands, indeed, the name of Palaga is synonymous with bastard, but on the island itself it now represents the creme-de-la-creme of society, with Palaga City the core, the hub, the crown, the whatever-it-is-we've-got-the-most of its own special self.

Palaga is a name on the airline maps, the lush venue of the luxury liners, the homing place for ships sailing under its high-priced flag of convenience, the clearing house for drugs, the exchange mart for diamond and gold smugglers, a free port – and the island claims to possess the most beautiful shoreline in the world. It is, in fact, back in the piracy business, the sole difference being that the victims come to the pirates with a gleam in their eyes, a smile on their lips and cash in their pockets.

Some visitors are sunk without trace. Palaga has a fine hospital service, abounds with luxury clinics specializing in high-cost illnesses whose doctors all cooperate with the police department.

The Palaga police are unique. Other police forces in the world have their quota of regrettable corruption. In Palaga, all the police are corrupt. As most of their customers are also this way inclined, this makes for an amicable understanding between them. The set-up enables inquests to function smoothly and swiftly, and suitable death certificates are issued without messy details.

In the old days, pirates seldom took prisoners unless they could be made to work. Nor does modern Palaga. The "plank" is still walked – back on to a ship or on to an aircraft – quick, slick and no argument. Drunks are sobered at a clinic, the fees being extracted from their wallets or belongings. There are no beggars or shanty hovels housing an illiterate poor, because there are no poor. Visitors must show an exceptionally large sum of cash or deposited credits. This tends to keep down the harpies, prostitutes and husband-hunters because the Palaganians practise full equality of the sexes – money-wise. They have a swelegant sufficiency of their own beautiful women, and visas to lone women are granted only after substantial cash deposits have been made in the Palaga City Bank.

The police in many large cities often allow certain clubs to remain open because they know the underworld makes use of them. It is easier to sweep a net through "usual haunts" and this saves time and manpower in searching a thousand odd hidey-holes. In relation to International Law Enforcement working through its many organizations, Palaga is in the same category. A couple of bombs would blow it off the map; a combined boycott or world-enforced sanctions might kill it; an outlawing of its currency would strangle most of its activities. But it is an island of beauty in the sun. Many a jaded police chief has enjoyed its hospitality while connecting up the activities of a crime syndicate. Politicians use it as neutral territory for close-huddled conferences. Spy-catchers and spy-matchers follow tracks through Palaga with the regularity of commuters. It is the sun and fun run, the seek and hide glide, the X-marks-the spot lot, the sublime clime for the climb sublime.

Flows the aquamarine sea calm-rippled between the flaming coral arms, shave-foam breakers on the silver sands, back-dropped by endless-varied colour, stepping over sculptured, awning-eyed hotels, emerald lawns fronting apartment houses with flower-rich fountain-played sun terraces. Houses of all styles, chateau, hacienda, ranch, baroque and arabesque, mosque and minaret – you name it, we've got it – dapple the olive hills, flared windows vying with the brilliant stars, throwing a rainbow halo up to the feet of Climb Sublime.

Here are the feet also of Manuel Palaga, the pirate founder of Palaga, whose steel and stone figure rises two hundred feet from the top of Climb Sublime. By taxi it costs two hundred dollars to reach the observation gardens around these precious feet. Another two hundred dollars to travel in the lift to the terraces upon his shoulders. All the taxis are owned by families bearing the Palaga name. No private cars are allowed.

It is more expensive by hearse. The heels of Manuel Palaga house the crematorium. The cheapest ride costs five thousand dollars. But the send-off is terrific. They say there are things in the head of Manuel Palaga. Things that whirr and whine and click, and at night the eyes glow and tiny sparks of blue lightning dance a halo around the pirate's head.

Across the plinth of this massive monument to piracy, a plinth the size of a city square, in great gold letters is the motto of the House of Palaga – a free translation of which is: "Time was and is."

Many have conjectured as to its true meaning, for the words themselves do not make much sense unless put into some related context. But the present heads of the Palaga family – quiet-living, enormously rich, and as poker-faced as any of their croupiers in the island's many gambling casinos – merely smile, shrug their elegantly garbed shoulders and build another vault in the bowels of the mountain behind the city to hold the millions of currency pouring into their coffers from visitors from the outside world.

There is no income tax on Palaga – nor does their language contain the word tax – no civil servants. All public utilities are owned by a branch of the Palaga family. It seems they have evolved the ideal way of governing without government, so platoons of non-productive, graft-ridden compilers of forms, licenses, permits and other bunff which choke the arteries of other nations do not exist on Palaga.

The children are educated primarily in small classes, and all those bearing the name Palaga are sent to leading schools in America, Europe, Russia, China and India. Families of non-Palaga names and descent are subjected to birth control of an unusual nature. If they produce more than two children, the whole family is immediately "exported" to any country they may choose and given sufficient capital to make them welcome there. Likewise, any non-Palaganian over the age of sixty is "exported" as a pensioner to the West Indies or the Bahamas or even to Florida, indeed, to any place they like, and their generous pension makes them welcome anywhere.

Thus there is no over-population, and any under-population threat is swiftly dealt with by the virile Palagas whose otherwise illegitimate children are given their name, the mother given the choice of being sterilized and having a good life on the island or becoming an "export".

There are many other facets of Palaganian society which may seem strange – even barbarous – to the outsider. But all of these, if assessed calmly, can be seen to be very similar to the type of society originally maintained by the pirate Manuel Palaga.

All who enter the several harbours of Palaga have had to pay a fee before setting sail from their home port. Chance callers are stopped by gunboats which constantly patrol Palaga waters. Not only a pirate policy but also a highwayman policy of "Stand and deliver" is strictly enforced.

There are many other islands within a few days' sailing. Most of these do not have airports, and the helicopter is not encouraged on Palaga which, due to its strategic position, is a main supplier to all the other islands up to two hundred miles distant. Some small cargo-passenger boats are allowed to use the trade harbours – on the other side of the island from the glorious flame-coral harbour and bay below Palaga City – for reasons which suit the Palagas as a family but which are not disclosed to outsiders. Ships carrying the Palaganian flag of convenience are not encouraged to clutter up the Palaganian ports.

The pleasure-seeking visitor to Palaga, once issued with a visa based upon a cash deposit or the purchase of Palaganian currency, is assured of the best of luxury, attention, courtesy and facility, plus the beauty of a climate unequalled anywhere in the world. Palaga also guarantees the safety of their person and property. No doors need be locked. Purses can be left around on beaches, in bars, clubs and hotels.

Every Palaganian is a self-appointed policeman.

Some international crooks, drooling over thoughts of lush pickings, got themselves a cash stake enabling them to get on the island, and then went to work. All died from various legitimate causes, which were made clear on a Palaganian doctor's certificate, finishing up in the heels of Manuel Palaga. Their bone meal now enriches the fields and vineyards beyond the mountain.

Business visitors have to be sponsored by at least two of the senior family of Palaga, themselves great travellers who go in the guise of trade commissions to arrange imports and other Palaga business. But those who are approved, such as architects, engineers and others of that kind, do their business in such luxury and with such lavish facilities that life back home leaves them dissatisfied for months after their return.

This detailed preamble on Palaga is very necessary because unless one understands at least these facts, one cannot appreciate the island's importance to certain world undercover organizations. Palaga attends to minute detail yet does not concern itself with small matters, small people or small causes. It doesn't want boatloads of retired teachers "doing" the islands on economy cruises, nor itinerate artists seeking local colour or students hiking their way around the world. If any do slip through, they run out of money fast and are thereupon whisked over the mountain and dumped on a cargo boat before they can even send a postcard home. In fact, mail is vetted meticulously by the most modern methods, and as all languages can be understood, owing to the international schooling system, Palaga sees all and knows about what is written in letters to and from the island.

U.N.C.L.E. had to learn all these details, and many more besides, and then relay them to April Dancer, Mark Slate and others, before they dared risk sending these agents to Palaga to probe rumours and disturbing yet apparently unconnected facts which had filtered through to New York headquarters from this part of the world.

It had been tough for April Dancer to reach her present status as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. A long time learning and a time testing and being tested. And, after all that, the realization that each assignment brought its own high-pressure spate of learning. The lessons were endless, the knowledge never really sufficient in a world where knowledge and preparedness ran a perpetual race – each destroying the other so that every new case was a starter on a fresh track.

Only the hidden adversary remained the same – the vast, wealthy and powerful THRUSH organization. Yet its agents were constantly changing, as were its areas of endeavour. Only its aim could be accepted always as unchanged – the aim of world domination by any means whatsoever. So in each case the objective was known. It was the means which had to be discovered, then remorselessly destroyed.

"Palaga, Miss Dancer – you know it?" Mr. Waverly had said.

"I know of it, sir. A lush playground for the wealthy. I've heard it called a paradise – an Eden."

"Quite so. And you, if I may say so, would make an excellent Eve within its exotic boundaries. It is, however, very much more than just a paradise." Mr. Waverly had passed her a thick file. "Read, mark, learn, inwardly digest, then read again and yet again. The file covers not only Palaga but also the islands up to two hundred miles south and east of it. You have twenty hours to become word perfect and to pull in fittings with our costume department, for you will require an extensive wardrobe. Also more money than you have ever before been allocated on one case. A fact that is driving the accounts department into a state of mild apoplexy. Let us reassure them by the brilliance of your assimilated knowledge."

"Why can't I be lush and lovely?" Mark Slate had exclaimed.

"Oh, but you are – in your own horrible way," April had said.

"Jealousy, Mr. Slate, will get you no place," Mr. Waverly had reproved.

"Except on some stinking cargo boat. Oh well – what's money and beauty and lush living compared with virility and superb intelligence?" Mark had grinned at April. "Wanna swop?"

"No swops." Mr. Waverly had dismissed them both. "Go, you, too – and learn likewise."

So they had studied their required knowledge, separately, then had joined to merge knowledge with intent, and intent with procedure, and procedure with objective. All of which brought April Dancer – lushly lovely, exquisitely apparelled, with a visitor's deposit of cash money large enough to choke two donkeys – to a sun bed beneath a flared umbrella on the whiter-than-white sands of Palaga Bay.

Complete, of course, with escort. One Orlando Four Palaga. You judged the society rating of any Palaga family by their middle name, which always was a number. When you got down to the twenties you were nearing the menial grades of the Palagas. But even these were important people, and all genuine visitors could trust them. Give an Orlando Twenty-six Palaga your wallet and say: "Hold this while I have a swim," and he would be holding it when you returned. He also would be holding a long, cool drink for which he had paid. And not a postage stamp would be missing from your wallet. Put a hair between the folds, and you would find it intact, the wallet unopened even to satisfy human curiosity.

The Palagas didn't need to use such fiddling tricks. And anyway, the maids, porters, waiters, interpreters, escorts or receptionists in your hotel or apartment house already had, in their own way, searched, recorded and photographed everything you possessed. Such work was all kept in the family, anyway. Why make it more obvious and spoil your holiday?

Which made it difficult if the normal contents of your purse and vanity case included U.N.C.L.E. communicator, special radios and miniature TV contacts built into powder compacts, or an eyelash container, or tooth-paste tubes; and lipsticks that served as knock-out injectors, nail files that could open locks or double as safe combination calculators; not forgetting the most effective U.N.C.L.E. sleep-gun, the golden charm bangle full of spare bugging devices, a comb that could be turned into a stiletto, and sundry buttons and brooches to fit on suits or gowns that recorded or relayed voices to a companion up to a mile away.

Packets of chewing gum, too, were innocent enough unless the searchers knew that by chewing them for a certain time they became a saliva-activated explosive of sufficient power to wreck a room or vehicle. There were also diamond earrings that could cut plate-glass, a cigarette lighter that could double as a steel-cutting torch, and other items not normally included in the holiday gear of wealthy lush-lovely young ladies.

The U.N.C.L.E. file so carefully studied by April Dancer gave detailed information about the Palaganian checking system, so much ingenious thought had to be given into devising different ways and means for the agent to carry her necessary field equipment.

As she lay her bronzed loveliness on the flower-gay sun bed she was not, apparently, much different from other lush lovelies lazing beneath the coloured umbrellas. Many had local escort companions, others had new husbands or old boyfriends. But it would be safe to assume that April Dancer was the only lovely wearing a miniscule bra with a built-in TV sending/receiving aerial, a necklace throat mike and a solid gold portable TV set in the shape of a compact. By resting her shoulder casually against the sun bed's steel frame she could have achieved a strong enough signal to transmit through the Early Bird Two Satellite.

Orlando knew nothing of these things. He knew only the pattern of love-making prescribed for such visitors and performed his work with trained precision. His caresses were just right – not too far but far enough – his kisses warmly languorous, his manners impeccable, his attentions devout. At three hundred dollars per twenty-four hours – less if the night was for sleeping alone – plus all expenses paid, he was not expensive.

Palaganian men were not tall, but they were lithe, bright-eyed, olive-skinned and muscular. They tanned to a glowing brown and had enough body hair to suggest virility. If not, they stuck some in the right places, should female visitors feel the need for such an assurance Orlando wasn't only a good specimen of muscle-boy. He'd had an expensive education, could speak seven languages, had run a less-than four-minute mile, was a high-dive champion and could ride as if grafted to the horse's back.

All in all a worthy companion for April Dancer, who herself was no mean exponent of languages, horse-riding, sports-car racing and the physical arts of fencing, karate and judo. In other circumstances she and Orlando could have really set the hours alight. But she also was an actress with a role to play. The role of the bored, rich-born lovely.

Which, she felt, was a great pity. But there, duty calls, she sighed.

"A long, cool drink," she murmured drowsily.

Orlando caressed her gently with practiced concentration.

April quivered, then knuckle-punched him in the stomach. She really did feel resentful. Orlando stirred sweet lust – which didn't mix with business.

"You choose the silliest times, Orlando!" She spoke lazily through a half-yawn. "A long, cool drink, huh?"

His eyes smiled at her, though his mouth had winced at the blow. He sensed a strange strength in this customer. She puzzled him.

"Ah, yes!" said Orlando, feathery fingers tracing the lines of her figure. "A long, cool drink – but of course, at once."

"No hurry." She smiled. "You are always too quick, Orlando. Slow down, huh? Give a girl a chance to unwind. Take your time."

He sprang up – a gleaming brown Jack-in-the-box released from prison.

"I will be very slow. For you, very slow indeed. Then you will miss me more – as I shall miss you." Here was real corn with the ring of a crepe suzette, April thought.

April watched him go, extracted compact from beach bag, flicked it open, operated the hidden switch, leaned the band of her bra against the sun bed frame and spoke in her throat, lips scarcely moving. "Hear me," she said. "Hear me, Mark."

"And see you," said his voice as the tiny picture in the compact mirror came into focus. "Marvellous reception." He scowled. "Too good."

Not the usual debonair Mark Slate but burned bronze beneath scruffy face fungus, hair tangle-matted, greasy cap slanted over one ear.

"You look feelthy," said April. "Where, oh where is my debonair side-kick?"

Mark snarled, "Who's your pretty boy?"

She giggled. "You've been peeking. Orlando is a nice boy. He is also a contact for local THRUSH operatives. These Palaga hombres play both ends against the middle. Orlando is a grade four. I should hate to tangle with a grade one in this family set-up. In most family-inheritance outfits, the higher you go, the dumber they get. Not so here. Oh, brother, they are one talented bunch!"

"They must know THRUSH is operating here, surely?"

"Sure they must – and at astronomical deposit fees, you betcha; but are the Palagas with 'em? I doubt it. The only thing they're really with is another Palaga. I'd like out. All this talent is unnerving."

Mark grinned. "We aim to please. Your passage is booked on the Island Traveller. The Palaga cargo exit port allows you passage under their heading of 'eccentricities of the rich – to be humoured'. Only the poor never want to go slumming."

"'Is it as stinking a tub as it looks?"

"It is for the crew, but passenger quarters aren't bad. You'll survive."

"I always survive. What is the route?"

"Corn Island, Providencia, San Andres, a couple of other calls, and then the island of Taradata, before going back on the same route to pick up cargo."

"Is Lars Carlson with you? Has he made contact?"

"He's a slow and careful laddie, is Lars. I think the sun slows him down."

"More likely that belly dancer he met in what they call the Cargo Town over the mountain. I'm not completely isolated in this lush oasis, y'know."

"Tut-tut to you too! You've got Orlando. Lars has Maria. She's an ex of Captain Sidano, and he, but definitely, is THRUSH. By the way – Sama Paru and Count Kazan are out in the deep blue yonder some place."

"Air?"

"No, water. You are to contact Mr. Waverly. Randy Kovac has been doing some inspired map-reading."

"He would." April glanced up, to see Orlando approaching the beach. "I'll see you aboard. Over and out."

"Watch yourself, darling." Mark smiled as his image faded.

"You too, lover-boy," she said softly, then snapped the compact shut.

CHAPTER TWO: KEEPER OF A THOUSAND SECRETS

THE captain's cabin on the Island Traveller was a shade more luxurious than the old island-run tub would appear to boast. Recent luxuries too – such as a new bunk, electrical fittings, modern desk and other fitments, including a chrome-sparkling new radio built into a bulkhead below a large mirror.

Captain Sidano and Petrov Maleski, his first mate, sat staring at this mirror. By their conversation it was clear that Maleski was the senior, despite his shipboard rank.

Sidano growled some complaint. Maleski said:

"Quiet – enough of your protests. Listen!"

The mirror flickered into a TV screen. The head and shoulders of a balding, bespectacled man appeared.

Sidano sat upright. "Good evening, Mr. Padrack. Shall we have the pleasure of your company this evening, sir?"

Padrack ignored this inquiry.

Maleski said sharply: "Do not waste time, Sidano. This is not very wise, Padrack." He used the tone of an equal. "We agreed not to make contact from shore except in dire emergency."

"You have an U.N.C.L.E. agent aboard. Would you not call that an emergency? It also is a form of carelessness which cannot be tolerated."

"This I cannot believe!" protested Maleski. "I screened every man through our local office. But, if it is true, then I agree it is a big mistake."

"All my crew are tough cut-throats," said Sidano, obviously pleased that Maleski – the arrogantly efficient Maleski – had been discovered at fault. "They are very easy to check through their last prison address." Sidano smirked.

"Quiet! " Maleski snapped. "Who is this man?"

"Carlson – Lars Carlson. He is using the name of Sven Telsen. Our agent C.47 found him."

"C.47!" Sidano gasped. "That is Maria! It is a trick, Mr. Padrack. A jealous woman causing trouble."

"Yes," said Padrack curtly. "For you. That I do not mind. You should learn to keep your women out of your business, Captain. It is fortunate for you that Maria is one of our most loyal agents."

"But I dropped her when I discovered she was one of your agents," Sidano said angrily. "And I personally collected Telsen – or Carlson, as you call him – from the prison on the mainland. How can he be an U.N.C.L.E. agent? He was serving fifteen years for robbery and armed assault. He had beaten up three prison guards. It cost me two thousand to get him paroled to me. No, sir – Maria is mistaken."

"I would find your faith in what is told you to be most touching, were it not that you are an imbecile," said Pad– rack coldly. "Was not Carlson transferred from another prison only three weeks before you visited the mainland?"

"Yes – because he was violent."

"Pah!" Maleski snorted. "That is an old trick. I would have been very suspicious, myself, if I had known."

"So clever, you are!" said Sidano. "You know it all – after it has happened!"

"His record was faked," said Padrack. "Carlson was never in any other prison. He was planted there for you to pick, and you fell for it. You will now get rid of him – at once. You understand? Maleski, I hold you responsible."

"Yes," said Maleski. "There will be no more mistakes. You are coming aboard?"

"Very soon." The screen went blank as Padrack broke contact.

Way up in the old-fashioned rigging of the Island Traveller, Mark Slate listened in to the conversation in the captain's cabin. Tapping into the ship's aerial circuit with a new U.N.C.L.E. device had saved much risk for himself and Lars. The crew were as tough a bunch as he'd ever met, but few of them were very experienced seamen, so when Mark had shown willingness to climb aloft to tend the necessary work there, no one had protested.

Lars worked in the galley and, more often than not, was alone, so their contact could be maintained without it being obvious they were friendly. Mark now operated the switch embedded in the large buckle of his broad leather belt and, when he heard Lars open the circuit, spoke into the ring mike on his finger.

"Ya, me?" said Lars.

"Ya, you!" Mark chuckled. "Hear me. Vanish pronto before we sail. In fact – instanter. Maria has spotted you. Dunno how, but you'll be shark meat if you stay."

"Bliddy women!" said Lars. "She ben saw my tattoo. Was done when I was field agent in Antarctica. So she must be THRUSH bird."

"THRUSH bird ben singing," said Mark. "Get going, my sexful Swede. I'll try to cover you if there's trouble. Contact H.Q. when you're clear. April is due aboard soon. Go now."

"Ya – I go."

Trouble there was. Mark had a crow's-nest view. Lars emerged on deck, heading for the gangway. Four hefty crew men advanced on him from for'ard. Three more were amid ships, closing in from the stern. A Palaga taxi had just pulled up and April Dancer alighted from it. Behind the three men Maleski, gun in hand, stood a pace ahead of Sidano. Mark was a camera viewing a 3D scene.

Lars paused in midstep. Bronzed, blond cat-man – lithe, powerful, balanced to attack or defend. Mark moved fast, slipping knots, jerking stay-ropes on the heavy auxiliary block and tackle. The ropes hissed and whipped as the pulley crashed deckwards, smack among the three men amidships. It crunched on one shoulder and the man was spun back – into Maleski, the other two ensnared in writhing ropes.