Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair"

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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"Charge set," said Sama Paru. "All the boxes are out side. How much time have we got?"

Kazan checked his watch. "Nearly an hour."

Mark took the wires they had rigged from cable found in the basement. "Let's go." He thrust a wire through one window, let it trail, put the other through the next window.

In the compound he gathered one in each hand. They crouched below window level. Mark touched the wires together.

The blast blew out the window with such force that the shattered pieces went clear beyond them.

Mark stood up and peered inside.

Count Kazan said: "An efficient wrecking job."

Mark nodded. "Well judged. Hasn't brought even a spot of plaster off the ceiling. The ladies sleep undisturbed."

Sama Paru said: "I have my choice of sleeping beauties and all I do is run away. This is a hard life!"

Mark pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. "This is Mark Slate. Channel D. Hear me! Mark Slate from France. Hear this!"

When he had concluded his report, they gathered up the boxes, collected Count Kazan's suit from the bush, and were surprised to see the donkey waiting for them as they came hurrying from the trees.

"Oh, no!" Kazan wailed. "This is too much! I will never live it down!" He refused to ride on the beast although Sama offered to walk. Instead, he ran with the donkey all the way to the farm.

"A man's dignity," said Count Kazan, "is like a woman's virginity—you either have it or you don't. There is no compromise."

CHAPTER NINE: OPERATION PHAGOCYTE

"GIBBERISH," said Mr. Waverly in his office at New York headquarters, "is for the gibberers. A report containing enough figures of formula construction to fill three text books is extraordinary clever and I hope somebody receives a great deal of money for it." He tapped his pipe-stem on a folder in front of him. "Our French-based scientists excelled themselves. So have their American colleagues who, in words we not only can understand but act upon, have translated, condensed, extracted, collated the French and English reports and come up with the following."

He peered across the console at April Dancer and Mark Slate.

"Pardon me for overlooking the courtesy, but did you both enjoy your holiday in England?"

April and Mark exchanged glances. April sighed gently.

"Delightful, thank you, Mr. Waverly."

Mark murmured: "How kind of you to ask! We had a wonderful two hours!"

"So glad, so glad. Now..." He began filling another pipe. "Salient facts: K.S.R.6 is undoubtedly a fluid designed to attack all known banknote paper and has an affinity with the dyes and inks used in such printing processes. It will penetrate all clothing, leather, etcetera, and, as an invisible vapor, will or can enter bank vaults, locked safes, cash boxes—and junior's piggy bank.

"This chemical has been isolated." He glanced across at them. "A delightfully ambiguous phrase, is it not? It is the experts' way of saying, 'We have an idea what it may be, but not one hope in the hereafter of saying exactly what it is, although we know the group to which it belongs'. In other words—somebody is a lot cleverer than we are, so please catch him before he makes monkeys out of us.

"I think they took fourteen pages to say that. But the results of their dispersal tests are more to the point. After all, our concern is: how, when and where. We know why. Globules of K.S.R.6, when fired into natural rainfall, or under misty or foggy conditions, become suspended in the water. They are not washed away. The actual K.S.R.6 becomes activated when the water dries out. This activation takes the form of an invisible vapor against which only a metal-like material is effective.

"This material is a mixture of fiberglass, exploded chrome dust and a bonding agent. The dresses and suits bear no stitching. They are hot to wear although very light, but a gadget for conditioning the apparel is used when it is to be worn for any length of time. It is not possible to make this material within the foreseeable future unless the original formula is discovered. As in the formula for K.S.R.6, it is not the ingredients which confuse us but the method of manufacture.

"A later report after further tests shows that K.S.R.6 can be dispersed in chain-reaction globules in dry conditions. These will dowse a given area with concentrated spray as they burst. In these conditions, the K.S.R must be dispersed under pressure not less than six feet, not more than forty feet from ground level. Fast-moving machines, such as small motor bikes, would be ideal because pressure of air against the globules as they are released from the nozzle of a pressurized container would give maximum effect."

"More so with cars?" Mark asked.

"I thought that, but it appears not to be so. There is an aerodynamic effect caused by a car's shape which would possibly sweep them upward, thus causing much wastage of the globules. It would be most helpful if this brilliant invention could be used only by massive equipment, or even large pop-guns—anything that is different.

"Unfortunately the objects which can be adapted for use as dispersal units for K.S.R.6 are things we see all around us in every street and shop. Miss Dancer's report on the test items she discovered in the house on Dartmoor gives good examples: such as street signs, lamp posts, awning, barbers' pole signs. In fact, almost anything can be adapted, even personal sprays, such as aerosol cans labeled Fly Killer, Hair Lacquer, etcetera.

"You will see that even though we may cover every street and shop in every town, we cannot hope to trace and destroy dispersal units. And a comparatively small number of people could fix these units. We should need the Army, Navy, Air Force, and every Boy Scout in the Universe to discover them."

Mr. Waverly paused. "By the time we did so, the whole of the United States' monetary system would be in chaos—as would those of other countries. Financial anarchy will take over. The banknote paper, samples from France and their inks and dyes, are impervious to K.S.R.6. Our scientists are working all-out to break this formula and devise an antidote—either in the paper and printing processes or as a prophylactic solution. But we cannot wait for them. We believe Dr. Karadin took the better part of twenty years to create K.S.R.6. We haven't got much more than twenty hours.

"Already the reports are becoming more numerous. Security is as tight as a drum-skin. Not one leak to the press. All countries are cooperating—except certain ones whose interests are not ours. But there have been several cases of panic. In two small mid-West towns there was a run on the banks. One had to close its doors. And these areas, we believe, were merely sample areas, trial runs—like London's Carnaby Street, the Rue Rivoli in Paris, a casino in Monte Carlo, supermarkets in a hundred provincial towns.

"Mr. Kuryakin is in India. He reports five incidents. Mr. Solo is in Australia. He reports four incidents. A pattern is emerging. How many more testing and trial areas are to come? From whence is the major assault to be launched? We believe it is right here in the United States. With this country in financial chaos, the rest of the Western world will follow us into the abyss.

"Dr. Karadin is in this country—so is his daughter."

Mark grinned at April "Seems like someone else's Auntie boobed, me old darling."

"Auntie?" said Mr. Waverly. "Is that a joke, Mr. Slate?"

"A little-boy one," said April sweetly. "But it does contain a question as to how these two people were allowed into the country."

Mr. Waverly coughed gently. "Owing to the weakness of certain of my agents to play important international inquiries as they would play cards—close to their respective chests—we did not receive sufficient warning in time to alert all entry points. They did, in fact, enter by a devious route, quite openly, but with their passports stamped as arriving from Brazil. They now have disappeared."

"I had the feeling..." April began, then: "I'm sorry, sir, you were saying?"

"If I say I respect your feelings, that would not be what I mean. If on the other hand, your 'feeling' means one of your quite alarming and often accurate hunches—please go on, Miss Dancer."

She smiled. "Well, I don't have proof, but I do feel that the centers we found in England and France were gearing up, or had actually geared up, to a final phase. Tests and training were nearly complete. The K.S.R.6 solution—processed under a copy-system of the Parsimal Theory—could be produced by any competent junior laboratory assistant. The filling machine is so simple it could be worked by a child. The K.S.R.6 does not require elaborate buildings, nor any large storage capacity. Sizes of the containers vary from the size of a matchbox to a motor-bike oil tank, or a fire-extinguisher refill. In fact, the kitchen or basement of any normal dwelling could be a production unit. So I believe that all preliminary work was done in Europe, because although this country has vast open areas, our authorities are extremely alert to any place being used for any scientific purpose. Our people, generally, also are more alert to anything which might be operated against them. It is coincidence that Mr. Slate and I found these leads to Dartmoor and France—not forgetting our European contact men—at the time when Dr. Karadin and the higher echelons of his organization were almost ready to leave for America. It is here that the major effort will be made. Once under way, then Europe, Australia, India—all other areas—will be triggered off."

Mr. Waverly nodded. "I would agree with most of that, Miss Dancer. We all know how very difficult it will be to uncover centers which are in normal houses. But there must be some storage capacity beyond any you found in Europe, and surely to cover our big cities will require stockpiling of containers of K.S.R.6?—in warehouses or other large buildings?"

"April is right," said Mark. "There may be large numbers of operators engaged in the whole project, but small groups on fast little machines could zip through New York almost in a day, This K.S.R.6 stuff doesn't need to be pumped out by the gallon, does it?"

"No," said April "On a rainy day they would require surprisingly little. And we must remember that in many towns they may not need to be mobile. In fact, their agents may already be working on street signs, traffic lights, lamp posts—a whole host of ordinary dispersal points. These attachments—or even street signs containing them—can be put up by people who'd attract no attention, such as window cleaners, street-lighting maintenance men, sign erectors, painters."

"Whilst we are looking only for dollies in tin dresses?' said Mr. Waverly. "Or even men in metal suits?"

"They bother me," said Mark. "The rest of the K.S.R.6 plot is terrifyingly simple. Why complicate it by using such costumes? They're a dead give-away. We can surely round up every person wearing such clothes?"

"I think there are two good reasons," said April. "The first is technical. Continual exposure to the globules of K.S.R.6 at the time of dispersal—that is, before they vaporize—will cause severe dermatitis. A concentration of vapor will cause irritation and some peeling similar to sunburn. The second is that these suits protect all paper money."

"So do their wallets and purses," said Mark. "Why not use only those?"

"I think the third reason is largely psychological." April smiled. "In all massive demonstrations by power-seekers—as in justice—it must not only be done but be seen to be done. They expect us to react, and it will be difficult to avoid publicity. The witch hunt will be on. Every person in a metal suit will be grabbed off the street. But everyone's money will melt just as fast. You'll never stop the panic."

Mark nodded. "Because the stuff will be spraying all over them from street signs and other points. They'll carry it into the banks, shops, offices—their homes—and not know it."

Mr. Waverly said: "Part of the reports stress that areas with high rainfall—especially those subject to heavy mists and fogs—are ideal places for testing K.S.R.6. The atmospheric tolerance is an important factor."

"Yes," said April. "Part of that was in my report. Mist, fog and air moisture was the plus factor at Dartmoor. But they now have perfected K.S.R.6. Those conditions may not be so vital."

Mr. Waverly rose from his chair. "Let us go into the map room. Mr. Kovac has been given a small assignment. We will see what he can surprise us with." He rippled his pipe stem up the edges of the stacked files. "Nobody else has done so. We really must get rid of this mountain of paper work." He looked at Mark "Oh, by the way, Mr. Slate—isn't ten thousand francs a trifle excessive for local produce in France?"

"Well, sir, they produce banknote paper and—er—sleeping models in that part of the world."

"Ah! Quite so. We also have a claim for fifteen gallons of petrol, plus car hire from our British friends. I gather the mileage was something under a hundred. But perhaps we don't use the same route maps?"

"High-speed running," said April. "A very powerful car. My fault, I'm afraid. I ran the tank dry."

Mr. Waverly nodded sympathetically. "Yes, fast driving does run away with the gas. And Dr. Karadin wasn't courteous enough to pay for your lunch in the Post Office Tower restaurant?"

Mark flickered a grin at her. He said to Mr. Waverly:

"You wouldn't expect her to be false to her career-woman image, would you? You don't take the little woman out to lunch today, y'know. In this shining new world it's the woman who always pays—or was that what Gladstone said in 1886?"

"I wouldn't know, Mr. Slate," said Mr. Waverly dryly. "I hope that when Miss Dancer receives her expenses voucher she will duly compensate you for your support."

"I doubt it," said Mark. "She never has."

"In my young days," said Mr. Waverly as they entered the map room, "we had a sense of honor about such things."

"Ouch!" said April, then smiled brightly. "Hullo, Randy!"

"Hullo, old son!" said Mark. "Rescued any good agents lately?"

Randy grinned hugely. He had been bubbling ever since he had known they were on their way back, clock-watching at home, wondering what excuse he could make for calling in at H.Q. when it wasn't really his period for reporting, saying to himself: "They're just about boarding the aircraft. Now they're in mid-Atlantic."

Then the phone had rung. "Ah! Mr. Kovac!" Mr. Waverly was casual—a sure sign of pressure. The greater the crisis, the more casual, it seemed, he became. "If you could spare the time there is some work you could do for me before Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate arrive. You have been aware of this Global Globules nonsense from the start. So perhaps a follow-through session will be good experience for you. Yes—as soon as you like."

Randy Kovac became jet-propelled. He almost bounced off the U.N. building which towered over the street of the small tailor shop, so directly did he speed to H.Q. At last he was on an assignment! He, Randy Kovac, would be there when his two "ideals" arrived! At least he'd take darn good care he was there!

Some of the steam went out of his bubbles when he found that his assignment was a boring repetition of much of the work he'd already done in plotting, mapping and cross– referencing the Globule incidents in America. But the follow-through work set his already lively imagination ablaze.

If April Dancer was an intuitive, or hunch follower, Randy Kovac was a super-plus-intuitive. He was inspired by hero-worship, plus career-drive, plus sublime belief that he couldn't fail, plus the Irish blood in him that held the blessed strain of unending faith in "the little people", and the grace and favor of generations of Irish luck.

"Fine!" said Randy Kovac in what he hoped was a normal voice. "Just fine!" But in trying to be normal, his voice persisted in going way up, then way down again, his brain feathery light despite the long hours spent checking and cross-checking his own theory. He was nervous of Mr. Waverly, though, because many of those hours of work hadn't been as routine as perhaps they should have been. "I read the reports you gave me, sir."

"That was the object of giving them to you, Mr. Kovac."

"Yes, sir—well, I did, and..." He pressed the map-screen switch. "Here is the first breakdown of incidents. No pattern, you will see." He pressed the switch again. "Here is the breakdown of high-rainfall and air-moisture areas superimposed."

"Very pretty," said April. "You're an excellent cartographer."

Randy beamed. Mr. Waverly grunted. Mark flicked up an eyebrow. "Is this your idea?"

"Mr. Waverly told me to follow through on natural sequence. I thought maps were better than reams of typing."

"Is this all you have accomplished?" demanded Mr. Waverly.

"No, sir." Randy made like a magician as he again pressed the map-screen switch. "Here is a breakdown of arid areas."

"Arid!" Mr. Waverly exclaimed sharply. "That was not in your terms of reference, Mr. Kovac. You have spent valuable time on something you were not asked to do."

"Please, sir—may I give my reasons?"

"I'm sure he has good ones," said April, little realizing that the words would turn a likeable young man into her slave for life, not being that intuitive... Or was she?

"The reports, sir." Randy's voice trembled with eagerness. "From Europe especially, as well as later ones from far continents—they all emphasized rain areas. But K.S.R.6 wouldn't be an effective weapon if it had to rely on rain showers or mists. And what about areas of low rainfall?—deserts and arid areas? We have those in the States. I assumed that K.S.R.6 was tested in areas like Dartmoor. That would be natural. It wasn't heavily defended. Miss Dancer reports her opinion that the operation there was in terminal phase. It also would be natural for us to assume that main centers in this country would be in such areas. They would expect us to assume that."

"Between your assumptions and Miss Dancer's opinions should be placed a crystal ball," said Mr. Waverly severely. "I asked for follow-through summaries on which we could base action."

"With respect, sir," said Randy quietly, "we have plenty of facts to summarize as to methods and effects, and I have completed those. But we do not have any on possible centers, except reports based on assumptions."

"Touché, Mr. Kovac." Mr. Waverly's eyes suddenly twinkled. "Explain further, if you will, this departure from your instructions."

Randy switched in a graph plate. It looked like a transparent map of air routes with dots linking the cities and areas where incidents had been reported. One outstanding fact was obvious. The lines all crossed at the same point.

"Little Basin Desert, Arizona," said Randy, putting his finger on that crossing point. "Arid, very low humidity. Little Basin is an almost circular depression between hills and rocky buttes. It has been drilled for water. That operation cost as much as the purchase price of the whole lot. It is a Health Farm. At one time it was a Dude Ranch. It has been owned for nearly ten years by Healthfare Incorporated. Healthfare is associated with various health clubs through out the world, but mainly in Europe, where bronchitis and similar chest complaints are prevalent. Patients visit Little Basin from all over Europe. It is forty-three miles from the nearest town."

"You are proving that you spent the hours working," said Mr. Waverly. "Your summary is most interesting. So is the assumption that because all lines between the incident areas cross at that one point—it must mean something on which we can act."

April hunched forward, chin on hands.

"He means, stick your neck out, Randy! Sell it us as a proposition."

"I've heard worse," said Mark. "But it's a trifle airy-fairy, old lad."

"This isn't," said Randy. "Healthfare is associated with Société L'Art de Guerir—The Art of Healing Company—of Paris. Founder member and now Director-General is Dr. Carl Karadin. His associates are Georges Sirdar..."

"Sirdar the Turk!" April exclaimed.

"Ah! You know him?" Randy clicked his fingers. "Yes, of course—the organizer of the muscle men."

"What others?" said Mark briskly.

"Suzanne Karadin—she makes the third French director. Then there is S. L. Coke (British), L. Mancini (Italian), Brunnard T. Raver (American) and M. Nicorious (Greek)."

"And you got all that from drawing lines?" said April. "You are a very clever young man."

"Come into my office," Mr. Waverly snapped. He turned and hurried away.

Randy looked puzzled. Mark patted his shoulder. "Not to worry, old boy—methinks the fairies are on your side!"

As they joined him, Mr. Waverly said: "Sit down, Mr. Kovac, sit down."

Randy trod air, savoring this delicious moment of dream-come-true—lovely dreams of Mr. Waverly sending for Mr. Kovac's brilliant self, saying: "Sit down." Juniors didn't sit down. Top agents did—in fact, all top people—but not juniors. Randy eased gently down as if testing a hot bath.

Mr. Waverly was on the direct Washington line. They couldn't hear what he was saying because he spoke through the cowl sound diffuser attached to his earphones. As he waited for replies to his long conversation, he glanced at Randy.

"That was the sum-total of your follow-through, Mr. Kovac?"

"Yes, sir—er—except..."

"Cough it up, laddie," said Mark. "You're in to your ears already. We can only shoot you once."

Randy gulped. "Well, sir—I didn't have authority to phone Paris."

"I bet you tried!" April chuckled.

"The operator wouldn't put me through. I had to work through our foreign department. I wanted to find out what other business the French company owned. We could only find one."

"A couturiere?" said April.

Randy beamed at her. "That's right—only I couldn't pronounce it properly. The Healthfare Company own 'Dorés'—a fashion shop on the Rue Rivoli. How did you guess that?"

"You'll learn in this fascinating game of ours that one little 'click' sets off lots of other 'clicks'," she assured him. "They build up to a big bang if you keep clicking on the right lines. Like your lines clicking to a center. See what kept clicking after it? So it clicks with me that some expert dressmaker, tailor or, as in France, a couturiere establishment must make up that metal-dress gear. Someone they had control of—not a contract job."

Mr. Waverly held up his hand for silence. They waited. At last he removed the head stall and swung around to face them.

"The password is PHAGOCYTE."

April tapped her forehead with a knuckle and frowned.

"Something meaning ... guarding the system against infection by absorbing microbes." She laughed. "Very neat."

Mr. Waverly inched a smile at her.

"Are we not? So now—let us to work." He looked at Randy Kovac. "You will remember we are a team, Mr. Kovac. No one person is greater, or lesser, than that team. The discovery of one part is the discovery of all parts leading to a conclusion of the whole by the whole. In this context we each have one moment of glory. Let us assume you have had yours. All responsibility for it is now lifted from you. But we shall not forget that moment. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right," said Mr. Waverly. "We will pass to the action briefing room. Operation Phagocyte has already commenced."

CHAPTER TEN: KEEP FINGER OFF BUTTON!

WHAT began as a hunch became an open bluff which led to an assignment, which in turn erupted into an international project. From such small beginnings do world wars escalate. All who worked for and with the U.N.C.L.E. organization never lost sight of this possibility. Its agents were, of course, constantly at war. They lived with its menace, saw the dangers in many seemingly ordinary incidents in all parts of the world which could, if linked together, form a pattern of destruction on an international scale.

As highly trained, skilled and experienced agents they were trusted and given wide latitude. At their back stood the vast defense machine of their country and the world network of associates and similar organizations with whom it worked. But at all times they were individuals. They did not march in formations. They did not wear uniforms. They did not salute superior ranks. They combined the freedoms of the buccaneering adventurer with the calculating brain of the modern espionage agent and the discipline of the finest service personnel.

To an outsider they might appear casual, or even irresponsible. They were disrespectful in many attitudes towards their respective establishments. They suffered the small irritations of administration departments, such as querying footling items on expense sheets, with tolerant good humor, but fools who sabotaged their sometimes desperate efforts in the field were blatantly derided or ignored, no matter what their Civil Service rank. All top agents possessed an intuitive sense sharpened by often bitter experience, so in many instances could not file in triplicate a report that would satisfy a chair-borne general.

They tried not to break civil laws, but of necessity had to "bend" many in the interests of that greater and over riding "law of national preservation". Thus all their efforts were sublimated to defense of country, which itself was a defense of world peace. And at times, the only form of defense is attack.

General assignment agents tried always to work from within the enemy areas, to infiltrate, to sabotage local activities, to link the improbable with the possible and break the power of an encircling movement. Divide and rule is an old maxim. U.N.C.L.E. agents often divided local power groups, splitting them so that they could more easily be destroyed, so weakening and finally snapping the power of their leaders.

Action begets action. What was seen in a London street moved through personal contacts to violent destruction on an English moorland, thence to a French forest. Escalation of action was a natural result, always so for agents such as April Dancer, Mark Slate, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Enforcement officers might be their official title, back here at Del Floria's tailor shop in the brownstone house under the shadow of the United Nations building. But from a London street to a New York street—the hunch had come home, to where the ultimate danger lay somewhere in an Arizona desert.

With all forces alerted it was inevitable that the administration should conform to "procedure" that almost biblical word voiced unctuously along with the well-beloved phrase "usual channels". Insert a two-letter word—by—and you have the awe-filling phrase—"procedure by usual channels". Lengthily translated this means: "There are one helluva lot of us guys being paid one helluva lot of money and we are all going to put our itchy noses into this affair and shall require one helluva lot of memos duly signed, counter-signed, classified and passed to you for urgent attention, before we can move one goddamn man, tank, plane, troop carrier, gun, gas bomb, radio, scout car or portable latrine."

Which was one reason why April Dancer and Mark Slate sat on an olive-sage hill in the hot, dry olive-sage area of Little Basin, Arizona.

"Mr. Alexander Waverly is a one-man bomb on his own," said April Dancer. "He doesn't explode for little men—only for the biggest—but even he is going to be taxed severely before Operation Phagocyte comes to life in terms of men, men, men."

"Same the world over, old girl." Mark Slate stretched in the sun. "Once the admin and service wallahs are called in, all the little men become pompous big men. Don't see how you can ever avoid it. The machine runs the men who are employed to run it. Once they get moving, all hell won't stop it. That's how they lose thousands of men in an attack. I've seen it happen. Nice words they give the poor dead devils too—expendable, they say: strategy, they say: the escalation of the overall plan, they say. What they mean is that some theory-ridden old red-tab back at his comfy H.Q. forgot he had those units stuck over there by the green pin on the map board. Wars have got too big, me old darling. Was a time when the general was way out in front—leading 'em. Now, there are nearly as many generals and admirals at the back of the poor expendable so-and-sos." He sat up suddenly. "Which same is us, right now."

April grinned. "I wondered when you were going to wake up to that fact. Well, at least the F.B.I. should be in a position by now. Drat this radio silence."

"How else can we get close? They've no phone down there in the nut hatch. Must be well linked with radio—maybe radar too." Mark glanced at his watch. "Better start preparing for the Stutter Beam relay, That was cool thinking on your part." He chuckled. "Space Research didn't like it one little bit when they learned you knew all about their precious Stutter Beam. By the way—how did you know?"

She made no reply until they had taken out the collapsible equipment from their shoulder packs and begun to open it up in the shade of a rock overhang.

"People call it stutter because it does—in laser light beams. But it's the invention of a man named Gabriel Stuttar—who, by merest chance, is my godfather. He's an old sweetie. It was he who encouraged me to keep on with my career." She gazed at Mark as she squatted back on her haunches. "We hear so much about our brilliant young men—and we have them, sure we do. It'd be a poor old world without them. But we have the others, too."

"What others?"

"Gabby Stuttar, for one. When he was a young man—one of the brilliant young men, I suppose he'd be called—his ideas of using laser light and a translation receiver were laughed at. Now it's top secret—one of the marvels of the age—yuck! yuck! He began it thirty years ago—now it's so secret he doesn't even rate his picture in the papers."

"Money?" said Mark.

She shrugged. "All he wants—now he doesn't really need it. Pride, he's got. Oh yes, human vanity too. One good headline, one TV interview, one award as the scientist of the year—maybe a Nobel. Won't get 'em though. Top secret—poor old duck!" She patted the small, camera-like object fixed on its swivel-topped tripod. "Thirty years, and here's us—taking for granted it'll work."