Текст книги "The Mind-­Twisters Affair "

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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"And changed him back to a loyal Thrush, I assume?"

"Oh… no. Effects are cumulative; after a certain number of doses, the conditioning is permanent. We're very close to that point here at Midford now. Once we got Terry back and completed our tests, we had to dispose of him."

"I suppose the next thing is a full scale assault on the scientists of the world?"

"We haven't decided. Probably we will seek to influence scientists, but there is always the possibility that we'll go into mass production of the drug, infiltrate the major TV networks for our messages and condition a majority of the citizenry. How does 'Whateley For President' strike you?"

Napoleon shivered inwardly but kept an outward calm. "How it would strike Thrush Central might be more to the point. They just might have other candidates in mind."

Whateley chuckled. "Yes, I suppose they might. But I control the drug, and I do think I might conjure up a few helpers from somewhere, if necessary. It wouldn't be too hard."

Napoleon shuddered slightly. "What about me? You mentioned some time ago that it was expedient for you to keep me alive."

"I'm glad you remembered the word I used, Mr. Solo. Expedient. That applies equally to Mr. Kuryakin when he arrives. As soon as I get a new batch of the drug made, you will be given massive doses, after which you will report to Mr. Waverly that the anti-U.N.C.L.E. feeling was a mere misunderstanding that has now been cleared up. And then... well, I'm afraid that even though I enjoy such an interesting conversationalist and splendid audience, you and Mr. Kuryakin will both have a regrettable but fatal accident on your way back to New York. It will be a pity for U.N.C.L.E. to lose their two best agents and their remarkable new car in one fell swoop, so to speak, but turnpike driving can be terribly hazardous these days."

With a final chuckle, Whateley turned and walked away down the corridor. Napoleon listened to his dying footsteps. They produced a slight echo, as though one of his demons was pattering along in front of him.

Chapter 14

"This Isn't Exactly What I Had In Mind"

AFTER RECEIVING NAPOLEON'S second call, Illya reluctantly got out of bed and dressed, meanwhile considering ways and means of getting from Lem Thompson's farm to the Whateley mansion. Lem's car had the clutch burned out, a circumstance Illya had not discovered until Lem left for Fort Wayne in his pickup truck. As a result, the only self-propelled vehicles on the farm were a tractor and a power lawn mower, neither of which seemed quite practical for driving several miles and sneaking up quietly on the Whateley house.

Once dressed, Illya picked up his communicator from the table by the bed and called the New York office. Waverly replied. Waverly always replied, no matter what time of day or night an agent called in. When he slept, or if he slept, nobody knew. Illya had heard idle speculation that the head of Section Two of U.N.C.L.E. was actually a robot. Impossible, of course, but still – when did the man sleep?

Illya passed along Napoleon's report on the Thrush base and inquired if any other agents were nearby and available.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuryakin. The Fort Wayne agent was called to help with a case in Cleveland; we haven't had a report from the part-time agent at Midford University for some time. I'm afraid we must assume that Thrush's drug has caused a temporary, ah, shall we say defection? I will alert the Chicago office to stand by if you wish, but even with their helicopter, they are hours away. I fear that, as usual, affairs are entirely in the capable hands of Mr. Solo and yourself."

"Very well, sir. We'll do our best to handle it."

"Quite, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep me informed."

Illya stared momentarily at the silent communicator, then hurried downstairs. A minute later he was dialing Sascha Curtis' number.

In answer came the impolite noise that telephone companies use for a busy signal. Illya held the receiver out and glared at it. What was Curtis doing, using the phone at this time of night? Honest citizens should be in bed. He hesitated, but there was now little choice. U.N. C.L.E. had only one other trustworthy ally in town. Reluctantly, he called Rita Berman.

She answered almost instantly, sounding sleepy. "Who is it?"

"Illya. I'm afraid I have a favor to ask."

She yawned slightly before answering. "Ask away."

"I'm at Lem's. I have to get to Whateley's right away to help Napoleon, and I need a car. If you could pick me up here, I could drop you off at home on my way through town."

"You can have the car – on one condition."

"What's that?" Illya asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.

"I come with it."

"No," he said firmly. "This could be dangerous. Whateley is a Thrush, and he has quite an army at his command."

"Then," Rita pointed out, "you need all the help you can get."

"Spying on Thrush is dangerous enough for professional agents, trained for the job. It's nothing for amateurs to get mixed up in."

"Then you can't have the car. It isn't trained either, and what sort of driver would I be if I ordered my car to go where I wouldn't go myself?"

"Look, this is serious!"

"So am I. Where the car goes, I go."

Illya continued to protest, but eventually gave in. Rita promised to pick him up as soon as she could get there. She arrived a short time later. As Illya approached the car and started to enter, he came to a sudden stop.

"Professor Curtis! What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were in a hurry," Rita said. "Get in and let's go."

Illya climbed into the front seat.

"Where do you want to go?" Rita inquired. "I know you said Whateley's, but were you planning to drive up to the front door, or were you planning to try coming up on them from downwind, so to speak?"

Illya sighed resignedly. "All things considered, the more indirect the better. Is there a place where you could hide the car, say a half-mile from Whateley's house?"

"Aye, aye," she said, saluting with her free hand as she drove. Illya looked at her curiously. For the occasion, she had donned dark slacks, a sweater, a black scarf to cover her blonde hair, and a jacket with a suspicious bulge in one pocket.

"What's that?" Illya inquired, looking at the bulge. For answer, she drew out a .25 caliber Walther automatic pistol. Illya looked pained.

"That's what I was afraid it might be. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a man who had been shot seven times with one of those things?"

Rita looked horrified. "No! What happened to him?"

"He was on trial for manslaughter. After being hit seven times, he'd beaten the other fellow's head in with a shovel. If you ever have to use that, you might as well throw it at somebody. Don't bother to shoot it." He snorted. "I said this game wasn't for amateurs."

Leaving Rita looking crestfallen but determined, he swung around to Curtis. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to go right by his house," Rita explained, "and I saw his lights on, so..."

"I've been up half the night," Curtis said. "It's this survey. All the anti-U.N.C.L.E. types have taken to calling me up in the middle of the night. It's really a very interesting phenomenon, considering the fact that the basic motivation is artificially induced. But it does get monotonous. When Rita stopped, I jumped at the chance to come. I suppose you could call it a field trip. I've never had a chance to observe actual criminals in action before. These should be particularly interesting; I've never heard of anything quite like what they are attempting in Midford. It should be fascinating; I hope to get much of it recorded." Curtis reached in one of his pockets and pulled out a miniature tape recorder.

Illya stared at the machine for a moment, then turned to face forward and slumped down in the seat. After a few minutes of silence, Rita suddenly swung the car off the rough back road she had been traveling and rocked to a stop next to a wild raspberry thicket.

"We're well hidden," Illya admitted. "But where are we?"

"A half mile from the Whateley manse, as requested," Rita said. Illya noted unhappily that she seemed to have regained her spirit of adventure.

Curtis, meanwhile, was staring happily out the window at the raspberry patch. "I must remember this location," he said. "Raspberry yoghurt has always been one of my favorites, but it's difficult to find really good raspberries." He glanced at Illya who was beginning to look ill. "I must be sure to return here next summer.

"Now look here!" Illya shouted as he jumped out of the car. "I don't think either one of you realize what's going on. Your friend Whateley is a killer. Napoleon has found the lab where the drug is made, and it's in Whateley's basement – or in a secret passage next to the basement. Whateley is a Thrush, and regardless of what you think about him, he is not just a harmless crackpot!"

For the first time, Curtis and Rita both looked slightly taken aback.

Illya looked at both of them for a moment. "Now that I have your attention, there is something you can do if you really want to help." Rita and Sascha both nodded, somewhat submissively. "Good. First, get this car turned around so you can get out of here fast. Then get inside, lock the doors, and be ready to move quickly. If neither Napoleon nor myself gets back here within two hours, go back home and telephone this number in New York City." Illya hastily scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Curtis. "Ask for Mr. Waverly and say you have information about Solo and Kuryakin. Then tell Mr. Waverly everything, and follow his instructions. And if anyone – and I mean anyone – other than Napoleon or myself shows up, get going. The way things are in Midford at the moment, any of your friends could be either Thrush agents or brainwashed. Understand?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Kuryakin," came a deep voice from the darkness a few yards behind Illya. "You express yourself very well. If you will hold perfectly still and not twitch a muscle for the next few minutes, I'll allow you to go on expressing yourself, at least for awhile."

Illya did as instructed, putting a dejected slump into his back and reflecting that the sort of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice as much as this one did would be more apt to make a mistake than a less flamboyant villain.

"All right, Mr. Kuryakin," the Thrush's voice came again. "Turn around now, slowly, with your hands be hind your head. And walk just a few feet away from the car."

Illya turned to face in the same direction as Rita and Curtis. Three men stood about ten feet away. The one in the center was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Illya's midsection. The others had standard Thrush rifles. Behind them, a section of a hollow tree had opened like a door, revealing a stairway leading into the ground.

Illya decided it was a good thing he had suppressed his initial impulse toward immediate action. The time to fight was when your enemy was unprepared. After a moment, one of the Thrushes put down his rifle, walked behind Illya and very carefully removed his gun. Then, more boldly, he took the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and began removing various pieces of odd-looking equipment from unlikely parts of Illya's person. He paused a second.

"Are you sure this guy's an U.N.C.L.E. agent, boss? He's got enough burglar tools on him to outfit half of San Quentin."

"You search and let me do the thinking," admonished the man holding the shotgun. The searcher obediently resumed his rummaging through Illya's clothing, while Rita looked on admiringly.

"And people make jokes about women's handbags!" she exclaimed.

"No conversation," the chief Thrush snapped. "By the way, what's that bulge in your pocket? No, don't show me! Keep your hands where they are! Walker, are you through with Kuryakin yet? Get that thing out of her pocket."

The Walther was duly confiscated, as was Curtis' tape recorder, the latter over strenuous objections by the psychologist.

"But it's important that I record this!" he protested. "Think of the psychological insights that will go to waste here if I can't get this all down on tape where I can study it! What will I do for my next scientific paper?"

The Thrush chief turned to Illya. "Haven't you taught this guy the facts of life yet?" he asked in amazement

Illya shrugged. "I tried."

The three of them were prodded into the hollow tree by the muzzles of the Thrush weapons. With the guns within reach, Illya calculated his chances of jumping his captors, but decided they were poor. He led the way down a steep stairway to an underground passage with a dirt floor and walls made of rough stone. They walked for a long way. Once or twice Illya attempted to start a casual conversation in the hope of gaining some information, but the Thrush leader discouraged conversation. Curtis, usually ready to talk under any conditions, seemed discouraged by the loss of his tape recorder; he walked along dejectedly.

They came to an intersecting passage, and the walls and floor changed to concrete. They passed two closed doors. Illya asked about them, but the Thrush leader evidently felt that he'd used up all his good lines and had no intention of talking again until he'd prepared some more. They turned down an intersecting passage. It was totally dark, with a glare of light coming from a room at the end, but before Illya could take advantage of the situation one of the guards flipped a switch and the passage was bathed in the harsh glare of naked electric bulbs. At the end of the passage was the dungeon. As they entered, Napoleon greeted them from his cell.

"When I asked you to come over and join me, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I can't say your choice of meeting places overwhelms me, either," Illya returned as he was shoved into a cell on the opposite side of the dungeon from Napoleon. Rita and Curtis were unceremoniously shoved into cells on either side of Illya.

"You'll never get away with this!" Rita called after the Thrushes as they departed.

When the Thrushes were out of earshot, Napoleon called to the others. "The place is bugged," he informed them. "That thing in the ceiling is a microphone. Whateley may or may not be listening, but don't tell me anything you wouldn't want him to hear."

Illya and Rita nodded. Professor Curtis sat grieving for his lost tape recorder.

Sounding as casual as was possible under the circumstances, Napoleon remarked, "Since they just dumped you in the cell, I assume you've been thoroughly searched?"

Illya nodded, mentally pricking his ears. Napoleon was apparently hinting that, taped and handcuffed as he was, he hadn't been totally defanged. So if any of the others could get to him... But most of the tools would be for escape, and if any of the others reached Napoleon, it would be because they had already escaped. Still, it was a point to remember.

Before he could think of a solution, however, there was a commotion in the corridor. Lem Thompson appeared, wrestled along with a Thrush holding each arm and a third prodding him with a Thrush rifle.

Chapter 15

"Clumsiness Pays Off Again"

LEM WAS GIVING HIS captors as much trouble as he could without getting violent enough to provoke them into shooting him. After considerable profanity on both sides, he was shoved roughly into a cell. As the Thrushes departed down the corridor, he shook his fist after them.

"You'll pay for this!" he yelled.

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow at Illya. "What do you bet the next prisoner says 'You can't do this to me!'?"

"I don't think there's anyone left to be taken prisoner," Illya observed. "How did they get you, Lem? I thought you were…"

"I was!" Lem returned. "That'll teach me to mind my own business. After this, you guys run your own errands. And either you or them Thrush characters better pay for my truck, too!"

"I think our insurance covers it," Napoleon said. "But what happened?"

"What didn't!" Lem said indignantly. "I just got out on the road and this car comes roarin' along, tries to run me into the ditch. Well, two can play at that, and my pickup's bigger'n their car. So when they cut in front of me, I rammed 'em. They ended up halfway across the field, but I spun into the ditch, too, and then this other car came up and swarmed all over me." Lem lost his indignation for a moment and chuckled slightly at a recollection.

"They were runnin' around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Couple of 'em hung onto me and the rest drug their buddies outta the other car. Pretty banged up, too. Finally one of 'em dug out this little thing and jabbered into it. Musta been someone on the other end, cause it chattered right back at him. Ended up takin' me to the old Ryan place, just across from my farm, and took the banged up ones somewhere to get patched up. Guess they been usin' Ryan's place – he's away somewheres – to spy on me. Or on you two!" he concluded accusingly.

"What about the drug?" Napoleon asked.

"One of 'em said it got spilled in the wreck. They was gonna put somethin' else in its place and send it to that Waverly fella. Guess they did. Finally they got me and carted me over here."

"We seem to be damaging their transportation at least," Napoleon observed. "But I don't think that will slow down their major plans very much."

"Quite a good summation, Mr. Solo," came a distinctive voice from the corridor. Jabez Whateley strolled into the dungeon area. He appeared in fine humor as he leaned on a corner of the rack and beamed – as much as anyone with his countenance could beam – at the prisoners.

"Actually," he continued, "you and Mr. Kuryakin did the most effective damage when you destroyed the stocks of the drug at Bippus. I'm afraid that was my own fault, though. The Purloined Letter was always one of my favorite stories, but I shouldn't have allowed it to affect my judgment. Of course, I hadn't counted on your moving so rapidly; I'm afraid I underestimated you a trifle."

"Yes," Napoleon agreed. "It was a little careless, leaving the entire supply of the drug in plain sight that way."

Whateley shrugged. "It won't take long to brew a new batch. Tomorrow evening at the latest, and we shouldn't be disturbed before then. After all, when the drug sample Waverly receives proves to be a harmless coloring additive – well, what would you think in his place? Then the two of you will call in and report your mistakes in person. Your last reports, I fear," he concluded sadly.

"Don't get all broken up about it," Napoleon said sympathetically. "It's all part of the job, and all that."

"True," Whateley agreed. "Quite true. I do hope you won't take it personally. I do regret it; you're such a good listener."

"What about the others?" Napoleon asked. "They haven't done you any harm, and they aren't members of U.N.C.L.E., so…"

Whateley shook his head. "I suppose we could eventually convert them, but it would be very inconvenient, and there is always the chance that in a long project like that, someone would get careless. Not to mention that we shall have to remain on constant alert in case U.N.C.L.E. does send in more agents before we have completed our test here. No, I'm afraid there's nothing for it but to eliminate them."

Whateley stood looking mournful for a few moments, then consulted his watch and brightened. "Time for phase two," he said cheerfully. "I must be on hand for all stages of drug preparation. I'll keep you informed of my progress; it's the least I can do as a host." He switched off all the lights except the one in the dungeon and walked off down the dark corridor.

Curtis had recovered his interest and now looked thoughtful. "The man's mind is definitely unbalanced. Perhaps the next time he comes down here to gloat, I can apply my psychological insight. Manipulating him would be difficult, of course; one never knows precisely how an unstable mind will react."

"Be my guest," said Napoleon. "Any reaction other than killing us outright will be welcome. In the meantime, however, we need to work on more direct means of escape."

Silence fell as the prisoners pondered their situation. Napoleon worked steadily in an attempt to get the tape off his fingers.

Whateley had been gone for some time when there was a slight noise from the corridor. The prisoners looked up to see Flavia Whateley entering the dungeon. Rita began to smile hopefully.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Napoleon inquired.

"Getting you out of here, I hope," she replied. She was now fully in the light, and they could see she had a welding hood pushed back on her head and was pulling a small rubber-tired cart loaded with acetylene and oxygen tanks, hose, gauges, and a cutting torch.

"I knew we could count on you," Rita exclaimed.

Flavia smiled faintly. "I expected you to think I was a devil-worshipper and a Thrush, like Father. I hadn't realized – I thought all of his talk about gods and demons was just a pose. Oh, I knew that Grandfather had really believed himself to be a wizard, but Father had been educated; he was really a brilliant man. I just don't know what happened to him."

"What's likely to happen to us is more important right now," Rita said. "Get that torch going, kid."

"How did you find us?" Napoleon asked as she lit the torch. "Your father said you didn't know anything about these passages."

"I didn't," she said, starting to work on the bars of Rita's cell. "I was in an old storage room in the basement a while ago when I heard a noise outside one of the walls. As far as I knew there weren't any passages there, so I went over and investigated. There had been some junk piled against that wall – I was looking through it for some copper tubing that was put down here somewhere – but I'd moved most of it. Once I had the rest out of the way it wasn't hard to find the door."

"Clumsiness pays off again," Napoleon commented. "That noise was me."

"Anyway," Flavia continued, "I overheard Father when he was talking to you; when he said he'd have to eliminate everybody. In fact, when he started to leave, I barely got out of the passage ahead of him. Then I followed him back to his study, and listened. He was starting an incantation! I could hear him muttering, deciding what demon to summon, and for the first time I knew he wasn't joking."

"Did he get any results?" Illya inquired.

"He didn't finish it. I think he must have been missing an ingredient. He cursed a lot, and I could hear him open drawers and things, looking for something. Then he came out and got in his car and drove away and I came down here. I suppose he's gone to buy something."

"I wonder what ingredient for a spell one could purchase at a corner drugstore?" Illya mused. By now Rita was free and Flavia wheeled her cart over to Napoleon's cell. In a few minutes, all the prisoners were free.

"The next problem," said Illya, "is to get to the car."

"How do we get there?" Napoleon inquired. "I assume it was put in the garage to avoid curious eyes, but how do we reach the garage from here?"

"If you don't want to go tramping back through Whateley's study," Illya suggested, "how about the passage they brought us in through? It had some branching corridors."

"It's worth a try." Napoleon turned to Flavia. "Do you have any idea where we are in relation to the house and grounds?"

She stood quietly for a minute, mentally retracing her steps through the passages. "We should be about in the middle of the back yard," she said finally. "The garage will be back this way." She led the way through the corridors, turning now and then when she came to an intersection. Eventually they encountered a short stairway. Napoleon led the way up. After a short period of experimenting, he pushed open the door at the top of the stairway and the group stepped out into a grease pit, one wall of which was the door. There was a car parked over the pit but it left enough space for them to climb out.

The garage was large but crowded. Besides the U.N.C.L.E. car, there were two damaged Thrush vehicles plus Lem Thompson's pickup truck. A third wrecked car, which Napoleon recognized as the hotrod which had plowed into the Beaver Dam Muck Festival, sat outside an open door, next to a wrecker made of a twelve-cylinder Packard roadster with the rumble seat removed and a hoist installed. The damaged cars had been partially dismantled; evidently some Thrush mechanic had been working on them. Luckily, the U.N.C.L.E. car had not been locked, and Illya hurriedly entered and opened the weapons compartment. He looked unhappy as he pulled out the Mercox and a handful of projectiles.

"We're short of ammunition for this," he said. "One tear gas, half a dozen high explosive, and three hypodermic darts."

"But aren't you going to get away?" Flavia said.

"Our job is to stop this entire business," Napoleon explained. "But it might be a good idea for you to leave before the shooting starts. You could take the wrecker out there."

"Not on your life!" Rita objected. "You're not going to catch me running around in one of Thrush's pet cars when Thrush agents could be anywhere in town. At least if I stay here I'll have some protection."

"If we could make it to my place you'd have protection," Lem said.

"Sure, if. I know you have a regular arsenal out there, but I've got no assurance that Thrush would let us get that far."

"I agree with Rita," Curtis said. "In addition, I would hesitate to miss this unique opportunity to study a criminal organization in its native habitat."

"You got queer ideas of fun," Lem grumbled, but he made no move toward the Packard.

Napoleon nodded. "Much as I hate to say it, Rita does have a good argument. It might be safer to stick together."

"But what are you going to do?' demanded Flavia.

"Stop your father, somehow," Napoleon replied.

"But you can't just shoot him down!"

"That's what he was goin' to do to us," Lem reminded her.

"But he's sick! He needs a psychiatrist, not a firing squad!"

"Don't worry," Illya answered her. "It's U.N.C.L.E.'s policy to avoid killing except as a last resort. The more help you can give us, the less likely we are to have to resort to violence to capture him. This," he held up the Mercox, "is an ideal weapon for the purpose, if we can get in position to use it." He explained.

Flavia was still reluctant, but eventually agreed to aid them. Meanwhile, Napoleon had been digging through the weapons compartment; now he backed out of the U.N.C.L.E. car with an armload of weapons. He kept an U.N.C.LE. Special for himself and gave one to Lem, handed a riot shotgun to Professor Curtis and a revolver loaded with tear gas cartridges to Rita. Illya carried the Mercox.

"What now?" Rita asked.

"Since our prime object is to capture Jabez Whateley," Napoleon said, "and since Illya has the only weapon we can use for that, we'll have to stick together. All we could accomplish by splitting up would be for one of us to run into a Thrush and give advance warning that we'd escaped."

"While we're waiting for Whateley to come back, we might do some damage to his lab," Illya suggested.

"No, if we capture Whateley, the lab is automatically rendered useless, since he is the only Thrush who knows how to manufacture the drug. Similarly, destroying the existing supplies won't help much if Whateley escapes to start over again somewhere else," Napoleon thought a moment. "We'd better contact Mr. Waverly. He can get reinforcements sent in from Chicago; the more men we have, the easier it will be to make a capture without having to kill anybody." He turned to Flavia. "Do you have any idea where your father put our communicators?"

Flavia shook her head. "Maybe in his study, but I don't know."

"All right, the study it is. If we can't find the communicators, we can use the car's computer to transmit the message. The trouble is that it will transmit it to the New York data banks and not to Mr. Waverly personally and we can't tell when the message will reach him. But we can try as a last resort."

"There's a signal transmitter with printed readout in the car," Illya said.

"Not now there isn't. I tried that when I was getting the weapons. Thrush has been at it. I suppose we might be able to repair it, but finding the communicators would be easier."

Napoleon led the way to Whateley's study, where Lem was posted to watch the hall and Professor Curtis to watch the secret entrances while the rest of the group searched. There were no communicators. Illya found a file of Thrush records and extracted a few of the more valuable papers, but there was nothing in the room which would aid them in capturing Jabez Whateley.

Finally Napoleon gave up the search. "They aren't here. We'll go back to the car. I'll try the computer link while Illya sees if he can repair the transmitter. Be careful; there may still be some Thrushes around and we don't want to give Whateley advance warning that we're loose."

After a cautious look around, they slipped out into the back yard and headed for the garage. They were halfway there when they heard the crunch of tires on gravel and a pair of brilliant headlights swept around the corner of the house and fell directly on them.

Chapter 16

"It's A Little Late To Call Mr. Waverly"

"THE GARAGE!" NAPOLEON SHOUTED as he lunged forward. "The car's our best chance."

The driver apparently anticipated their destination., for the engine roared and the tires spun as it raced for the garage itself. The sound of a gun came from somewhere behind the headlights and Napoleon heard something thunk into the ground just ahead of him.

He skidded to a halt as he realized they were cut off. "Back to the house!" he shouted and started for the back door himself, herding the others in front of him.

Before they had covered half the distance, the back door started to open. Illya, now in the lead, fired the only thing he had, the Mercox with a tear gas load. It crashed into the wall next to the door and burst into a cloud of white. The door slammed shut on a cough.

Casting about desperately, Illya detoured to the right toward the only available cover he could see: a rickety fence and an area of rank grass, bushes, a few old trees, and what might, except for their regular shapes, have been occasional boulders peering through the grass. Napoleon followed Illya's lead and herded the others ahead of him toward the fence.