Текст книги "The Invisibility Affair"

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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The Invisibility Affair

By Thomas Stratton

An Invisible Dirigible?

A dirigible doesn't seem like a very deadly weapon—not even an invisible one. Dirigibles aren't fast, they lack maneuverability, and they're too big to use for spying in secret installations.

So why had THRUSH gone to so much trouble to develop an invisible dirigible?

As Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin followed the almost completely hidden trail of THRUSH'S new weapon, they learned more and more of the insidious scheme in which the invisibility machine was to play the key role—and they came to realize that the entire world was in mortal danger!

THE INVISIBILITY AFFAIR

The early spring mud that inevitably followed Wisconsin winters made the road as treacherous as the snow that had disappeared only last week. Deputy Sheriff Charlie Reed peered irritably at the curve that loomed ahead, dimly illuminated by is dirt-clouded headlights. He shook his head. On this kind of road you'd think people would have sense enough to slow down. They didn't though, and then there were phone calls to the police and deputy sheriffs dragged out on impossible back roads to make reports. Dammit, people should know better that to show off on this stuff, but he kid hadn't and so there had been two cars in opposite ditches a few miles down the road. That's what you get for passing out driver's licenses like stick candy, he thought righteously.

He shook his head again, sharply. Pay attention to the road, Charlie, or someone will be digging you out of the ditch. Do your wool-gathering on your own time.

Something flickered.

Charlie glanced up from the road, but could see nothing. A thick overcast hid the stars, the next house was out of sight around the curve, and his windshield was smeared. There was nothing in the headlights but the muddy road and the overgrown fencerows on each side.

It hadn't seemed like a flicker of light anyway. Just the opposite, maybe. But a flicker of darkness didn't make sense. He looked down at his dash lights to see if they were all on. They were.

Charlie slowed the car as he rounded the curve. A few hundred yards ahead of him he could now see lights, presumably from the old Adams place. Could some funny business be going on at the farmhouse? Not likely, but he didn't know much about this Morthley fellow who'd bought the place after old Bob Adams had died. That was silly, though. The flicker was probably something connected with his eyesight. If it happened again, he'd have a checkup. You can't work as a lawman with bad eyes.

Just the same, he kept part of his attention on the lights as he drew closer. Now he could make out one light on the first floor and a brighter one streaming form a basement window.

Everything flickered.

Charlie blinked violently and shook his head. Even though it was two in the morning, he wasn't tired, and he certainly couldn't get highway hypnosis on this rutted, curving back road. Must be the eyes. Better see about that checkup in the morning; this could be serious. He drove on, slowly, until he was almost abreast of the old two-story farmhouse.

Suddenly everything flickered and kept on flickering. His headlights, dash lights, the house, everything. It was as if the film in a movie projector had gotten out of sync.

Charlie slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop sidewise in the road, facing the house. The flickering was faster now; he could barely make out the house, and his dash lights seemed to be fading. His heart accelerated with the flickering, but he felt frozen to the wheel. Then, without warning, the flickering stopped and the house was gone.

And the yard was gone.

Charlie's headlights shined dully through empty air. A hundred yards away they fell on a dilapidated barn, and just in front of the barn the ground fell away like a cliff. Charlie lifted himself slowly in the seat and craned his neck to see over the hood of the car. As far as he could see, there was nothing there. He was either hanging in midair or at the edge of a cliff, like the barn. Very slowly he rolled down the side window and peered out. The road was as solid and muddy as ever, but the ditch he had been facing wasn't there any more. Emboldened, he opened the door and looked behind the car. Solid road, soggy ditch, brush-filled fencerow. He closed the door.

Cramping the wheels tightly, he backed, careful to avoid the ditch on the still solid side of the road. As he backed the headlights swept from the barn toward what had been an orchard. It was gone, too. All he could see was the edge of tremendous hole, nearly a hundred yards in diameter.

With the car straightened out, he drove a few yards down the road, stopped the car, and got out, leaving the engine running. Carrying the powerful flashlight that was standard equipment on county patrol cars, he walked back toward the edge of the pit. He felt a little foolish as he loosened his .357 magnum revolver in its holster; whatever this was, it wasn't anything which could be shot. But the action made him feel better.

At the edge of the pit he stopped and shined his flashlight into the depths. The hole seemed perfectly circular; the ground sloped away evenly to the bottom, about fifty yards below him. It looked like a perfect hemisphere. The fact that there was a bottom cheered him; he'd been halfway expecting a bottomless pit. The ground at the bottom and sides of the pit seemed to be ordinary: topsoil and clay, going down to shale at the bottom. Across the pit he could make out a boulder in the pit wall; apparently it had been sliced in two. Stepping back, he located a piece of gravel and tossed it into the pit. It disappeared. Blinking, he squatted down, extended his hand toward the edge of the pit, thought better of the action, and straightened up again. He shined the flashlight around the area. Nothing but road, ditches, barn, fields, and pit. Finally he walked back to the patrol car, got out a flare, lit it, stuck it in the road near the pit's edge and got back in the car. He sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Once he reached for the microphone under the dash, but stopped before picking it up. Nobody was going to believe this! If only someone else would come along to back up his story—but it wasn't likely, on this road at this time of night.

After a few minutes of soul-searching, he shrugged and reached for the microphone. His duty was to report; if Shorey didn't believe him, he could damn well come out and look for himself. Switching on the mike, he glanced in the rear-view mirror. The flare cast its glow on a muddy road with a soggy ditch on each side. Lights form the first floor and basement of the old Adams place streamed out on a muddy but otherwise solid-looking yard.

Hastily he replaced the mike, shifted into low gear, and gunned the accelerator. Twin gouts of mud fountained from beneath the rear wheels as the patrol car roared down the road, skidded around the next curve, and continued accelerating as Charlie slammed the shift lever into "drive." Either he was going crazy or the rest of the world was, and he didn't much care for either possibility.

CONTENTS

Chapter

1: "I Had Hoped It Was A Real Revolution"

2: "Would You Like to See My Binoculars?"

3: "Which One of Us Gets His Wrists Greased?"

4: "I Never Realized Thrush Was Civic Minded"

5: "You Never Know When a Dirigible Will Come In Handy"

6: "What Are You Nuts Doing to My Clean Floor?"

7: "Does This Look Like an OTSMID To You?"

8: "Charles Fort Never Mentioned Sandbags"

9: "I Never Realized Hunding Was a Thrush"

10: "Only Your U.N.C.L.E. Agent Knows For Sure"

11: "Well, If It Isn't Mr. Kuryakin Again"

12: "I Never Sabotaged a Dirigible Before"

13: "There Must Be an Operator's Manual In Here Somewhere"

14: "Hi-Yo, Dirigible!"

Chapter 1

"I Had Hoped It Was a Real Revolution"

In U.N.C.L.E. field headquarters in Cerro Bueno, the capital city of the Republic of San Sebastian, Napoleon Solo was reporting to Mr. Waverly in New York.

"Your idea was correct," he said. "It's Thrush that is masterminding this revolution. The heroic and patriotic rebels are mostly a front; they're allowed to do some of the dying, but Thrush mercenaries are the backbone of the rebel forces, and the financing and leadership come form Thrush. The rebel leader, Ferdinand Pessina, seems to be a genuine patriot, but his staff is composed mostly of Thrush agents, and they make the decisions. Illya and I have discovered the method they're using to bring in arms, and we have their headquarters located. Once the U.N.C.L.E. group here stops the arms shipments, I think the local government can handle the rebels."

Mr. Waverly sighed. "A good job, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin," he said, "but in a way, I'm disappointed."

"Disappointed? In what way, sir?"

"I had almost hoped it was a real revolution. El Presidente is not precisely an enlightened ruler, you know, and he is extremely unpopular in the eyes of much of the world. Just about everyone would be better off if there were a legitimate revolution, but since the choice seems to be between a dictation and Thrush, we really have very little option in the matter."

Waverly paused before he continued. "I hope you won't require too much rest after your recent adventures, Mr. Solo..."

"From the tone of your voice, I suspect we won't," Napoleon said. "What did you have in mind, and can we take a bath and purchase some new clothes first?"

"Another new suit, Mr. Solo? We've already overdrawn our clothing budget for the year."

"Yes sir. I'm afraid I wasn't exactly dressed for jungle travel when we spotted that Thrush courier and followed him to their headquarters. Besides, we both need baths. After several days in the jungle, out ability to operate secretly in confined quarters has been greatly impaired."

"Well, if you must, you must," Waverly paused thoughtfully. "You do seem to be caught in inappropriate garb rather often, however."

"Perhaps you could speak to Thrush about not being so unpredictable," Illya commented. "It would save a lot of wear and tear on out nerves as well as our clothes."

"I suppose you're right, Mr. Kuryakin. I just want to make sure that my agents know that being part of a great international peacekeeping organization does not absolve them from paying attention to details. Quite the contrary. However, there should be no difficulty about appropriate attire for your next assignment. Something conservative and mid-western, I would suggest."

"Midwestern, sir?"

"Yes, southern Wisconsin to be precise, Mr. Solo. Some weeks ago, one of our part-time agents there sent in a rather strange report. One night he saw-or thought he saw-an entire house disappear, leaving only a hole in the ground. It reappeared later and has not disappeared again to his knowledge.

"Then this morning, we received word that a Dr. Willard Morthley has vanished. Our computer came up with an interesting correlation: the disappearing house has been Dr. Morthley's residence for the past six months. Dr. Morthley is a physicist of some repute. We have no idea what, if anything, he has been working on, but the coincidence is too much to ignore. The computer recommended sending you and Mr. Kuryakin to look into matters."

"But why us? Why not someone in your Milwaukee or Chicago offices?"

"The computer indicated the possibility of Thrush activity, and you are our most experience agents in the field of Thrush and unusual inventions. That's why I have made arrangements for you and Mr. Kuryakin to take a chartered flight from Cerro Bueno to New Orleans this afternoon. After a good night's rest, you can catch the six-thirty to Chicago. A full report of our knowledge of the situation to date will be waiting for you in New Orleans. I've arranged for a member of our Chicago headquarters to meet you at one of the oases on the Tri-State Tollway. He'll have the Wisconsin agent with him.'

"But how could you have made those arrangements already, sir?" Napoleon asked. "You hadn't heard from us for four days when you made them."

"I'm afraid it's one of my weaknesses, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied. "Optimism. Over the years I have come to develop a certain, perhaps childlike, faith in your ability to come through when the chips are down. Don't spend too much time-or money-shopping for that suit."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, Napoleon and Illya stood waiting at the auto rental desk in O'Hare International Airport near Chicago. Napoleon was eyeing the pert brunette bustling about behind the counter, getting the forms sorted and filled out. As she slid the final one across for Napoleon to sign, he smiled and asked, "In case we bring the car back after hours, could you suggest an appropriate spot for turning it over to you? Some quiet spot nearby, perhaps?"

"I'm sorry, but our airport offices never close, Mr. Solo." She managed a regretful smile as she took the form from his hand and moved back quickly. Napoleon winced as Illya jabbed him sharply in the ribs with his elbow and started walking toward the door through which their rented car was waiting. Napoleon followed more leisurely, and Illya had the motor running and was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of the car when he arrived.

"Really, Napoleon!" Illya said as Solo settled into the seat beside him.

Solo smiled, "After all, their motto says they try harder and one never knows..."

* * *

A twenty-minute drive along the Tri-State Tollway brought them to the Lake Forest Oasis. Carrying their briefcases, they walked slowly from the parking lot toward the glass front of the main building. The day was warm and muggy and the air-conditioning that greeted them as they stepped into the tiled entrance section was welcome. Next to the snack bar, two men were standing near the milk and ice cream vending machines. One wore a conservative business suit, while the other had matching dark olive trousers and open necked shirt with the letters WSD on the left sleeve. The man in the suit spotted Napoleon and Illya as they entered, spoke to his companion, and strode to meet them, extending his hand as he came.

"Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin? I'm Russ Wolff of the Chicago office." He shook hands with them both, then turned to the other man. "This is Charlie Reed. He's a part-time agent for us and a deputy sheriff of Waukesha County, Wisconsin. His reports brought this matter to our attention"

Reed managed to look proud and embarrassed simultaneously. "I never thought I'd get to meet you two," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

Napoleon smiled deprecatingly, while Illya merely nodded. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reed."

Solo turned to Wolff. "Waukesha County? The reports we read came from, uh..."

"Mukwonago," Illya interjected helpfully.

Reed nodded. "Oh, yes. That's a town in the southern part of the county. I live there, and send my reports from home."

"Well, then," said Napoleon, "It seems we're bound for Mukwonago. Will you be coming with us, Mr. Wolff?"

Wolff shook his head. "There's nothing I'd like better that to see how you two work, but I'm afraid I can't. We suspect Thrush of having its eye on the new atomic accelerator being planned at Weston, as well as infiltrating into the local civil rights movement and the local branch of the Nazi party, and our office is pretty well tied up. In fact, I'm on my way to Weston now. In any event, I probably know less about this than your do. Reed reports directly to New York, like all our part-time agents, and the request for the meeting and what information I have came from the New York office." He sounded a bit resentful.

"Can we count on our Milwaukee branch for assistance?" Illya asked.

Wolff nodded. "Certainly, but remember that it's a small branch, and they're having their troubles, too."

"Oh?"

"They can tell you about it if you check in with them. I'm not sure they want it circulated. I'm not even sure I believe it."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances. Checking with Milwaukee would be a definite part of their program.

"Now, then," said Wolff, "I hate to rush this, but I do have to get to Weston. New York said that you had been flown here more of less directly from your last assignment, and you would need some replacement equipment. If you'll come with me to the car, I'll fix you up and then you and Mr. Reed can be on your way."

A few minutes later, their briefcases well supplied with assorted weapons and gadgetry, Napoleon and Illya watched the Chicago agent swing his car out of the parking lot and through the service area toward the tollway entrance ramp.

"Well, Mr. Reed," said Napoleon, "suppose you tell us all about it on the way."

Reed looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I can't ride with you. I drove down in my patrol car, and I'd better have it back at the office by four o'clock, or the sheriff will be asking questions.

Illya frowned, "You mean he doesn't know you're down here to meet us?"

"Well, no," Reed said, looking intently at the left front tire of the rented car. "And if you could do me a favor..."

"Of course, Mr. Reed," Napoleon said. "After all, you are one of us."

Napoleon's intended reassurance seemed to make Reed even more uncomfortable. "Yes, well, thank you, but..." He hesitated, searching for words, then blurted our, "Don't mention to the sheriff where you got the information. He doesn't know I report to you on the side, and, well, all in all he's pretty hardnosed about moonlighting."

Napoleon blinked. "I wouldn't consider working for U.N.C.L.E. as 'moonlighting,' Mr. Reed."

"Now, Napoleon," Illya broke in, "you know that a good cover story is valuable in inverse proportion to the number of people who know about it." He turned to Reed. "Your secret is safe with us."

"Of course." Napoleon's cordial smile returned. "You can give us a quick rundown now, and we can arrange a meeting place for later conferences. We have transcripts of your reports, but a first-hand account is always more informative. Now, as I understand it, the problem is that a house disappeared briefly and then reappeared, and later the owner of this house disappeared and hasn't reappeared. We have a dossier on the owner, Dr. Morthley. Brilliant man, though a little eccentric. Now then, if you could repeat in detail just what you saw and did that first night..."

"It was about two months ago," Reed began, and proceeded to give a vivid description of his encounter, apparently forgetting his four o'clock deadline with the patrol car. "I stopped by to talk to Dr. Morthley the next day," he concluded. "You know, feel him out a bit. I must say, if he knew anything about it, he was a good actor. A lot of guys would try to bluff—you know, convince me that I hadn't really seen anything. That's when you know they're up to something. Morthley wasn't that way, though. He seemed quite concerned, but didn't have any explanation."

"Did he say whether or not he'd been working on an experiment that night?" Illya asked.

Reed grinned ruefully. "Yes. He did, but it was just a string of big words to me. Omniperceptual something—or was it omnidirectional? Something like that; I didn't understand any of it, and he said it couldn't have had anything to do with what I saw."

"And the Doctor himself disappeared yesterday?" asked Napoleon.

"Well, not exactly. I just found out about it yesterday. As near as I can tell, the last time anyone saw him was three days ago. There was two days' mail in his box; that's how I found out about it. The mail carrier on that route is my father-in-law."

"Do you always watch over the rural residents that closely?" Napoleon asked.

"No, but I've been trying to keep an eye on Dr. Morthley ever since the house disappeared. Something was going on out there. So when he didn't pick up his mail, I checked on it.

"Are there any nearby neighbors?" Napoleon asked. "Anybody who might have seen anything suspicious?"

"No close ones, really. The house sits between two curves in the road. Nearest houses are a half mile away, and with the curve and trees—and a couple hills—I don't think anyone in them could see anything. Old Mrs. Cartlin could probably see the place, though. She lives on another road, about a half mile away, but it's on a hill, and until the leaves are all back on the trees—"

"You haven't questioned her?"

"No. I didn't have any real reason to ask questions until he disappeared. No real reason now, for that matter. The sheriff says Morthley probably went on vacation, and as long as that's the official view I don't have any right to nose around. Besides, anything you say to Mrs. Cartlin is common knowledge all over that end of the county in a couple of days."

"Could you show us around the area this evening?" Illya asked.

"And," added Napoleon, "could you give us a list of the people living about two miles in each direction, particularly those in the direction of the nearest highway?"

"And one other thing," said Illya. "Would you tell us how to get to Mukwonago?"

"I don't know about showing you around tonight," replied Reed. "I'm supposed to be on duty at the sheriff's office we've got a couple of men sick, and everybody else is doubling up to handle the work. You could come up and see, though. That's in Waukesha, now, not Mukwonago. He rummaged in the glove compartment of the patrol car and handed them a map of Wisconsin. "I could get you the list of people by then, and maybe snow the sheriff into letting me off to guide you around. Make sure you don't tell him you know me, though."

"That sounds fine. We'll see you this evening, then." The two agents got into the car. Illya behind the wheel. Reed still stood near the left door, fidgeting. "Was there anything else?" asked Illya.

Reed looked as if he were about to blush. "There is one thing you could do for me, since it's getting so late; I won't have time to stop by my place before going to the office and..."

"Yes?" Illya said impatiently.

"Well, I have some"—Reed hesitated—"some margarine in the car. I picked up on the way down here, and I was going to leave it at my house before..."

Both agents looked blank. "Margarine?" they chorused.

"Yes, said Reed, fidgeting more intensely. "It's colored margarine, and it's still illegal in Wisconsin. It's a dairy state and every year they try to get it made legal, but so far...Anyway, the only way to get it is to buy it in some other state and bring it back. Everybody does it, but with me being a law officer...Well, like I said, the sheriff is kind of hardnosed about a lot of things. There was some uproar a while back when one of the other deputies was caught with some margarine, and—" He broke off, with an elaborate shrug.

Illya kept his face deadpan more successfully than Napoleon, though he doubted that Reed could see either of them while staring nervously at the car's outside rear-view mirror. "I think we can manage, don't you, Napoleon? After all, if we can't get a case of colored margarine through Wisconsin customs, we had better turn in our credentials. If we're caught, we can always say Thrush planted it in out trunk."

A few minutes later they were back on the Tri-State Tollway, heading for the Wisconsin line with twenty-four pounds of contraband margarine.