Текст книги "The Invisibility Affair"

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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Chapter 2

"Would You Like to See My Binoculars?"

It was just after five when Illya angled the car into a parking space a half block past the Waukesha County Courthouse. Illya locked the car while Napoleon virtuously fed a nickel into the parking meter. After a few minutes' search through the rambling corridors of the building, they located the sheriff's office.

Behind a large desk with a line of books across its front sat a middle-aged man, a little overweight, with graying, slicked-down hair. He looked up from the papers on the desk and smiled cordially as the two agents stepped through the door. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Napoleon stepped to the desk. "Sheriff Shorey?"

The man nodded.

"I'm Napoleon Solo and this is Illya Kuryakin," Solo explained, producing his wallet with the gold identification card. "We're special agents for The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, and we'd like to talk to you about the disappearance of Dr. Morthley from Mukwonago a few days ago."

"Mr. Solo and I just flew into O'Hare a few hours ago," Illya offered. "The New York office sent us as soon as word was received of Dr. Morthley's disappearance."

"That's right," Napoleon said. "There's reason to believe that the disappearance of Dr. Morthley could have serious international implications." He held out his hand for the wallet, which was dangling limply from Shorey's hand. "Could you or one of your men show us the house where he lived? We'd like to get at it as soon as we can. New York is anxious for a preliminary report."

Shorey, trying as best he could to cope with the incomprehensible handed the wallet back to Napoleon and attempted to look helpful.

"I could show them, Tom." Charlie Reed stepped into the office. "I've heard about their organization, though I can't imagine why they would be interested in Dr. Morthley."

The sheriff seized the opportunity. "Fine, Charlie," he said heartily. "You show these gentlemen what they want to see. I'll stay at the desk until you get back. Anyway, McDermit called and said he might be able to come in tonight; he can take over for you if he does." He turned to the agents. "This is one of my deputies, Charlie Reed. He can show you around; he knows the area around there like the palm of his hand. Let's see, that was Solo and...?"

"Kuryakin," Illya answered. The agents solemnly shook hands with Reed for the third time that day.

"The patrol car is out in front, if you want to ride with me," Reed said.

Napoleon considered, then shook his head. "We'd better follow you in our car. We may want to look around after you've gone back on duty. I wouldn't want to cause any problems for the Waukesha County law enforcement." He smiled at the sheriff as the three men stepped out of the office. As they walked down the corridor, Illya felt sure he had heard a sigh of relief as the door had closed.

When they reached the sidewalk, Napoleon said, "You lead the way. We'll follow; we're parked down the street. We'll want to take a look at Dr. Morthley's house first, then perhaps we can talk to the neighbors."

"Right. Here's the list of names you wanted. I'll drive past where you're parked and you can swing in behind me."

Twenty minutes later, Illya turned off a dusty country road into a rutted driveway behind Reed's car. They followed the drive around to the back of the house, where it stopped in front of an unpainted wooden structure that had apparently served as a garage for Dr. Morthley. Through some trees on their right, they could see a large, sagging building badly in need of paint.

"It's a barn," Illya said, noticing Napoleon's glance at the structure.

The agents walked up to the back door of the house, where Reed was waiting.

"Did Dr. Morthley have a car?" Illya asked.

Reed nodded. "Yes. It's gone; that's one of the reasons the sheriff thinks he went away by himself. But he'd have had his mail held' he was very particular about his mail."

"Now, you said there was a bright light in the basement the night the house disappeared," said Napoleon.

"Uh-huh." Reed pushed open the unlocked back door and stepped into a kitchen. He motioned toward a door on the far side of the room. "It's through there."

Napoleon opened the door and felt for a light switch. When he found it, light from the basement illuminated a landing where the stairs took a sharp turn. Solo ducked his head and led the way down.

At the foot of the stairs, he stepped out of Illya's way and looked around. To his right, two hot air ducts snaked through a wooden partition and disappeared into the ceiling. A vacant workbench with several electrical outlets stretched along the wall facing him, and what looked like a bin full of large chunks of scrap of metal filled one corner.

"What have we here?" Napoleon peered around behind the stairway into the other half of the basement. Lying near the far wall was a door; in the concrete wall itself a door frame was mounted, one side splintered and buckled.

Illya and Napoleon walked over to the door frame. Beyond the opening, a set of wooden steps led up to ground level outside the house. A half dozen two-by-fours lay on the steps, forming a crude ramp. The top of the stair was blocked by a single horizontal door, presumably mounted flush with the ground.

"Looks like something big was moved out through here," Napoleon observed, eyeing the splintered section of door frame.

Illya moved back into the basement. "Heavy, too," he said, gesturing at two deep gouges in the concrete floor.

Napoleon walked back toward the workbench. About ten feet from the bench, not far from the bin of scrap metal; he spotted four bolt holes in the floor.

Very big, judging from those," he murmured. "Find anything in there?" he asked Illya, who had begun poking through the scrap bin.

"No, not really," Illya said, picking up an oddly shaped piece of metal and turning it over in his hands. "Just lots of iron in strange shapes and some burnt-out electrical equipment. We'd better have some of the lab boys out here to look at it. They might be able to come up with something useful."

Napoleon turned to Reed. "You don't have any idea what Morthley had down here?"

"No, I never had any reason to go beyond the living room." Reed replied. "Dr. Morthley was friendly enough, but he didn't talk about his work, and it wasn't really any of my business."

"Until now," Illya murmured.

"Was he friendly with anyone—friendly enough to drop hints about his work?" Napoleon asked.

"Not that I know of. Oh, he was friendly enough. He'd talk about crops, weather, politics, business, basketball—he was quite a basketball fan. Said once that he grew up in Indiana. But nothing about his work. He'd answer questions if you asked him, but his answers never seemed to give any information."

"We had better search the house, I suppose," Napoleon said, turning to Illya. "The Doctor doesn't seem the type to leave notes lying about, and I'm certain that Thrush isn't the type, but we can always hope."

* * *

As Napoleon had predicted, the search proved a failure. The sun was nearly down as they left the house. Napoleon pulled the list of neighbors from his pocket. "I see Mrs. Cartlin's name leads all the rest; I believe you mentioned her this afternoon."

"Oh, yes." Reed walked to the side of the house next to the drive. He pointed almost directly across the road toward a grove of trees still visible in the fading light. "Her house is just on the other side of those trees. Go on down this road a quarter of a mile, then turn right. Mrs. Cartlin's is the first house on the right. If you're going to talk to her tonight, you'd better do it fairly soon. She's nearly eighty and goes to bed pretty early." He looked at his watch. "I'd better be getting back; there doesn't seem to be much else I can show you tonight."

As Reed drove off, Illya made an annoyed gesture. "What's the matter?" Napoleon asked.

"We forgot to give him back his margarine."

Napoleon shrugged. "He probably wouldn't want to park it under the sheriff's nose, anyway." He joined Illya in the car. On the way to Mrs. Cartlin's, he unclipped his U.N.C.L.E. communicator from his pocket and contacted Waverly in New York, informing him of their progress and requesting that technicians be sent to the Morthley residence.

"So it appears to be somewhat more that coincidence, eh, Mr. Solo?" Waverly said as the car pulled into Mrs. Cartlin's driveway.

"Well, we haven't really learned much so far, sir, but something heavy was undoubtedly taken out of Dr. Morthley's basement. The lab boys may come up with something there. Of course, we have no way of knowing who—oh, we're at the Cartlin house now. I'll check in again as soon as we learn anything definite. Solo out."

He slipped the miniature transceiver back into his jacket pocket and stepped out of the car to join Illya on the narrow gravel walk that led to the porch of the small, one story cottage. The front door swung open before Napoleon had a chance to knock. He stood with his fist upraised while a small crinkled face surrounded by grey-white hair peered up at him from a height of about four and a half feet.

"Hello there," the face said. "I've been waiting for you. Who are you, by the way?"

Napoleon slowly lowered his hand, smiling uncertainly. "We're special agents from U.N.C.L.E.—" he began.

"Oh, yes," the face said, breaking into a wide grin. "That's the outfit old Charlie Reed moonlights for. What's he been telling you now? I saw him out there pointing to my house a few minutes ago."

Even the normally imperturbable Illya looked a bit taken aback at this news. "You did?" he asked.

"Oh, my, yes," she informed them. "I've been watching you through my binoculars ever since you drove up to the old Adams place."

"Could we step inside a minute, Mrs. Cartlin?" Napoleon pressed lightly against the partly open door.

"Oh, of course." Mrs. Cartlin stepped back and the door swung open, revealing a living room crammed to overflowing with spidery chairs, fragile little tables, and even more fragile bric-a-brac. "Would you like to see my binoculars? They're a very good set. It's getting a little dark to see very much though. I've been planning to get a good telescope, but all optical equipment seems priced very dear these days."

"No, thank you," Illya said, edging nervously into the room and barely avoiding a porcelain kangaroo with his elbow. "But we would like to talk to you about what you might have seen with them."

"Yes," agreed Napoleon. "We're investigating the disappearance of Dr. Morthley, and we'd like to know if you've ever noticed anything unusual at his house, or if he's had any visitors in the past, oh, say three months."

"Why?" She folded her arms and rocked back on her heels, then leaned forward to Illya. "Was he a Thrush?"

"Not that we know of," Illya replied calmly, "but he might have been involved with some."

"Well, I wouldn't wonder," she replied vigorously. "That girl looked like a Thrush if I ever saw one! Bold as brass, she acted—"

"What girl?"

"Oh, there was a girl visiting Morthley almost every day for a while back in April. Haven't seen her lately, though. Not in the daytime, at least, and I can't see much at night. If I only had that telescope..."

"You don't happen to know who the girl was, do you?"

"Why, of course not! How could I know a thing like that?"

"I just thought..."

"But, I do have her license number if you'd like to see it." She turned and opened a drawer in a cluttered table near a window. Reaching inside, she pulled out a small red leather notebook with a tiny gold pen attached to it by a silver chain. "It was a 1966 Rambler Classic, four-door, light blue, license number W44-948. She was there first on..." Mrs. Cartlin paused to flip a page "...on April 17, stayed for about an hour, and came back the 19^th for the whole day. She was there every day after that until the 28^th; she was only there a few minutes that day." She snapped the book shut. "Hasn't been back since—during the day, at least. Did you get all that down, or should I run through it again?"

"I think we have it all. Thank you very much," said Napoleon. "You've been a great help, and now I think we'd better see about tracking down that license plate." The agents edged outside, Napoleon barely avoiding a jade axolotl on the way.

As they got in the car, Illya spoke. "Napoleon, do you suppose our budget would allow another part-time agent in this area?"

While Illya drove, Napoleon contacted Waverly and reported their encounter with Mrs. Cartlin.

"I'll have the license number run through our data center and contact you as soon as we have anything," Waverly said. "And I'll check with our finance department about the budget for part-time agents. Until now, Wisconsin hasn't been what you could calla productive area for our organization, but in the present situation...Well, we'll see. He ceased transmitting, failing as usual to use the prescribed closing phrase.

Napoleon returned the transceiver to his inside pocket. "Shall we talk to any of the other people on the list, do you think?"

"We might as well do something while we're waiting for a reply on that license number. Unless you want to drive back to Waukesha and deliver Charlie's margarine."

Napoleon muttered something under his breath and studied the list. "Let's see, there's a house there, just past the next corner. According to the list, it belongs to a Mr. Brandondale. He—" The road was suddenly blocked by a dark sedan that shot out of the crossroad, swerved slightly toward them, and stopped in the middle of the crossing. Illya twisted the wheel sharply, and the rented car lurched as the left front wheel dropped into the ditch. The sound of metal scraping on gravel came from beneath the car and increased in volume as Illya jammed the accelerator down and aimed the car at the narrow gap between the steel fence posts that lined the road and the blocking car.

He didn't quite make it. The right fender smashed solidly into the left front of the other car, skidding it sideways against a sturdy metal post holding up a stop sign. "There goes our deposit," muttered Illya as the rear end of the rented car skidded violently through a section of wire fence, taking out one of the steel fence posts on the way.

Napoleon had grabbed for his gun when the other car appeared, but before he could use it, his head bounced off the windshield, leaving a network of hairline cracks in the glass. His vision blurred, his ears rang, and he discovered that shaking his head to clear it was a definite mistake. Looking up, he saw several identical blurred figures standing by the car door. Another painful shake of his head resolved the images into one large man in a dark suit, green shirt and orange tie, pointing an enormous old Mauser automatic pistol at Napoleon's head. A second later, the door was open and he had been plucked from his seat and deposited on his feet in the road. Staring at the shirt and tie hurt his eyes; he looked around for something less clashing.

"Step around to the front of the car, gentlemen. That's right; stand together where I can keep an eye on both of you."

The speaker was a young man, wearing a conservative suit and a bright shiny expression. Any Hollywood producer would have immediately cast him as the Rising Young Executive. Only the Walther P-38 in his hand—a weapon basically similar to the U.N.C.L.E. Specials carried by Napoleon and Illya—seemed incongruous. He turned to the large man.

"Take a look at our car, Andy' I don't like the looks of that puddle under the radiator."

Andy, after a struggle, got the hood of the other car up, peered into the interior, and shook his head. "No good, boss. We ain't gonna run this heap till she sees a garage."

"Too bad. Well, take a look at the other car; perhaps we can commandeer it. Andy," he added in an aside to Napoleon and Illya, has his faults, but he's the best mechanic I've ever met."

"One of his faults would seem to be an addiction to old gangster movies," said Napoleon. "I didn't know you could buy suits like that anymore."

After several minutes' effort, Andy announced that Solo's rented car was operable. "But she ain't gonna go far; I just hope she holds together till we get where we're goin'."

Under the direction of the smaller man, Andy produced a coil of rope from the defunct sedan and trussed up the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. After they had been thoroughly tied, the smaller man went through their pockets with brisk efficiency, removing weapons, communicators, and identification cards. His eyebrows raised as he glanced at the latter.

"Solo and Kuryakin, eh? This is interesting; we knew U.N.C.L.E. was sending agents to investigate, but we hadn't realized your organization considered the situation serious enough to call on the Dynamic Duo. If I'd known who it was, I'd have arranged a more ingenious trap. Still, simplicity has its advantages."

When he received no comment, he smiled. "Incidentally, my name is McNulty—Arpad McNulty, at your service. Now then, Andy, I think the best thing is for you to dump them in the trunk, where they'll be out of sight. And I suppose you had better gag them; I hate to hear grown men screaming for help."

"Right, boss," Andy replied. "Anyway, we'll need all the weight we can get on them back wheels to get outta that ditch."

The two agents were unceremoniously crammed into the trunk. Together, Andy and McNulty were able to force the trunk lid down.

Chapter 3

"Which One of Us Gets His Wrists Greased?"

To Solo and Illya, the next few minutes were torture. The lurching and bumping occasioned by the car's lengthy escape from the ditch made them both wonder how, as tightly packed as they were, they could bump into so many things. When the motion finally settled down, Napoleon's bound hands touched Illya's gag. He promptly went to work on it and soon had it off. Another lurch of the car and Napoleon became painfully aware that his head was against the spare tire. After a minute of deliberate scraping, his gag was displaced enough to allow comprehensible speech. Attempts to free their hands weren't as successful; it seemed that Andy was an expert with ropes as well as cars.

"If we'd gotten rid of that blasted margarine," Illya grumbled, "we'd have a little more room back here..." His voice trailed off as his mental gears whirred. "Napoleon, can you squirm around enough to get your hands on that margarine?"

"Maybe, if you can manage to give me a couple more cubic feet to maneuver in. Why?"

"See if you can get an individual package out. Maybe together we can get it unwrapped, and..."

Napoleon grinned in the dark. "I see. Which one of us gets his wrists greased?"

With Illya crouched as far as possible into a corner of the trunk, Napoleon had room enough to unwrap himself from around the spare tire. He butted his head against the back wall of the trunk, got his knees under him with his back braced against the trunk lid, then fell over on his side. With his back and bound hands toward the tire and the margarine. The impact of the fall bounced the car on its springs, and the rough mat on the trunk floor ground into Napoleon's right ear. Straining his arms upward, he grasped the top edge of the carton, and pulled down and forward. The carton tilted, scattering individual packages in all directions. Napoleon wrapped his fingers around one of the packages and managed to turn over to get his back to Illya. In coming down, he squashed at least one of the errant packages. The two agents ripped the package apart and Napoleon took one of the quarter-pound sticks. After a futile minute spent trying to unwrap it, he worked his hands around until they held the stick above Illya's bound wrists, and squeezed.

"You have never lived," he announced, "until you've squashed a quarter-pound stick of margarine in your bare hands." He smeared Illya's wrists and hands, not to mention his shirt, the ropes, and the trunk floor.

"Good," said Illya. "Now try to get a grip on the rope." Getting a hold on the greasy rope was no easy task, but after some minutes Illya's wrists slipped through the coils, leaving some skin behind. He immediately assaulted Napoleon's bonds and had just completed the last knot when the beeping of Napoleon's communicator reached them from the interior of the car.

"Solo here," they heard McNulty say in a passable imitation of Napoleon's voice. The voice of Mr. Waverly was recognizable, but they were unable to make out any of the words. After a few seconds, McNulty said, "Thank you, sir. We'll get right over to talk to her. Solo out." Moments later he was speaking again, apparently into a Thrush communicator. "Her name is Kerry Griffin," he said, and gave an address in the 4,000 block of Farwell Street in Milwaukee. "You get out there and pick her up. We'll deliver these two."

"Mr. Waverly must have given them the information we asked for about the girl. We'd better get out of here fast if we want to talk to her." Napoleon began squirming around in the trunk. "Let's see if we can unlatch the trunk from the inside. As I recall, this model is fairly easy to open." A minute later he muttered, "Well, in the daylight it looked easy."

The latch finally clicked back. "How's your good right arm, Illya?" Napoleon asked. "Are you up to pitching into a strong headwind?"

"Wait a second," Illya cautioned him. "I want to yank these wires and kill the tail-lights before that lid goes up."

The wires ripped loose and Napoleon eased the trunk lid open a crack. By now it was too dark to see much, but they could tell they were still on a secondary road; the tar surface whipped by inches from their faces.

"You hold the lid down to keep it from springing all the way up," Illya said after a few seconds, "and get a grip on me too. I don't want to get bounced out." He rolled up his coat and placed it across the sharp edge of the trunk, unwrapped several sticks of margarine and laid them on his stomach as he straightened out, face up, his feet touching the back of the trunk, his head and shoulders extending past the edge of the partially raised lid. Napoleon raised his legs and lowered them over Illya's, bracing his feet against the spare tire. Locating the rest of the margarine, he began unwrapping it.

Illya picked up one of the margarine sticks from his stomach, squeezed it until it was good and soft, and hurled it over the top of the car. Picking up a second stick, he repeated the process. A splat and a sudden swerve of the car indicated that the second throw had been successful. He quickly hurled some more sticks, with Napoleon replenishing his supply as he needed it.

"I think that did it," Napoleon said. "They're slowing down. The moment they stop, we take them. I'll get the driver; you take the other one." Both agents armed themselves with as much margarine as they could conveniently hold.

Even before the car rocked to a complete stop, the two agents slithered out of the trunk, one on each side of the car. Almost in the same instant, both car doors opened and the Thrush agents leaped out. Napoleon and Illya launched themselves around the corners of the car, hurling the sticks of margarine as they came.

McNulty, gun ready, had whirled to face possible trouble from his passengers. Before he could fire, he got a partly melted ball of margarine in the eyes, and Illya was on top of him before he could see exactly what was going on. Andy, more intent on examining the substance which had mysteriously appeared on his windshield, took a margarine stick in the back of his head and then Napoleon was on him, thrusting a soggy mass of it into his face before he could turn. Blinded, the Thrush agents were no match for Solo and Kuryakin.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents retrieved their guns and communicators from their captors. While Illya reached into the back seat of the car and picked up his briefcase, Napoleon called Mr. Waverly.

"Yes, Mr. Solo," came the voice from the tiny instrument. "You've been to see the girl already?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. That wasn't me you were talking to a few minutes ago; it was a Thrush agent who says his name is Arpad McNulty. You might send us a dossier on him. He's now our prisoner, but he relayed the girl's name and address to someone else, and Thrush agents are on their way to pick her up now. We're too far away; you'd better have someone from Milwaukee headquarters get to her house immediately."

"Very well, Mr. Solo; hold on a minute."

Meanwhile, Illya had extracted a small spray hypodermic from the briefcase and was pressing it against the neck of each Thrush agent in turn. "That should hold them for a few hours," he said.

"Mr. Solo," the communicator rang out. "The Milwaukee branch will have someone at the girl's home in five minutes. I told them to wait for you there."

Illya leaned over the communicator. "Have them bring some fresh clothes for both of us. Ours are turning yellow."

"Yellow, Mr. Kuryakin?" Some new Thrush device?"

"No sir," Napoleon replied. "We've been dealing intimately with some smuggled margarine."

"Well, well"—Mr. Waverly sounded mildly impatient—"be sure to put it all in your report. At present, however, I believe you had best make for Miss Griffin's home at your best speed. I'll be waiting for another report from you after you have arrived."

Napoleon and Illya hauled the two unconscious Thrush agents into the trunk they had so recently vacated themselves. Napoleon pulled off Andy's jacket and started around to the front of the car. "See if you can at least get a couple of those wires connected," he suggested. "We're in no condition to be picked up by the local gendarmes, with Thrush agents unconscious in the remains of a case of smuggled margarine. I'll clean off the windshield and try to find a map."

Minutes later, Illya slid into the seat beside Napoleon, who was studying a map spread across the steering wheel. "This won't be much good until we find a road sign." Napoleon said, handing the unfolded map to Illya and starting the engine. "We might as well go ahead; presumably they were taking us somewhere in Milwaukee anyway."

"Unless they're part of the Chicago satrapy," murmured Illya.

* * *

Almost an hour after they started, Napoleon and Illya pulled up in the 4,000 block of North Farwell. The proximity of Lake Michigan was making itself felt, for the temperature had drooped noticeably in the last few minutes, and the margarine had begun to stiffen on their clothes. They got out of the car and walked down the tree-lined street, watching for the address. It turned out to be a two-story building, apparently divided into upper and lower apartments. As they approached the front door, a man leaped from behind a large tree between the sidewalk and street. Leveling an automatic at them, he said, "Hold it! Where do you think you're going?"

A second man stepped from around the corner of the house and came forward. He pocketed his gun and started to frisk the two agents, but stopped after a second, a distasteful expression crossing his face. "It's okay, Sam," he said, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the margarine from his hands; "these are our men, the ones we brought the fresh clothes for."

"Does she know what's going on?" Napoleon asked.

"As much as we do, which isn't much. Mr. Waverly just said we were to get to the girl before Thrush did, and bring some clothes for you. The clothes are inside. They ought to fit; Mr. Waverly gave us your sizes. Funny thing—he didn't even have to look them up."

"Good," Napoleon said. "While Illya and I change, would one of you take our car—it's the one with the crumpled fender and the margarine on the windshield—and deliver it to your local headquarters? There are two Thrush agents sleeping in the trunk, and we should get them to a safe place before the drug wears off."

Illya and Napoleon walked to the house, opened the door and stepped into a small entryway. To the left a man and woman sat, ill at ease, in a small living room. As they rose Napoleon and Illya introduced themselves but avoided shaking hands.

"I'm Don Brattner, of the local U.N.C.L.E. headquarters," the man said. "This is Kerry Griffin. There's no one else in the house; she lives alone here." Napoleon studied the girl. She was tall, with a figure which was shown off spectacularly by the green knitted dress she wore. Her hair, a deep auburn, fell loosely almost to her shoulders. Green eyes studied the U.N.C.L.E. agents appraisingly. Napoleon was uncomfortably aware of his disheveled clothing, smudged face and margarine coating.

"How do you do, Miss Griffin?" he said, and turned to Brattner. "I understand there are fresh clothes for us here."

"Of course," the girl broke in. "The garments procured for your utilization have been given temporary storage space in the sleep module reserved for non-residents. Cleansing facilities are also available in an immediately adjacent area." She motioned toward a door halfway down the hall.

Napoleon blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Illya stated down the hall, gesturing for Napoleon to follow. "She said the clothes are in the guest bedroom and there's a bath next to it. Come on." Napoleon continued to watch Kerry until she nodded agreement to Illya's translation, then followed Illya to the sleep module.

They had just started to remove their greasy clothing when Brattner stepped into the room. "Didn't you say there were two Thrush agents in the trunk of your car?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Napoleon.

"Well, they're not there now. Smith checked the trunk before driving the car down to headquarters, and there was nobody in it."

Napoleon and Illya looked at one another. "The anesthetic must have worn off early," Napoleon said. "Are you sure you gave them both a full charge?"

Illya opened his briefcase, picked up the offending hypospray, and looked at it, frowning. "This isn't a standard unit," he remarked after a moment's inspection. "According to the label, it's loaded with something called M-27. Do you know anything about the powers of M-27, Napoleon?"