The Final Affair

by David McDaniel

  "And I suppose the Ultimate Computer would be the ultimate idiot," said Napoleon.

  "We hope so, Mr. Solo. We sincerely hope so."

  Nobody heard from Harry all that day. Napoleon and Illya were called into Mr. Waverly's office late that evening to meet Mr. Simpson again and view some ninety feet of Super-8 film shot by an agent near Gilroy.

  "Miss Fletcher's camera was over a mile from the Thrush test site," said Mr. Waverly, "and. a lens of some magnitude was. used. You will notice interference from atmospheric haze and several intervening trees; also the image is not as steady as we might wish. Several sequences have been analysed frame by frame for computer study, but I thought you might like to see the KugleBlitzGewehr in action."

  He dimmed the lights with a finger-touch, and the opposite wall lit up to display a block-lettered title with a long code number. It was replaced by a vertical white line which took exactly a second to cross the screen. Then, through blurred foliage, a group of men could be seen clustered around a lean deadly-looking device mounted on a tripod on a small concrete slab. A husky backpack with cables running to the stock hung by its straps between the legs of the tripod, and another single line ran through a coil to a control box.

  The image jumped and the figures vanished. A second later some thing which was rather like a bubble and rather like the sun burst into existence at the tip of the tapering muzzle and spat away out of the picture in a dazzling blur of flame.

  "Gawp," said Napoleon.

  "You can see that frame by frame if you'd like," said Mr. Waverly. "Here comes another one."

  It seemed to take about a quarter of a second to swell up to the size of a basketball and vanish to the left.

  "Yes, I would," said Illya.

  The image flickered, and a streak of light appeared at the left and was sucked into the needlepoint at the center of a deep two-foot-dish of clear plastic with wires laced through it; a few seconds later another was drawn after it. The picture flickered again and grain pattern suddenly appeared as a single frame was held. The wall darkened and brightened alternately four times before a spot of intense light could be seen at the tip of the muzzle..

  "That would seem to be about half an inch wide," said Mr. Simpson. "The temperature is somewhere over ten thousand Celsius, but I can't tell how far over. It could be twenty thousand."

  The screen changed, and a three-inch sphere of brilliance obscured the tip of the discharge point. Dark and light alternated again and the circle of burnt out emulsion on the film doubled its size. On the fourth frame a globe a foot or so in diameter was only inches from the point and slightly elongated. On the fifth frame a streak of light ten feet long blazed beyond some bushes, flaring among the frozen leaves.

  "It's not really very fast," said Mr. Simpson. "The plasmoid has a peak velocity in the neighborhood of five hundred feet per second."

  "That's still a little too fast to duck."

  "Well, it's not really intended as an anti-personnel weapon. There is more film..

  The second fireball was launched again, followed some seconds later by a third. Then the scene cut to an awkward angle of a number of test walls — apparently brick, wood, concrete and stucco. There wasn't much left of the wooden one, and the stucco was distinguished by shiny stubs of fused chicken wire which stuck out from its shattered edges. A piece had been knocked from the brick structure, and as they watched a ball two feet in diameter slapped into it and in a flare which fogged to the edges of the frame it vanished, taking a quarter of the wall with it.

  "Could we see..."

  "Certainly." Time reversed, and a cloud of rusty fragments leaped together in a flash of fire which shot away to the right. Grain appeared on the screen for a moment, and the familiar light-and-dark alternation brought a fuzzy ball of brilliance into one corner of the frame.

  "Notice it's larger and travelling more slowly. Our photographer says the; range was about one hundred yards. Nevertheless, I believe the temperature of the plasmoid is still over ten thousand degrees, though probably not by much."

  In the next frame a quarter of the wall was obscured but displacement was clearly visible in the brickwork pattern close to the edge of the burned-out part of the image. The third and fourth frames were both nearly transparent except at the corners, and the fifth was normally exposed with blurred fragments suspended in mid-air. and black slag running shiny as oil over the shattered edges of the wall. In two more frames the bits of brick were gone and froth was beginning to burst and freeze in the slag.

  Normal speed was resumed, and with hazy telephoto unsteadiness they were shown four more impacts against the concrete wall; the third cracked enough loose to expose steel rods bracing the structure, and the fourth melted the exposed rods and blasted more cement loose around them. Then the film ran out and the room lights faded up.

  A signal was flashing insistently at Waverly's elbow. He touched a button and said, "Yes?"

  "Sirrocco just checked in, sir," said a clerk. "Stevens signalled her about six minutes ago."

  "That's our call, I believe," said Napoleon. "By the way, where are we going this time? I hope you've picked a better location for the drop."

  "Hm. There are perils in picking a site at random from the telephone directory. Yes, we have a meeting place of the highest character. The drop will be handled as before, with two or three minor variations in the floor plan — when you go to his booth after he leaves, the access code will be written on the inside of a matchbook and tucked behind the lamp on the wall just above the table."

  "How soon do we start?"

  "Shortly. It's only half a mile from here, but Mr. Stevens is programmed to make the drop at 12:36 this time. Still, if you haven't eaten and would like to catch the midnight show, Jack Packard has recommended the Casa del Gato. I'm sorry dinner cannot come under your expense account, but the cover charge and one drink each would be deductable."

  "Thank you, sir," said Napoleon. "I've got time to find a clean shirt downstairs. Illya, do you think I need to shave?"

  "I think you're beautiful just the way you are. Come on — I just realised I haven't had anything to eat since two o'clock."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "It's Clobberin' Time!"

  Unlighted doorways with heavy gratings across their shuttered windows lined the narrow alley; trash bins stood against the walls with garbage cans here and there among them. A flashing neon sign near the T-cross of another alley threw a wash of red across the building fronts and picked out the rough cobbles underfoot. The crude outline of a mangy-looking cat intermittently shone over an entrance, signalling any customers who might pass, but promising nothing.

  Napoleon and Illya in California formal attire, with raincoats, sauntered down the sea-damp alley to pause beneath the blinking beacon. "Casa del Gato," Napoleon read. "I hope we don't need reservations."

  Pungent music welled out around the door as they entered, with the mixed scents of smoke, red wine and searing meat to fill nostrils sharpened by the chill night air. Inside a slender girl spun and stamped to the music of a gitano guitar, and a swarthy man with a gold ring in his left ear led them to a table in the shadows. Biftek Barbados and Paella con Polio were accompanied by a Basque rose and an impressive display of Flamenco talent, and most of an hour passed agreeably.

  "Harry should be along in the next few minutes," Napoleon remarked as he stirred a cafe-con-leche. The stage was dark again and an unseen guitarist wandered alone amid esoteric harmonies. "Do you think I'll have time for a dish of flan?"

  "It's only a third past midnight," said Illya over the last of his saffron rice. "You have fifteen minutes. And while we don't want to appear to leave before we're finished, we don't want to sit over an empty table for any ( noticeable period. In other words, make up your own — "

  The door burst open with a crash that startled the cafe into silence and three burly unshaven men in tattered jackets shouldered in. More were visible crowding behind them, in the moment of stillness as the echoes o
f their entrance faded the leader roared, "T. Hewett, you ******!! We're here to return your call!" He slapped the levi-jacketed giant next to him on the arm and said, "Kill, Thing!"

  The gorilla-like partner leaped into the center of the room with an unearthly yell and kicked over the two nearest tables, scattering customers like pigeons. As the other two cleared the door, what appeared for one stunning moment to be a barbarian horde poured into the night club, torn leather jackets, grime-crusted levis and biker boots their uniforms.

  Twenty, thirty, forty, Illya counted mentally as customers fled in all directions before the invasion. They kept coming in, the main mass in action within fifteen seconds, smashing chairs, kicking over tables and slashing the. upholstery along the walls.

  Their leader, having established himself, led a small charge towards a specific table where sat the object of his opening address, a lean, keen-featured man in a casual sport coat over a white shirt over a black turtleneck. This individual spoke briefly to his companion, a beautiful brunette in a silver panne velvet pants suit, who looked coolly up at the advancing force, then opened her evening bag and flicked out a nine inch switchblade. The main focus of hostility rose smoothly to his feet with the chair between him and the approaching bikers.

  He handled himself like a professional, but somehow Napoleon Solo didn't like the idea of twenty to one.

  A cashier was frantically jiggling the hook on her dead telephone as Napoleon suddenly got up from his table and started forward.

  "Where do you think you're going?" said Illya, catching his arm. "If you get into this you'll be noticed. Thrush is just as likely to have Harry followed tonight as they did two nights ago. Maybe more likely. Do you want to blow this whole scene?"

  "But..." Napoleon stopped, one hand on the wrought iron railing that separated their table against the wall from the main floor.

  The man, presumably Hewett, stood with his back to the matching railing at the front of the low stage. His hands gripped the top of a chair, and it was obvious without a spoken threat that the first arms and legs to reach for him would be broken. His companion remained seated, and had not opened her knife, but she eyed half a dozen hairy brutes on her side of the table, and none of them wanted to be the first to move.

  Halted, several detached themselves from the fringes of the pack and started around onto the stage from both sides. A score more were content with systematically smashing the front of the club, ripping fixtures from the walls and slashing drapes and pictures.

  Napoleon looked at Illya, then back at the stage where a deadly drama was developing. "Call HQ and have them call the police riot squad, code three. Call anonymously. I can't stand here and watch this - just don't tell Mr. Waverly!"

  He vaulted over the rail and leaped to the stage, grabbing at a piece of wrought iron decoration as he landed. He stumbled and a two-foot section with a twist in the middle broke off in his hand. Three bikers turned to face him. "Keep out of this, you verbing adjective noun one of them warned.

  "You don't have more than a couple minutes before the riot cops get here, punk," snapped Solo. "Do you want to leave walking, riding, or being carried?"

  The unkempt biker laughed, a snort of derision. Then with a crash battle joined on the main floor. There were other knives in evidence, but the very press of numbers around Hewett prevented more than half a dozen coming within attack range of him. His stance was still solid, with a leg from the now-broken chair in each fist, and from his coiled crouch a hand or foot could dart and strike between thought and deed.

  A long rip in one shoulder of his light jacket had laid bare the skin and a trickle of blood welled forth, but his breathing didn't seem hurried and his hair was undisturbed. He balanced like a dancer, holding off the first rush with the help of his companion, who stood straight and silver as a sword blade; a steel sliver stood from her dainty fist and its point flickered like a flame in a breeze — a respectful circle drew back from its bite, but a charge of animal rage was moments away. Not all the clientèle were huddling towards the exits — several otherwise unconcerned citizens had stayed to join the brawl. Most of them seemed unexpectedly able to take care of themselves against the undisciplined biker gang — experienced looking men, several with scars of more than age, and cold professional eyes — but one or two were unlikely allies. A plump little man with grey at his temples wielded a neatly furled umbrella like a rapier, jabbing at faces and stomachs with the grace of a trained fencer; at his back a taller man who looked like an out-of-condition executive distinguished by the white forelock on his otherwise black head swung a chair.

  "Hiram," he gasped over his shoulder, "are you sure we should stick around?"

  "You wanted to come here, Clarence," said the other, before lunging forward to half-impale a sweaty sternum.

  The detachment expected to surround the embattled pair had been delayed by Napoleon more than ten seconds before the U.N.C.L.E. agent finished his repartee with the biker stud, who laughed and said, "No fuzz coming here, man. Sparky pulled the phone wires. We got five or ten minutes. You wanna , go-round?"

  "How many of you does it take to pull down a man?"

  "As many as it takes, man — there's lots of us." He lunged suddenly for Solo and a heavy waterglass hurtled out of nowhere to burst against the back of his head. His footing vanished and Napoleon sidestepped as he flew past with an inarticulate cry and shot full length off the stage.

  During the moment his two cohorts took to react, Napoleon cracked one across the shins with his iron rod and just managed to ram the second in the pit of the stomach as he leaped forward. Now five more were coming towards him.

  The first in the pack was floored by a heavy pitcher which entered the scene stage right along a parallel trajectory to that of the preceding glass. Napoleon glanced beyond him to see Illya in mid-air between their table and the back of another biker who was borne to the floor and did not rise again.

  Then Illya was on the stage with his partner and their battle was fully joined. They had the stage cleared in the matter of a minute, and held the position for most of another minute until a wail of sirens pierced through the din and brakes squealed in the alley outside. Four masked and helmeted patrolmen ran in, batons at ready, cans of assorted incapacitants at their belts. Two were on the floor amid rubble before they had taken three steps; one was holding his own against five but more were leaping to join them. The fourth backed hastily out to call for reinforcements. "Napoleon," Illya yelled over the general noise, "I think this is getting out of hand. Unless you want to be arrested along with everybody else, we should begin to disengage. Besides, I'm allergic to tear-gas."

  The half-circle around Hewett and his striking friend had dissipated, tempt( away by the prospect of policemen to loot, and the center of the brawl had shifted to the fallen guardians of public order. Suddenly the two men from U.N.C.L.E. found themselves with nobody to fight. The erstwhile target of the bikers' wrath stared after them for a moment, then the girl looked down at her silver velvet suit and swore a longshoreman's oath. "They spilled the Chateau d'Yquem all over my panne!"

  Hewett turned to the team behind him on the stage and nodded. "Thanks," he said. "Care to go another-round?" He indicated the embattled officers with a toss of his head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his companion. "You can sit this one out, Kish," he admonished her, then picked up a fresh chair and darted forward like a cat. Napoleon started to follow, and Illya grabbed him by the shoulder.

  We're not supposed to be noticed!" he hissed. "Harry's not going to walk into the middle of this. If anybody spots us and Baldwin hears and this project is blown, Mr. Waverly isn't going to care if I did my honest best to stop you and failed — he'll have us both cataloging fingerprints in Kansas City for the next five years! A full riot squad will be here in a matter of minutes — I saw the fourth officer get outside to call for help. Now will you put down that crowbar and come the hell with me?"

  "Not for a minute," said Napoleon, poin
ting at the front door with his crude jag-ended weapon. "Look. Here comes Harry."

  There in the doorway, staring uncertainly around him, was the man they were supposed to meet — inconspicuously.

  "Let's go get him," said Illya. "Everything is waiting for the key word locked up in that scrambled head."

  "Just walk right out there and get him? I thought you didn't want to be noticed?"

  "We'll stay close to the wall. In the middle of World War Three, who's going to notice?" The Russian started towards the low railing along the forestage, but even before he could vault that barrier, Harry's presence registered on the fringes of the main riot, and their mission became one of rescue.

  The night club was a shambles. Only one table was still upright and unbroken, and it had been swept clear when the tablecloth had been ripped off to serve as a makeshift sling for hurling ashtrays at the overhead lights.

  Hewett had sprung into the fray armed as before, and nearly a dozen floored figures lay as testimony to his speed and dexterity; fists and chains and bottles, furniture and bodies flew about him but he dodged among them unscathed as though possessed of some extra-sensory radar. He didn't seem to notice Napoleon and Illya making their ways around the edges of the fray.

  It took most of a minute to traverse the margins of the dance floor, and Harry had scarcely been standing in the doorway ten seconds before the struggling mass threw out a pseudopod and dragged him in. The two men from U.N.C.L.E. were still forty feet away when the entrance improbably opened again and a pair of familiar faces stared in: one was that of the Falstaffian individual with bushy red hair who had followed Harry to the Blue Angel and had noticed neither Solo nor Kuryakin; the other belonged to Bruno, Ward Baldwin's chauffeur. Napoleon joined his partner on the floor behind a table.