Cold gray eyes probed blue. Bob Walton returned the stare unwaveringly.
"Your cards mean less than nothing. One can have such things forged. You will be released if Mrs. Twombley identifies you. Otherwise, you will be held until we find out who you are and what you are up to."
He extracted a large white handkerchief as the man approached with the stretcher. Walton opened his mouth to protest. The kerchief was forced between his teeth. Another was placed over the makeshift gag and tied at the back of his neck. Still another blotted out his vision. A moist substance was held against his nostrils. There was an overpowering odor of anesthetic. He fought against the encroaching fumes with each gasping breath.
Balancing himself on one leg, Walton shook off his captors with a mighty effort. He heard a voice say, "I've given him enough to make an elephant fall over!"
Flailing arms were seized again. Pungent odor assaulted olfactory nerves. His captors swore as they were tossed about. Freeing one arm with a savage jerk, Walton tore the cloth from his eyes, ripped off the gag and smashed a fist into the nearest face. The man went down like a felled ox. Four men seized the struggling figure.
The tall man's eyes glinted with admiration. The young giant resembled a wild horse, as he tossed his blond mane and glared around him. Bob Walton suddenly stopped struggling. The distended eyes narrowed.
Leaning back into encircling arms, he smiled beatifically. He was still smiling like a happy child when they took him off the stretcher and placed his unconscious body on a cot in his grandmother's wine cellar.
Back in her suite at the Breakers Hotel, the girl from U.N.C.L.E. paced the floor. Mark Slate's lean length sprawled like a boneless squid on a nearby divan. He lifted a limp hand to attract his colleague's attention.
"Honey, you're going to wear a trail right through that expensive rug. Calm down. Bob is a big boy. He can take care of himself until we come and get him. Let's give him a little more time before we do anything drastic."
April stopped pacing and glared at the inert figure. "How can you lie there like a reclining Buddha, when that kid is somewhere with a broken leg and---and God knows what else, at this point?"
Slate stifled a noisy yawn and slowly straightened up. To the annoyed girl, the deliberately rising figure resembled a tapeworm unwinding in sections.
Slate peered at her owlishly. "April, my sweet, you obviously do not have the confidence in that big tough boy that I have. Let's be logical. They have no reason to suspect he is anything more than he appears to be, a disgruntled young man, determined to see his grandmother at any cost. Mr. Waverly told us to give Bob twenty-four hours to contact us, before we stormed the place with the police. We have almost a half-hour to go I don't have to remind you there is too much at stake to expose our hand needlessly. I think you will agree we should follow the boss's orders to the letter."
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. flung herself into a chair. Her voice was penitent. "Sorry, Mark. You're right, as usual. I'm just taking out my frustration on you. Underneath that maddeningly relaxed exterior you're as worried as I am. I saw the look in your eyes when we walked away from Bob."
As Slate started to speak, both of them heard the faint "beep" that signified an incoming message. Earphones had been in place for hours. They grasped fountain pen transmitters and pressed the receiving buttons.
A wide grin split Slate's face as Walton's cheery voice came over. "Tarzan speaking. Me got message for brother-ape, Mark King Kong, and beautiful native-girl, April Showers. Do you read me?"
Mark signaled for April to speak. "Gosh! It's good to hear your voice. What about that leg? Are you in pain? Where are you? Are you sure the room you're in isn't bugged?"
The laugh that came over sounded like a carefree boy. "Believe it or not, these creeps have a first class doctor on the premises. The leg is in a cast and doing fine. Not a twinge. Don't worry about my prison being bugged. I'm down in Granny's wine-cellar. The concrete walls are eight-feet thick. Ditto for the ceiling. I know. I was around when they built it."
Slate raised a hand. "What about the light fixtures, Bob? They could be wired for sound, you know."
"No light fixtures. My grandfather was adamant about that. He wanted his wine cellars in the same unadorned state as those he had seen in European castles. I can see the old boy now, flashing a lantern around the cellar, when he came down here for booze."
“You poor kid!" April said. "You mean you're lying there in total darkness?"
"Nope. They left me a lantern, just like the ones dear old granddad used to have. Incidentally, at the risk of being indelicate, grandpa did make one concession to civilization. Sanitary facilities. I have the very distinct impression that the old dear spent quite a lot of time down here. Granny always frowned on immoderate elbow-bending."
"What about ventilation?" Slate asked.
"Four enormous openings cut through the concrete walls. Windows at the end of each opening. They're all open at the moment. I even have a view of sorts."
April said, "Are the openings large enough to crawl through?"
"Plenty. There's one little catch, though. Each opening is adorned with six thick iron bars. Take my word for it. They are impregnable."
"I presume you're being fed and watered," Slate said. "Who is your contact? Krishna or Gandura been down to see you? I know there's no use asking if you've seen your grandmother."
"I'm living on the fat of the land," Walton said. "The guy who brings my food is a tongue-tied Arab. A tall man with a definitely Teutonic accent has tried to pump me, with negative results. No Krishna. No Gandura. And, no Granny. I think---" he broke off abruptly. "Don't go away. Something is stirring down by the tennis courts. I'm going to douse the lantern and crawl out to the window. Be right back."
The two heard shuffling sounds, interspersed with subdued groans, then silence.
Walton's voice finally came over. It was barely audible. "Dig that crazy, mixed-up blimp! Kids, you wouldn't believe this if you saw it. Something that looks like a giant soup tureen is hovering over the tennis courts. I tell you it's uncanny. The darn thing isn't making a sound. So that's why Granny's neighbors haven't seen her coming or going."
A period of silence. The snuffling noises and the groans were resumed. The voice had faded to a whisper when the pair in the room heard it again.
"I'm back in bed. Signing off. Someone's at the door."
FIVE
TEA IN A FLYING SAUCER
Mr. Waverly’s voice continued its deliberate, measured cadence. "Listen carefully. Both of you must return to the Twombley estate. Make careful preparations. One question at this time. Does the giant banyan tree you described overlook the tennis courts?"
Mark gestured to April. She responded. "It does. One section of the tree actually spreads over some of them. Incidentally, there are six courts in a row and the backstops are unusually deep. An ideal spot, made to order, for a vertical landing."
"Excellent! Let us get on with preparations. April, check your travel kit to make sure you have our latest model telescopic night camera. While you are doing so, I will brief Mark. Are you ready for instructions?"
"As our young friend, Mr. Walton, would say, 'I dig you,' Please proceed, sir."
"Mark, this is one time when your R.A.P. background and engineering training could prove invaluable. April's assignment will be to take pictures of the mystery craft from every possible angle. You will take along sketch-pads and drawing gear. Be meticulous in your drawings. Perhaps you had better use the Malayan jungle technique of strapping yourself into the tree, so both hands will be free. We mustn't have another accidental fall. "
Slate said, "Excuse the interruption, sir, but the tree-house is the logical place for me. It has a table, chairs and a couch. My athletic colleague can clamber all over the tree to make her pictures, but I think you will agree that I should have a stationary base, to make accurate sketches."
A sound suspiciously resembling a snort assaulted Mark's ears. "Amazing how you
can think of excuses for working in a recumbent position. Very well, my boy. I trust you to do a good job. I can't overstress the importance of your sketches. They and your observations will furnish us with the firsthand impressions of a man who has both flown and helped construct aircraft. Also, they provide added insurance. Something might happen to April's films. Now may I speak with the athletic Miss Dancer?
"You have the camera? Good! I know you will carry out your assignment without technical instruction from me. I think Mr. Kovac, who is sitting beside me, will agree that Miss Dancer is the finest photographer on our staff. He has signified his agreement with a fatuous smile. Sorry, I can't put him on. Time is of the essence.
"A parting message for both of you. This mission is for the sole purpose of getting important data on a revolutionary type of aircraft. When you have accomplished that purpose, return to your hotel, immediately. Do not allow anything to delay or distract you. No matter what transpires in or around the aircraft, you are not to exceed these explicit instructions. Photograph, sketch, memorize, then leave, unobserved.
"Do not attempt to contact Mr. Walton, either from your hotel or at the estate. Turn off your receiving sets the moment I sign off. If a signal should come through from our young friend, ignore it. I will explain everything when you return from the assignment and contact me from your hotel. Any questions or remarks?"
Slate said, "No questions, sir."
"One remark," April said. "I know I also speak for Mark. We will carry out your instructions to the letter."
"Well said. Good luck. Signing off."
MARK SLATE inserted exploratory fingers between the marble statues. The panel slid down silently. He stepped through. April Dancer followed.
Both carefully surveyed the moon-drenched undergrowth. A moment later they were feeling their way cautiously through dense shrubbery. Their bare feet made only the slightest of whispering sounds in the grass. They paused and scanned the surrounding terrain with the nervous awareness of jungle-trained experts, before blending into the inky patch of darkness beneath the banyan tree.
Slate was the first to shinny up the tough fibrous root they chose for the ascent. April ignored the hand he extended and waved him on. To the impatient climbers, the distance between ground and tree-house seemed to have lengthened interminably since the previous ascent.
Mark pulled himself up to the platform. April smiled in the darkness as her comfort loving colleague collapsed onto the wicker couch with a grateful sigh. She parted dense foliage. Her involuntary gasp brought Mark Slate to his feet.
They gazed downward in rapt silence. April's first conscious thought was of the strange vehicle's awesome proportions. It sprawled over four of the six tennis courts. Slate fitted a tiny, powerful telescope to an eye and scanned the craft's lines intently.
"Incredible!" he said softly. "THRUSH has come up with something completely revolutionary."
The minute telescope traveled back and forth again. Slate shook his head in wonderment. There was no visible evidence of wing, motor or rudder. The only discernible break in the slightly obloid metal sphere was a blister that seemed to be the pilot control, with a hatch-like opening that obviously served as an entrance.
Both shrank back as a robed figure appeared at the opening. He was followed by others. As they departed, other robed figures, weighed down with bundles of various sizes and shapes, filed out of the semi-darkness into the vacated breach.
April nudged her companion. "We'd better hurry. No telling when they may take off."
She took several carefully aimed shots of the sprawling craft while Slate bent over the table and began sketching. April saw that he was having trouble with the foliage. She slipped the tiny camera into an armpit-holder and held the obstructing limbs apart for her frantically sketching confrere.
"You're on your own," she whispered, after a few moments of struggling with the foliage. "I'm going down to lower levels, for angle shots."
Slate held up a restraining hand.
"Bear with me a moment longer. I'll join you. I can't get even a minute mechanical clue from this elevation. About all I can do here is make comparison drawings to show the craft's size in relation to the surrounding terrain."
Both took a final look through telescopes before beginning the descent. A man in a white jacket and chef's hat stood in the areaway. He was talking to a tall man in a white robe. The pair hastily inserted tiny amplifiers.
They heard the man in the chef's hat say, "I'll have tea and crumpets ready by the time you're all aboard."
The other man laughed. "You're a little mixed up, aren't you, Hans? This is hardly tea time."
"You won't think I'm mixed up when we take off. This is your first trip on this sky rocket. Believe me, there is nothing like a spot of strong, hot tea to prepare the stomach for supersonic flight."
The tall man laughed again. "When you were the head chef at the Ritz in Paris, I'll bet you never thought you'd be serving tea in a flying saucer."
The two men walked back into the craft. April and Mark tucked their amplifiers away and started down the tree.
"I'm afraid we're as low as we can get without being seen," April whispered. They straddled a limb dangerously close to the open hatch.
She took three quick shots with her camera.
"I'll have to memorize from here on," Slate whispered. "It's no good trying to sketch when I can barely retain the status quo."
From what could be seen of the dimly lighted interior, they might have been looking into the salon of a large group of people. They muttered his disappointment.
"Shame there isn't a hatch opening into the propulsive section. This doesn't tell me a thing."
April placed a quick hand on his arm. Voices heralded the approach of a large group of people. They peered through the leaves. Slate smothered an exclamation of dismay. Two men were carrying a stretcher. The face of the giant form on the stretcher was covered, but neither of the watchers had any doubts as to the man's identity.
Krishna and Gandura were in the group following the stretcher. Mark Slate craned his neck. He recognized Mrs. Twombley among the robed figures shuttling into the plane. There was a sharp intake of breath at his side.
"The hatch is closing," April said excitedly. "What'll we do?"
"Exactly what Mr. Waverly told us to do," Slate said woodenly, as they watched the plane door merge with the smooth surface.
The airship remained motionless for several minutes after the hatch closed.
Suddenly a blast of hot air enveloped them. Mark rubbed his eyes and April found herself gaping with open mouth. Six bare tennis courts stretched out before them. The strange-looking craft had vanished, without a sound.
April's voice shook with excitement. "Did you see what I saw? The darn thing melted into thin air. Don't tell me THRUSH has perfected a time machine."
Slate shook his head. "I'm ready to believe almost anything, at this point, but there's a more logical answer. Blinding speed. That weird contraption went up so fast the human eye couldn't follow it."
April drew a deep breath and released it slowly. "Boy, am I glad you saw the same thing I did. I mean, didn't see the same thing I didn't. I was beginning to think I was losing my mind."
Mark Slate peered through the leaves. "Do you get the same feeling I do, that this place is completely deserted? I wonder if we can take time to check."
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. placed a firm hand on his arm and pointed toward the sea. "You know better than that. Mr. Waverly couldn't have spelled it out any clearer. Let's get out of here fast. And quietly. For all we know, the place is still crawling with guards."
"I have tremendous respect for Mr. Waverly's judgment," April remarked, as they sped toward their hotel in Walton's car. "But he may have pulled a boo boo on this mission. If we had brought the police with us, we might have captured the airship. Think what it could do in the right hands!"
She shuddered. "And think what it probably will do in the hands of an organiza
tion as evil as THRUSH!"
"As a former fighter pilot," Slate said, "I couldn't disagree with you more emphatically about the possibility of capturing that flying carpet. It's a million-to-one bet that any invading force would have been wiped out. I shudder to think what weapons they must have aboard."
April's gaze was scornful. "I'm sure you're right about the devastating power of their weapons, but you're overlooking one thing-the element of surprise. We could have brought our forces through a secret entrance that is unknown to anyone on the estate. With all the hullabaloo of departure, we might have gained access without being spotted. I didn't see a single guard. "Well, let's go!"
A half hour later, Mark Slate eased the car into a parking space near the entrance to the Breakers.
"One of the things I learned in aerial combat was to keep an eye on the cockpit of enemy craft. Apparently you didn't see the four shadowy heads moving about in that semi-transparent blister."
He chuckled, as he helped April from the car. "No offense, darling, but I'm afraid U.N.C.L.E. would be minus the services of a mediocre ex-flyer named Mark Slate and a deductive genius named April Dancer, if you had been my R.A.F. observer."
SIX
DONKEY WITH TWO TALES
The bored looking young man in the black turtle-neck sweater and shaggy gray trousers slipped onto a stool at the end of the bar. "Ale," he said curtly to the man in the soiled apron.
The barman slid the foaming brew to a nicely-timed stop in front of sweatered elbows. Wiping damp hands on an even damper rag, he gave the customer the swift appraisal of the veteran drink-mixer.
Lackluster eyes met his blankly, then turned away to survey the passing traffic through the little tavern's fly-blown window.
After giving the stained wood a perfunctory swipe, the barman shrugged philosophically and headed for the back. No point in wasting conversation on this one. He was all too obviously a solitary minded barfly.
Mark Slate was a naturally gregarious soul. It had taken years to perfect the chill technique. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the aproned man lean fat elbows on the bar and bury his nose in a racing form.
The Mesmerizing Mist Affair Page 3