08-The Monster Wheel Affair

by David McDaniel

  "Did one man come alone recently?" Illya asked. "A day or two ago?"

  The Aussie looked at him thoughtfully. "Funny thing—t'other blokes asked that too."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Not a thing, mate. In a town this size, people come and go and get lost in the crowds. We don't 'ave a registration center."

  "Oh, stop it!" said Suzie, pulling out a photograph of Schneider. "We're looking for this man, and it's a matter of life and death that we find him before these other people do. They'll kill him!"

  "Well, it might 'appen 'e'd know about it, wouldn't 'e? And likely would 'ave a few trustworthy people coverin' 'is trail for 'im. There's an awful lot of Outback for a man to get lost in—and stay lost if 'e don't want to be found."

  "But we think he does," said Napoleon. "He left clues that would direct us here—left clues with his friends. It sounds as if these others are on his trail too, but they don't know where he is. We do. He came to Lightning Ridge yesterday or the day before. Whoever these others are—and we have a pretty good idea—they're obviously casting about all over the area looking for him."

  "Well, Cobber...you might be too, y'know."

  "But we aren't," said Suzie impatiently.

  "Forget it," said Illya suddenly. "We're getting nowhere." Napoleon and Suzie looked at him as he said, "Diggers are stubborn—if they don't want to tell you something, you might as well talk to Ayres Rock." He finished his beer at a swallow, and started to the door. They followed him.

  Once outside, he kept going. Napoleon caught up with him.

  "You look as if you know what you're doing. Do you?"

  "I think so. Kurt's friend in there mentioned some others who were here on the same mission—I thought we could get together with them and compare notes."

  "You're kidding," said Suzie.

  "I don't think he is," said Napoleon.

  There were a few trees down along the dry water-course a quarter of a mile or so west of town, and the three wandered along in their shade until a couple of olive-drab tents appeared before them.

  "Not much of a field headquarters," said Napoleon.

  "Convenient and practical," said Illya. "No rain this time of year, no large dangerous animals, not many bugs. Not Thrush, this time—they would not stoop to roughing it in this style."

  "Now what do we do?" asked Suzie. "Walk up and knock on the tent flap?"

  "Ordinarily, we should wait until night and drop in unexpectedly. But if they don't already know of our presence, they soon will and I'd just as soon get to them before they can radio for help. They're pretty serious about this search for Schneider, and there is probably a respectable force scattered over the surrounding hundred thousand square miles."

  "My thought exactly," said Illya. "I don't think we should even bother to knock."

  Traditional methods are usually the most effective. With guns drawn, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents stepped past the flap of the larger tent and addressed the backs of two men who crouched over a radio set in the corner. Both were dressed in khaki bush jackets and trousers, with high boots. Both were deeply engrossed in the operation of the bulky transmitter, and both turned suddenly at the voices behind them.

  "Stand away from there," said Illya coldly. A glance at the meters on the case told him it was not yet in operation. "Keep your hands in sight."

  With some hesitation they did as directed. "What is this?" said one of them truculently. "We have no money—no valuables for you to rob."

  "Who were you calling?"

  "We were not calling—we were listening for the weather report."

  "On the 40-meter band? There are no official weather reports broadcast on that frequency—it's a moderate-range amateur band."

  The face of the spokesman betrayed ingenuous surprise. "I must have had the adjustment wrong. No wonder we could not receive the storm warnings."

  "You're not Australian," said Napoleon. "Who are you?"

  "We are honest tourists from Egypt," said the spokesman. "His name is Abdul. My name is Rameses. He does not speak much English."

  "Okay. Let us tell you a few things. You're here looking for a German sailor named Kurt Schneider. You're probably one part of a search covering a very wide area. You were just about to call someone on that radio. The only question I want an answer to is whether you were calling with a regular check-in, or to report your finding of the gentleman in question."

  Rameses was well enough trained not to register surprise. Neither did he answer.

  "Perhaps I can help, Napoleon," said Illya, glancing at his watch. "The time is exactly 1:36 P.M.—not a likely time for a regularly scheduled contact. Suzie —"

  "Yes?"

  "While Napoleon keeps these two company, you and I will check the other tent. I think you may find an old friend there."

  Napoleon shifted his gun to cover both the Egyptians as his partner and the girl ducked out behind him. Their footsteps crunched softly away across the sun-baked dirt.

  Rameses made another attempt. "Believe me, sir, we are only harmless tourists," he said, stepping slightly forward.

  "That's fine," said Solo. "As long as you're harmless, so am I."

  The one called Abdul also took a half step forward, at a divergent angle from his compatriot. Napoleon took a step back and felt the tent flap. "That's enough," he said sharply. "Sit down." This was the difficult point. He should probably have shot one in the leg—but they still just might be innocent tourists....

  The two Egyptians exchanged a glance, and Rameses made a sudden feinting move. Napoleon's gun hand swung automatically in his direction, and at that instant Abdul charged.

  Solo sidestepped quickly, but a flailing arm caught him in the stomach and he doubled over. Rameses was on top of him at once, fumbling for his throat. He kept his chin tucked to his chest, and dropped to his knees, pulling the attacker over his head. Abdul had recovered from his bull-like charge and now leaped, just as Napoleon brought his U.N.C.L.E. Special up level and fired three times into the man's midsection. He made a few noises after he hit the ground, but kicked and then lay still after a few seconds. Rameses lay on his back where he had been thrown, and did not attempt to rise.

  Then the tent flap was thrown aside and Illya's intense face thrust inside over the muzzle of his automatic. "What happened?"

  "That stopped being harmless tourists," said Napoleon, his breath gradually returning. "One of them is now completely harmless, unless he harbored some loathsome disease."

  Suzie appeared next to Illya. She looked down in horror. "Oh, Napoleon!" she said. "Did you have to kill him?"

  "Probably not. But the only way to have found out would have involved him killing me if I was wrong. And I consider myself more valuable than he was." He stood up and dusted his coat. "What did you find in the other tent?"

  "A German sailor named Kurt Schneider, according to our identification expert here. He seems to be drugged. He's unconscious, at any rate, with no signs of injury."

  Napoleon looked down at the surviving Egyptian, and nodded. "You have a lot of explaining to do," he said, and placed the still-warm muzzle of his automatic lightly against the back of the man's head. "We have all afternoon, and a boundless interest in hearing your life story in full detail. Now go ahead. Sing for us, Rameses—sing as if your life depended on it."

  Chapter 8: "A Message From Space."

  Twenty-five hours later it was almost midnight in Manhattan. A special jet had brought a party of five directly from Sydney, pausing to refuel in Hawaii and Los Angeles. They had slept during the trip, and now were alert and functioning again.

  Napoleon and Illya shared their places around the conference table with Suzie, on whom the strain of the recent pace of events was beginning to tell. Alexander Waverly faced them across the round table, and had many things to say.

  "Five days ago," he began, touching a button and illuminating a screen on the wall behind him, "a large satellite was observed by the Astronomical Tracking Station at Joh
annesburg. It appears to be the largest artificial object in orbit; I have been told by people whose business it is to know such things that it probably holds over one hundred men, and could easily carry a large number of nuclear or thermonuclear missiles."

  A blurred, grainy photograph appeared on the screen—it showed a wheel-like shape with two opposed spokes and a tall hub against a background of stars. Waverly continued:

  "It is approximately two hundred and fifty feet across. The tubular body of the satellite is therefore thirty or forty feet in diameter." He paused.

  Napoleon looked puzzled. "I would have thought we would have heard about something that big. I take it that it isn't ours?"

  "Not only that, Mr. Solo. Apparently it isn't anyone's. Neither the Russians nor the British nor the French have claimed it. The best guess so far is that it may be a Chinese effort, using Russian equipment, but they have made no statement to that effect so far, and this remains at best a doubtful hypothesis."

  "It should have taken some time to build something that large," said Illya thoughtfully. "It would have to have been constructed in orbit—it simply is not structurally capable of standing the stresses of a rocket launching."

  Napoleon cleared his throat tentatively. "Ah—has anyone thought that it might not have been launched from the Earth?"

  Illya started to say, "Oh, really, Napoleon!" but he was cut off.

  "Extraterrestrial origin?" Waverly nodded. "The idea has already been offered. It was under serious consideration, in fact, until the nature of the transmission from the Wheel changed, a day and a half ago."

  "Changed? How?"

  "Before it had merely been sending coded telemetric signals. Now..." Their superior touched another button, and a concealed speaker came to life. They heard the familiar twittering of telemetry, and then a voice began—definitely a human voice. It was male, baritone, and young.

  "Saluton, Tera Komandejo," it said. "Jen Spaci-Stacio Unu, sendante sian unuan raporton reen al la Tero. La sipanaro alvenis sur la transport-sipoj sendifekte, kaj ciuj aparatoj ci tie funkcias bonege."

  The voice continued in the same language. Suzie looked puzzled. "That sounds like Italian," she said, "but I don't understand it."

  "It's Esperanto," said Illya. "An artificial language—the best-known of many. It's spoken and understood all over the world."

  "What's he saying?"

  "He started by identifying himself as 'Space-Station One,' and this as the first report to Earth, saying the crew had arrived on the shuttle ships safely, and all systems there were functioning perfectly. Now he's talking about the view. He says they're crossing the dawn line over Nepal, and only the peaks of the Himalayas are touched with the sunlight, so they stand out like signal fires against the darkness that still lies in the valleys..."

  Waverly touched another button and the voice stopped. "The Wheel has maintained voice transmission approximately two-thirds of the time since. It has all been recorded, and has been subjected to intensive analysis by Section Four. There has been no indication in any of the material of any specific national origin."

  He leaned back and fumbled for his pipe. Napoleon, Illya and Suzie sat erect, staring at the projection of the Monster Wheel. Finally Napoleon spoke:

  "Do you think the mysterious rocket launching site we're after could be involved in this problem too?"

  "There's an ancient saying in my country," said Illya, "to the effect that when you have two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that will fit nowhere else, they may fit together."

  "Ancient saying?"

  "Comparatively ancient."

  Waverly returned to the conversation, having completed his own project, which was now smoldering between his teeth. He took it out, and replaced it with a statement:

  "That monstrous wheel represents possibly the greatest threat to the security of the entire world in history. Whoever controls it can control any spot on the surface of the planet except for a few thousand square miles at the poles. From such a stable platform, every major operation can be studied with relatively simple telescopes, and thermonuclear missiles can be placed with a maximum of accuracy and a minimal expenditure of energy. And as long as we don't know who controls it, we remain unable to strike back."

  "Couldn't we send a missile up to the Wheel?" asked Suzie.

  "They could track it and destroy it at their leisure—and destroy as well its launching site and the nation that launched it."

  The two agents considered this for a while. Illya finally spoke: "That seems to leave us with only one choice."

  Napoleon nodded. "Find their launching site."

  "Exactly," said Waverly. He glanced at Suzie. "And I'm afraid I must insist you do it alone. I understand your personal involvement in this operation, Miss Danz, but this is a job for professional personnel." He turned back to the two men.

  "Section Three has filed an interrogation report on your Egyptian trophy. He stood up quite well as far as we dared go with him—gave only his name and nationality, and insisted that his rights under international law were being violated. He was right, of course—they were. We confronted him with the photos we have of the Monster Wheel, though, and they seemed to catch him off balance.

  Waverly paused to inspect his pipe, which seemed to have gone out. He took his time puffing its dormant embers back into life, and then spoke again. "He claimed it belonged to his own nation."

  "To Egypt!" said three voices simultaneously.

  "To Egypt. The interrogators pointed out to him that this was obviously ridiculous, but he continued to insist for a few exchanges, then suddenly shut up. He said if his government hadn't seen fit to announce it to the world, he would respect their judgment. And they could get nothing more out of him.

  "Also, Mr. Schneider has recovered rather well from the drugs he was given in Australia. And we are now in possession of the coordinates of the mysterious island."

  "Have we identified it?" asked Illya.

  "Yes, we have. Few charts bother to list it, since it is tiny, uninhabited, has no natural fresh water, and is far off the main trade routes. It is a volcanic island, with a single peak at two thousand and some feet above sea level. The last reported activity of the volcano was in 1872. It is now officially considered extinct. The island itself is moderately jungled, and is roughly two miles from east to west, three miles north to south.

  "A photo-reconnaissance aircraft has been ordered over the island—more than one would probably arouse the suspicions of anyone who might be there and equipped to observe it. The results of the mission will be in our hands by tomorrow afternoon, and a topographical map will be prepared for your use.

  "Friday you will depart by jet to our branch office in Colombo, Ceylon, where you will board a special ship. You will be put over the side in a miniature submarine some two hundred miles from the island, and will proceed to infiltrate whatever operation may be centered there. Obtain as much information as you can regarding the nature and especially the source of supply for the operation, and get out again. You will then be picked up by the same ship at the spot you left it. All details beyond these will be left to your own discretions."

  "Fine," said Napoleon crisply. "We'll want camouflage suits, some basic guerilla equipment and survival gear. Also two scuba outfits. And if at all possible, a map of underwater contours around the island. We'll want to sink the sub in fifty or a hundred feet of water, where it'll be safe while we're ashore."

  "Section Five will get to work on the map tonight. Incidentally, you should plan to spend tomorrow down in the Research Department. Mr. Simpson will want to check you out on the new submarine."

  "That shouldn't be necessary, sir, unless it's a radical departure from the old one."

  "It is. Top submerged speed of forty knots plus, depth capability in excess of five thousand feet, and totally noiseless."

  "Five thousand feet? Why weren't we using that on the H-bomb that got lost off Spain last spring?"

  "Too much publicity attendant, a
nd the fact that it was still in the final stages of construction at the time. It has now been extensively tested, although this will be its first real use in the field."

  "A top speed of forty knots, and completely noiseless?" asked Illya. "How is that accomplished?"

  Waverly held up a patient hand. "These technical matters are outside my bailiwick," he said, "and it is past midnight. I suggest you take up your questions with Mr. Simpson tomorrow."

  "Just one more question...."

  "Yes?"

  "The name of the island."

  "Oh, of course. The only two charts it appears on call it Dauringa Island. No reason for the name—probably some obscure navigator who first sighted it."

  "Dauringa Island," mused Napoleon. "A peaceful enough name. Palm trees waving in a gentle tropical breeze. But somehow I have the feeling it will not live up to the travel posters."

  Illya nodded. "It may even look peaceful on the surface, Napoleon—but not deep down inside, where it really counts."

  Section III: "Round And Round Went The Monster Wheel..."

  Chapter 9: "This is Your Submarine—Keep It Clean."

  The research and development section of U.N.C.L.E. in New York is in the very lowest level of the building, which extends nearly as far down into the solid bedrock of Manhattan Island as it does up into the polluted air. This level includes the target range, the main emergency generator plant, and the docks which open onto the river.

  In the great echoing vault of the construction area, the lights hung far overhead and shed their cold light over half an acre of heavy machinery, machinists, and their products.

  One product rested, fat and shining, in a cradle on the floor at one side of the room. It was a dull gray teardrop about fifteen feet through at its widest and some thirty feet long. At the center of the rounded end was a small porthole, with a ring of lights around it. All the surfaces were flush with the metal, leaving the curve unbroken. Here and there on the hull were small areas of different textures which could be recognized as transducers, as well as a number of screened openings and small access hatches. Just above the porthole was a large screened opening—an intake scoop of some kind.