The Burning Air Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  “Is it necessary for us to like each other to work together?” April asked quickly.

  “I do not need anything from you except a lead to the location of the trigger bomb, Miss Dancer,” Rottermund said. “And I have the perfect means, of course, of finding that out.”

  Keeping the gun trained on her through the mirror hole, he stepped back and pressed a recessed button. The wall of April's cell slid back.

  He made a motion with the gun. “If you will be so kind, Miss Dancer, as to accompany me---”

  April hesitated. For one desperate moment she considered throwing herself at Rottermund, but she fought down the impulse. It would be suicide. Mike had been closer than she was to the little monkey of a man and Rottermund had cut him down.

  There was always the chance that he would hesitate to kill her and lose the only lead they had to the missing bomb. Rottermund smiled as this thought flashed through her mind.

  “This is a very unique weapon, Miss Dancer,” he said. “There are three adjustments I can make with a flick of my thumb. It can blast a hole like I made in this fool. Or it can fire a regular bullet. Or it can shoot a plastic pellet needle-thin with the power to stun.”

  “It seems, Dr. Rottermund, that there is nothing I can do,” April said.

  The THRUSH scientist smiled at the girl from U.N.C.L.E. “You are absolutely correct. Now if you will move ahead of me, we will find out what exactly is hidden inside that ---I suppose some men would say pretty head of yours.”

  April Dancer hesitated only the briefest second. She turned and picked up the compact with its hidden recorder. She flipped open the lid and surveyed her makeup. She grimaced.

  “I look a sight to be accompanying a gentleman,” she said.

  “Your appearance does not impress me. I am interested only in your mind,” Rottermund said, grimacing with distaste.

  April made a wry face as she turned to march ahead of the evil man to the interrogation room. Practically every man she met complimented her on her beauty and appearance. It had happened so often that it had come to irritate her. As she once informed Mark Slate, “I'm sick of men telling me I'm pretty. I know what I look like. I have a mirror. If somebody wants to really flatter me, he could say I have a fine mind.”

  But now that she had at last found a man more interested in her mind than in her body, April was far from flattered. In fact, she found it chilling.

  The lovely agent had difficulty suppressing a shiver as she marched ahead of him into the white room from which he never intended for her to come out of alive.

  SIX

  KURYAKIN’S LAW!

  Mark Slate was so close to April that he could have heard her had not the laboratory walls been soundproofed. As it were, he was in the dark, literally and figuratively.

  There was not even a mote of light in the room where he was held prisoner. After regaining consciousness on a couch, he made a blind circuit of the room. It was totally empty, but for himself and the couch.

  He sat down and tried to puzzle out his predicament. It was the oddest situation he had found himself in since leaving the RAF to join U.N.C.L.E.

  He gingerly felt the lump on his head. It helped him decide that if he ever wanted to celebrate his thirty-second birthday, he had best find a way out of that dark cell fast.

  Mark thoughtfully smoothed the waistcoat which would have been a loud color had there been light by which to see color.

  Although a casual man in the face of danger, he was never foolhardy. He liked to know exactly what he was going into. This time he found himself at a blank wall. For the first time on any case he did not know what he was involved with or what motivated his enemies.

  Methodically he stretched out on the couch and reviewed what had happened to him since he and April Dancer were ambushed after their taxi was forced off the road.

  Mark Slate had been brought to this secret hideout. On the way, although bound and gagged, he managed to get his fingers on the pen-communicator. He extended the antenna sufficiently to he hoped provide Alexander Waverly and U.N.C.L.E. headquarters with an on-the-spot broadcast by his captors.

  As best he could tell from the turns and stops of the car, Mark had been taken to a hideout somewhere in Manhattan.

  An extremely friendly-faced man had attempted to question him, but when Mark made a break for freedom, had shot him in the leg with something that produced a creeping paralysis.

  That was all the young man knew until he awoke in this lightless room. The attempt at interrogation had given Mark Slate a slight hint of information. Now he regretted trying to jump his captors too soon.

  Had he let them question him a little longer he might have learned something.

  As it were, all Mark knew was that he was supposed to be an intimate acquaintance of a red-haired woman who had stolen a bomb of some kind. And from the remarks passed by his captors in the car, this bomb was a source of great fear to THRUSH.

  The darkness was oppressive. It seemed to close in on him with a crushing weight. Unable to sit still any longer, he got up, jamming his fists into the pocket of his tweed jacket. As far as he could see, the only bright spot in the picture was that April had apparently gotten away. This much he gathered from the conversation of his captors as they drove him to this hidden prison.

  Once again he started an inch-by-inch exploration of the room. But this time, as he moved along the opposite side, the wall suddenly disappeared. He could feel its hardness beneath his outstretched hands, but it had suddenly become transparent.

  He looked into a white room. In the center was what appeared to be a futuristic design for a dentist's chair. Suspended above it were shining white beam generators with dull white lenses. Beyond the small room a partially opened door revealed banks of computers.

  There was a man and a woman in the room. The man, small and monkey-faced, wore a white smock. The girl with him looked vaguely familiar. Then he realized with a start that she was the red-haired woman who had mocked his attempts at a pickup in a Los Angeles cocktail lounge just before he and April left Los Angeles.

  The man removed his finger from a switch on the console box beside the chair. Mark suspected that this was what caused the wall's opaqueness to fade away.

  Curiously, the visibility seemed to be only on his side, something like a one-way mirror effect. Twice the girl turned in his direction, but did not seem to see him at all.

  When the girl turned he caught a full view of her face for the first time. He started. His heart began to race and a low exclamation escaped his taut lips.

  It had been dark, low-key lighted in the cocktail lounge. Here in the brighter light of the interrogation room he detected a dozen telltale points that convinced him that the red-haired girl was really April Dancer.

  Mark Slate leaned his hands against the transparent wall and chuckled softly.

  “That girl is a marvel,” he told himself. “I wonder how she managed to talk her way in here?”

  Then the little man half turned and Slate saw the strange gun for the first time. The chuckle died on Mark's lips. His changing expression showed his sudden concern for April. Ever since they had started to work together two years before, he had taken a big-brother attitude toward her. Perhaps it might have gone farther than that, but April was so wrapped up in her job with U.N.C.L.E. that romance had no part in her life.

  Motioning April to move over where he could keep her in his view while he looked toward the wall that hid Mark, Rottermund pressed another button on the console. A hidden tape recorder began a replay of the interrogation of April.

  When it was concluded, Rottermund said, “Did you hear that, Mr. Slate?”

  April started at the mention of her co-agent's name. Mark noted the look of concern that flashed across her face.

  “Yes,” he said in answer to Rottermund's question. “I heard it.”

  “You realize then the utter futility of trying to fight me?” Rottermund said.

  Before Mark could reply, April cr
ied, “Don't believe him, Mark! He's trying to trap you! You still have enough of that numbing serum in your blood to partially counteract the machine's rays. You can upset the machine if you fight it. He is trying to convince you that fighting is useless!”

  Rottermund turned with a snarl.

  Horrified, Mark saw him raise the gun level with April's breast. Then the wall went dark as the little scientist cut the connection.

  Mark pressed against the wall, listening intently. The voice communication also died when the illumination failed. Quickly Mark jerked off his ring. The diamond was cut and set at the perfect angle to cut glass. It was the only one of the many U.N.C.L.E. protective devices that had survived his capture.

  He made a wide circular sweep, dragging the gem across the formerly transparent wall. If he could score it, then it would be just a matter of kicking out the cut and leaping into the other room.

  But the material, for all its transparency, was not glass. The diamond slipped across its smooth surface with a screech, but made no score. Desperate now, Mark tried again before he gave up. He had no way of knowing if this was a special glass or some new transparent metal. Whatever it was, it was too hard even for a diamond to cut.

  He was still reluctant to acknowledge failure. He backed up, swung the couch around. Heaving it up on one end, he got a good grip and hurled it at the wall. It bounced back, catching him a glancing blow. He picked himself up painfully and stood in the center of the room, breathing hard….

  Beyond that impenetrable wall the girl from U.N.C.L.E. was breathing just as hard as she faced the gun in the hands of the determined little man.

  April saw his thumb slip a slide on the side of the gun. She knew he was switching to the numbing needle.

  “Now!” he said quietly. “Sit down in the chair, Miss Dancer.”

  April hesitated, her mind racing through several possibilities. She was certain of one thing: She was not going to undergo the ordeal of the interrogation machine again. To her it had become a matter of life and death for U.N.C.L.E.'s Alexander Waverly.

  No matter what she said, U.N.C.L.E. would go on. No one agent knew enough of its secrets to permit anybody to destroy the entire organization. But she did realize that she could be forced to reveal certain codes which could lead Mr. Waverly into an ambush. If Rottermund was as determined to destroy the U.N.C.L.E. chief as he claimed to Michaels, the vengeful little scientist could find enough in her mind to pull off his scheme.

  This, she was determined, would not happen. Not even if it meant her own life.

  “In the chair, Miss Dancer!” Rottermund repeated, his voice growing harder.

  April had already given up the thought of trying to jump him. The distance between them was too great. Still there was a temptation. If he was forced to knock her out, the drug serum would interfere with operation of the machine. This would delay the machine third degree for at least another four hours.

  But delay gaIIed her. Her entire life and philosophy were built on making a decision and following it through.

  In the split second permitted her, she made a decision, a desperate attempt to follow 'Kuryakin's law,' and came out swinging.

  “I'm warning you, Miss---” Rottermund began.

  April stared at him. Her mouth went slack. Her eyes glazed. She swayed and collapsed. Rottermund stepped back quickly, afraid of a trick, but April huddled on the floor. She tried to push herself up with her hands. Her face, uplifted to him, was twisted in pain. She gasped for breath.

  Rottermund looked at her coldly. “I'll not be taken in by any tricks!”

  “I-I-can't---” April gasped. The slightest suggestion of worry crossed the little scientist's face. “What is the matter?” he asked uneasily.

  “My heart---” April gasped and paused. “I'll be all right, in a minute. The excitement---”

  “Do you need something?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” she barely whispered. “I -I have some medicine---”

  She weakly removed the package of mints from her pocket.

  “W-water!” she whispered, her voice thick. “I---I must have some water---”

  His face a convulsing field of mixed emotions, Rottermund backed to a white laboratory sink and filled a beaker from the water tap.

  Watching him through half-closed eyes, April could tell that he was afraid. But it was not the panicky fear that Michaels had. It was the cold knowledge that his superiors in THRUSH would be ruthless to any man who lost such a wonderful opportunity to bleed the mind of an U.N.C.L.E. agent.

  His manner showed that he was deeply suspicious of her “attack,” but at the same time, he could not be sure. He brought her the water and set it on the floor near her. He was still too suspicious to get close enough for her to spring a judo attack on him.

  Weakly April shoved the package of mints toward him. The round package rolled almost to the beaker of water.

  “Please!” she whispered. “Dissolve it for me. Hurry!”

  His face gray with anxiety, Rottermund stooped down. He was still taking no chances. He kept the gun trained in April's face. He used his teeth to pull the paper tab from the end of the package.

  April stared full into the muzzle of the gun and shuddered. She knew what was going to happen. And when it came, she faced the chilling prospect of the gun going off under the spasmodic jerk of the little scientist's hand.

  She shook off the morbid thought. “It will work! It will work!” she kept repeating silently to herself. “Everything is going to be all right. It will work!”

  April's breathing almost stopped. Her hands clinched. It was from anxiety, but Rottermund thought it pain. The effect added to the realism of her acting.

  He shook a mint from the package. April caught her breath. The round disk missed the edge of the glass and rolled across the floor.

  He had been so intent on watching April for any sign of movement that he had not watched the glass. April's taut breath was expelled in a sigh of disappointment.

  Rottermund made an exclamation of annoyance and shook another mint from the package. April tensed, drawing every muscle taut.

  The lifesaver-shaped chemical dropped into the beaker of water. Her fascinated eyes saw it sinking to the bottom. A thin line of tiny bubbles rose as it fell.

  Then when the water dissolved through the outer crust, the water exploded in a blinding rush of smoke. It splashed up full in the THRUSH man's face.

  April threw herself to one side as the little scientist's finger jerked the gun's trigger. The needle pellet zipped by April's cheek and smashed against the back wall. A tiny drop of a pale green liquid stained the whiteness of the partition.

  A blinding cloud of smoke was pouring from the glass. Rottermund had fallen on his back, coughing, strangling.

  April crawled toward him. She was careful not to get to her feet. The smoke was rising, partially from its own lightness and partly because it was being pulled by the room ventilator. This left a clear air space near the floor.

  Rottermund still clung to the gun with a deathly grip. April tried to jerk it from his fingers. Blinded, strangling as he tried to rid his lungs of the smoke, the little scientist tried to jerk away from her. Catching his elbow with one hand and his wrist with the other, April forced his hand back so the muzzle of the gun rested against his side. She shoved on his hand. His body jerked as the paralyzing pellet ripped into his body. His hand relaxed. She jerked the gun free and moved back quickly.

  Rottermund made one last feeble attempt to get up, but the paralyzing effect of the gun-fired injection had gone too far. He stretched out and appeared to be asleep.

  The smoke was hanging like a storm cloud on the ceiling of the room. It was being pushed closer and closer to the floor despite the pull of the ventilator.

  April crawled to the console beside the interrogator chair. She fumbled until she found the button the little German scientist had pushed to talk with Mark Slate.

  As before there was no apparent change in th
e walls of the interrogation room, but Mark could see her crouched on the floor. The heavy smoke hung low in the room. He could barely see Rottermund's stiff body.

  “April!” he cried, his voice shaking with relief.

  “Mark!” April called back.

  “Where are you? Can you see me? I can't see you. And I'm so relieved to have found you again.”

  “I don't know where I am,” he said quickly. “I seem to be in a room adjoining you, but I may be getting the effect from a TV type projection.”

  “Don't you have any idea, Mark?” April Dancer said. “Somebody is going to spot the smoke coming from this ventilator. They'll be in on me any minute. I've only a short time to get you out.”

  “Don't risk it, April,” he said. “I can't find a way out of this place. You can't find a way in. So forget me. Get away if you can.”

  Then, because Mark understood April so well, he added quickly, “you owe it to U.N.C.L.E., April. None of us is as important as the organization. “

  “Mark!” she cried in a stricken voice. “I can't go away and leave you to die here!”

  “You know what will happen if you stay and they get you in that infernal interrogation machine. Nothing can prevent you from revealing secrets that will hurt U.N.C.L.E. Which is the more important? It or me or even you?”

  April steeled herself.

  “Of course,” she said. “I'm sorry, Mark. I wish it were me instead of you. I---”

  “Doctor! Doctor? What is the trouble? The worst kind of smoke is pouring out the ventilator! Doctor, what is the matter?”

  It was an anxious voice calling through a special speaker set in the outside door.

  Mark could see April whirl about. He saw her lift the gun.

  He felt a sick upheaval in the pit of his stomach. April could probably shoot down the inquirers since she had the element of surprise on her side. But the commotion would bring out the full force of THRUSH's security guards, an insurmountable force.

  April's chances had suddenly become worse than his own and his were impossible!