Napoleon shook his head. "At the moment I'm not sure of anything. But since Illya and Armden were pretty obviously drugged with something that made them obey orders, there is a possibility that something similar is being used wholesale in Midford."
Curtis sat on the edge of his desk, lost in thought for a full minute. Optimism gradually returned, and he looked up. "The thing to do is work out a new questionnaire. If the drug is being used on everyone in town we should be able to discover how it's administered. There should be some noticeable side effects."
Napoleon laughed. "You have a way of getting to the heart of the matter," he said. "Mr. Waverly didn't mention side effects that would enable anyone to detect a drug-taker immediately. Once they've voiced anti-U.N.C.L.E. sentiments they're fairly easy. The administration of the drug bothers me; I haven't noticed anyone rushing about madly stabbing people with a hypodermic, or even sprinkling a mysterious powder in everyone's food."
"Maybe the anti-U.N.C.L.E. feeling is the side effect," Rita suggested. "Maybe the purpose of the drug is some thing else altogether."
"It would be a pretty weird side effect," Napoleon answered. "It's hard enough trying to figure out things on the assumption that this is the desired result, with out you trying to confuse matters."
"She isn't trying to confuse matters," Curtis said. "She does quite well in that line without trying. According to your story, however, Dr. Armden and your friend Illya acted like zombies after being given the drug yesterday. But Armden and Bennett and the others weren't reacting in that manner when the anti-U.N.C.L.E. feelings were being voiced."
"That's one of the problems," Napoleon admitted, "If it's the same drug, the zombie-state doesn't last."
"Maybe they're conditioned while under the influence of the drug and the conditioning sticks after the drug wears off," Rita offered.
"Doubtful," Napoleon said. "Once the effects of the drug wore off, Armden was perfectly rational on the trip. Besides, the zombie-state lasts at least twenty- four hours. Have you noticed large numbers of glassy-eyed citizenry during the past few months?"
"Maybe they were taken away while the drug was administered," Rita said, unwilling to abandon her best idea.
"You might add a question about trips to our next survey," Napoleon said, "but I doubt if it will prove anything. Another problem is the non-scientists on the list. I can see Thrush trying to brainwash the Falco staff or the instructors here at the university. But janitors and gas station attendants? No."
"To divert suspicion!" Rita exclaimed.
"You don't give up easily, do you?" Napoleon asked. "Well, it's worth looking into; at this point almost any thing is worth looking into. Assuming that it really is a drug, the major problem is to find out how it's administered."
"How did Illya get his?" Rita asked.
"Probably in his coffee."
"There you are! Easiest thing in the world to drop a pill in someone's coffee, then say 'Come with me' an that's it." She leaned back triumphantly.
"Except that this sort of thing would be noticed, eventually," Napoleon pointed out. "Remember, this is being used on an entire community."
"The water supply," Curtis suggested. "No, Eleazar got it, and he never touches drinking water - or any other kind, if he can help it."
"How about restaurants?" Rita asked. "There aren't many eating places in town; find out which one is patronized by the victims."
Napoleon frowned thoughtfully. "That gives me an idea. Could you drop the survey for a day and put your students on another job?"
"Easiest thing in the world; as long as it gets them out of class, they won't care. What do you have in mind?"
"Have your students collect samples of water, food, drinks, everything they can lay their hands on. I'll need samples, carefully labeled, from all over town. Label should include nature of sample, place collected, and if possible the name of the distributor, trucking company or whatever. I'll send them to New York and have them analyzed."
"I see," Curtis said. "Very well, I'll put them on the job tomorrow. Rita, could you get instruction sheets mimeographed?"
The girl nodded. "And what will you be doing while everyone else is doing your work?" she asked Napoleon.
"Studying effective leadership," he replied. "In addition, I'll do some work on Professor Curtis' survey and see if I can work out a pattern. Then I'd like a file of back issues of the local newspaper, and if possible a history of Midford. Would the university library have those?"
"Certainly," Curtis said. "Rita, show him the library. You can do your research right there; I'll be along after my next class. I'll bring a bottle of my new rose hip extract; I just made the first batch of the season."
A few students gave Napoleon and Rita curious stares as they walked across the campus, and Rita laughed delightedly. "I'll have something to crow over, now," she explained. "Being escorted by a real live spy, no less. Wait until I get a chance to tell this to Flavia!"
Napoleon looked at her inquiringly, and she explained. "My best friend, locally: Flavia Whateley. She lives in this moldering mansion on the other side of town, and she has all these stories about the odd sort of people her father associates with. But I'll bet she's never seen a real secret agent!"
Napoleon smiled, then stiffened slightly. "Don't make your interest obvious, but take a look at the man in the gray suit walking on the opposite side of the street and see if you know him."
Rita looked. "Yes, I know him. He's Jules Adams, president of one of the local finance companies. Why?"
"Because the last time I saw him, he was whipping up the mob at the Fort Wayne airport. In a way, it's a relief; if the anti-U.N.C.L.E. feeling is restricted to Midford it will be easier to combat than if it is more widespread. Of course, his being in the mob could be coincidence, but I doubt it. I thought it formed and broke up much too rapidly for it to be genuine. Thrush harassment is something we're used to."
"It also means," Rita commented, "that Thrush is attempting to divert suspicion from Midford - and probably from other things as well," she added, smugly.
Chapter 8
"A Powerful Figure Of Evil Indeed"
NAPOLEON FOUND HIMSELF becoming fascinated with some of the folklore of Midford. Unfortunately, the history had been written on the occasion of the town's centennial in 1937, and had never been updated.
Some of the more interesting historical characters seemed to belong to the Whateley family. Napoleon wondered if Rita's friend was a relative. According to the history, one Jabez Whateley, together with his wife and son, had migrated to Midford from Salem, Massachusetts just after the turn of the century. He had built a duplicate of the original Whateley mansion; a somewhat bizarre structure, according to the description given. Apparently the elder Whateley's refusal to become neighborly had roused the resentment of local citizens; before long there were rumors, faithfully set down in the history, that the Whateleys were devil-worshippers and worse. Midford residents hurrying past the Whateley house after dark had reported strange sights and sounds. The death or disappearance of any farm animal for miles around was instantly attributed to Jabez Whateley's evil influence.
Neighborhood fear had culminated one night when the daughter of Whateley's nearest neighbor failed to show up for supper. A mob had formed, ready to storm the Whateley mansion, but it had been broken up by the prompt and firm action of the sheriff and a hastily assembled lot of deputies. The next day the distraught parents had received a telephone call from the missing girl, announcing that she had eloped with the minister's son. Predictably, the reaction of the local populace was a baffled rage at being balked. Whateley's reputation remained sinister until he died, whereupon his son, Jabez Junior, had inherited the hostility along with the mansion.
Napoleon considered the story thoughtfully before delving into the file of newspapers. Active dislike of strangers in Midford was evidently an ancient and honorable tradition. Could Thrush have somehow persuaded Midford residents that U.N.C.L.E. was connected
with the iniquitous Whateley family? It might be wise to interview the current Jabez Whateley.
The file of newspapers proved little more help than the history. Napoleon was amused to note that the paper, after beginning life as The Midford Press, had changed its title to The Midford Paper. "Everyone," the editor explained, calls it 'the Midford paper,' so why not name it that?"
The only really interesting fact Napoleon discovered was that Jabez Whateley had recently built a small television station to serve Midford and the surrounding area. The area in question was one of freak reception in which only the most elaborate antenna array could pick up the network-affiliated stations in South Bend, Fort Wayne, and Indianapolis. Whateley's transmitter in Bippus was received with loud public acclaim. Residents may not have become fully reconciled to Whateley, but they apparently refrained from making their feelings public. Snide comments in the newspaper had ceased after station WHPL-TV went on the air.
Napoleon looked up from the desk as the office door opened and Sascha Curtis staggered in with a huge cardboard box in his arms. He put the box down and dropped onto a convenient couch.
"Some of your samples," he explained. "There are ten more like it in my classroom; they're beginning to get in the way when I conduct classes."
Napoleon frowned. "You're sure you have the correct definition of sample? We aren't stocking up against atomic attack, you know."
Curtis reached into the box and pulled out a jar of strawberry preserves. "We could hardly ask the proprietor to spread some on a cracker for us. Do you have any idea of the variety of goods stocked by the average grocery store? We haven't even started on the restaurants."
"Mr. Waverly isn't going to be at all happy with the cost of flying this stuff to New York. Couldn't you extract a small sample from each can or jar and put it in a collecting bottle or test tube or something?"
"We need all those for our samples from the restaurants, vending machines, water supply, and so on. Even if we could get more test tubes and collecting bottles, they aren't the cheapest products in the world. Incidentally, I assume I'll be reimbursed for the cost of all this stuff?"
Napoleon winced. "Yes, we'll pay you for them, if the cost comes out of my salary - and it might. Could I further impose on you to the extent of borrowing a car to get all this stuff to the airport when it's packed?"
Before Curtis could answer, Napoleon's communicator warbled from his coat pocket. "Solo here," he said.
"Ah, Mr. Solo," said Waverly. "Mr. Kuryakin will be back with you shortly. He seems fully recovered from the drug. We've arranged for him to arrive in Fort Wayne on the 9 flight this evening. Dr. Armden has been a little slower to recover, but he's improving. He and his wife are being suitably guarded, of course."
"Could you also make arrangements to have ten…" Napoleon paused as Curtis shook his head violently and held up three fingers. "Thirteen?" Curtis nodded. "Thirteen cases of food and drink samples flown to New York?"
"Thirteen eases, Mr. Solo? You said you were obtaining samples, not..."
"Not storing up against atomic attack," Napoleon finished for him. "I know, sir, but do you realize the variety of goods stocked by the average grocery store? We had to be thorough."
"Of course, Mr. Solo, but thirteen cases!"
"Also," Napoleon added, "there is the matter of reimbursing Professor Curtis for his purchase of the sample and the various test tubes and collecting bottles used to transport some of them."
Mr. Waverly sighed. "I suppose it can't be helped. The battle against the forces of evil must never flag lack of finances. Heaven knows I've had sufficient practice in justifying your expenditures before the Board Directors; I should be able to explain this one, too." He sounded somewhat doubtful.
"Thank you, sir. We should have the samples packed in time to take them to the airport when we meet Illya."
"Very well, Mr. Solo. I'll make the proper arrangements here." The communicator went dead.
Illya stared at the car, which towered above the others in the airport parking lot, giving him the impression that he could have driven the U.N.C.L.E. car underneath it without touching anything.
"It's a Checker," Rita explained. She climbed into the driver's seat with Napoleon on her right. Illya got into the back and wandered about for a short time before sitting down.
"Where's the meter?" he inquired.
"You're too late," Napoleon told him. "I said the same thing the first time I rode in it."
"I know agents start to think alike when they've been together long enough," Illya complained. "But I had hoped for a better fate. Do we have time to stop at a restaurant? I didn't eat at all while I was drugged and I have some catching up to do. The meal on the plane was just an appetizer."
"If you'll wait until we get back to Midford," Napoleon said encouragingly, "Professor Curtis has prepared a delicious watercress salad."
Rita laughed as she swung the car onto the highway. "I know a good place here; I guess I can ignore my diet for once."
A few minutes later, the three were seated at a well-lit table and Napoleon was filling Illya in on his recent activity.
"I want to talk to Whateley," he concluded. "Logically, there's no connection between the Whateley family and U.N.C.L.E. But sometimes logical explanations fail to satisfy me."
Rita had listened with interest; now she spoke. "I can take you to see Jabez; didn't know you were interested. He's an odd sort, but his daughter Flavia will be delighted. I've been telling her about you. I did tell you that she's a friend?"
Napoleon nodded.
"I'd planned to go out there tomorrow anyway," Rita continued. "There's a Halloween festival coming up that we're both working on; you two can come along and quiz Jabez." She laughed. "I'll be interested to know what sort of answers you get."
Illya had been quietly thoughtful since Napoleon had mentioned the Whateley television station. Now he spoke slowly. "I had time to think while I was recovering. Once the drug began to wear off my mind was clear, but I just didn't have any urge to communicate. Then before I left New York I talked with some of the communications experts in Section Four. Napoleon, what do you think of subliminal suggestions to explain all this? I couldn't think how they would be delivered, but with only one TV station in the area, it wouldn't be too hard to arrange. I'd been thinking of movies, but I don't know what percentage of the populace attends movies regularly. TV simplifies matters."
Napoleon frowned. "I thought they had proved that subliminal advertising wasn't particularly effective."
"By itself, no; but don't forget the effects of the drug. A combination of the two could explain things pretty well."
Napoleon was studying the idea when Rita reached over and tapped his arm. "If you want to meet Jabez Whateley," she informed him, "he just walked in the door." Without waiting for an answer, she began waving frantically at an erect, white-haired man wearing a black suit and an opera cape. He spotted Rita and his cadaverous features readjusted themselves into a wintry smile as he approached their table.
"Miss Berman," he said, bowing slightly. "How pleasant to see you." The voice was deep, with careful enunciation and a tone that bad a sepulchral quality. It was, Napoleon decided, an ominous voice; one which did not match the innocuous topics of conversation. Whateley answered questions about his daughter and mentioned that parts of the forthcoming Halloween pageant would be shown on his television station.
"What better way to enhance the Whateley reputation?" he said with a sinister chuckle.
Rita almost forgot to introduce the two agents. Whateley bowed formally to the men.
"I've heard of your organization," he said quietly. "A veritable bulwark against the forces of evil." The sinister chuckle came again. "Or at least, against the forces of earthly evil."
Napoleon glanced at Rita, who was busily suppressing a giggle. "I'm afraid earthly evil keeps us busy enough at present," he replied. "One thing at a time, and all that."
"I doubt that Mr. Waverly would approve
any budgetary items for the suppression of supernatural evil," Illya commented. "Though considering his penchant for insisting that all flights be made by coach, I suppose he might be willing to look into the matter of broomsticks."
"Of course, gentlemen," Whateley said. "No one believes in evil that they can't see. If it doesn't come neatly packaged and labeled, as in the case of your rival, Thrush, everyone tends to ignore it. It's very difficult to combat something that one is ignoring." He chuckled again.
Napoleon watched Whateley closely while keeping a pleasant smile on his face. "I understand your father had just the opposite problem. People believed in an evil that didn't exist, and were willing to lynch him for it."
Whateley shrugged skeletally. "People were more ready to believe in things of the spirit fifty years ago," he said. "Not to mention that father contributed heavily to his own legend; he was positively delighted at the opportunity to appear exotically evil. I'm afraid that I seem to have inherited the tendency." He swirled his cape dramatically.
Napoleon smiled understandingly.
"Of course," Whateley continued, eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agents speculatively, "there is always the possibility that the local residents were right. The old gods were not a benevolent sort. A man who could invoke their aid would be a powerful figure of evil indeed."
"Old gods?" Napoleon inquired.
"Yes, Mr. Solo. There were gods before Jehovah, and humanity did not always give even lip-service to the current ideals of brotherhood and tolerance. What does a god who has lost his worshippers do, Mr. Solo? He can no longer act, but, being immortal, he cannot die, either. He exists in a formless limbo. There are gods waiting there, Mr. Solo; beings so powerful, and so evil, that all mankind might not withstand them if they returned."
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