A winch had raised Illya so that his feet were a good yard above its floor.
Mei was similarly chained, dangling by her wrists beside him. The THRUSH guards had completed hanging up their prisoners some ten minutes earlier. They had vanished through an oval door in the wall. Illya noticed that the door had thick gasketing all around it. A very tight seal on the chamber boded no good.
A faint electronic hum filled the chamber. Illya twisted his head too suddenly. The effort put additional strain on his arms. The manacles cut into his wrists and he swayed uncontrollably. He reminded himself not to indulge in that sort of violent maneuver again.
"Greetings, conspirators," said the voice of Dr. Dargon. It was a voice with a somewhat crazed cackle in it. Dr. Dargon was peering at them from behind a thick window in the curved wall. The electronic hum had been the sound of the motor which rolled back the panel covering the window.
Beside Dargon, in some sort of control booth, stood Major Otako. His S-scar shone like a white worm on his cheek. Illya made out two technicians huddled over consoles where small lights flickered in sequence.
"Major Otako suggested that we give you a first-hand taste of our storm apparatus," Dargon said.
"If it's all the same to you -" Illya began.
Filtered through amplifiers, Dargon's voice rasped: "Unfortunately it is not."
"Well, Napoleon Solo got away, and he'll cook your Cantonese hash for you, I promise!" Illya shouted. "What happens to us is of no importance."
"Why must you hurt us?" Mei said. The blood had drained from her face. "Why can't you simply kill us? What can you want from us at this point?"
Dr. Dargon sucked his tooth noisily. The sound carried over the amplifiers. His pig eyes loomed through the double thickness of his spectacles and the control booth glass.
"Why, my dear child, all we want from you is a simple thing." Dr. Dargon pressed his nose against the glass. "We want to hear you say - as the Americans have it - uncle!"
This convulsed Major Otako. Dr. Dargon's face beaded with perspiration. The THRUSH scientist obviously enjoyed torturing people. To one of the technicians he exclaimed:
"Shall we demonstrate our weather control chamber? Perhaps some winds to begin with?"
A ring of concealed panels up near the ceiling sprang open. Gusts of air whipped into the chamber. Illya began to twist and sway as the winds gripped him.
The chain linking his wrists to the ceiling creaked and revolved. Illya was twisted one way until the chain could twist no more. Then the chain unwound. Illya spun back the opposite way. To this wild motion was added the back and forth thrust of huge air currents which alternately caught him from two directions.
Over the keening sound of the mechanized wind came Mei's whimper of pain. Then Dargon's voice again:
"In this chamber, Mr. Kuryakin, we first achieved our breakthrough. We created artificial weather conditions. Of course this room is primitive. This antiquated installation is ideal for our present purpose, however." Dargon clapped his hands. "Major, our guests are not suitably impressed. Shall we generate a bigger storm?"
Major Otako smiled viciously. "Oh, Dargon, let's not be pikers. Typhoon velocity winds."
"Typhoon velocity it is!"
The incredible burst of wind which poured into the chamber made Illya swing wildly at the end of the chain. Each swing brought fresh shocks of pain to his shoulders, his arms, and soon his whole body. The winds veered direction without warning. This increased the sudden, savage pull. Mei began to cry again. Her tears were whipped away by the wind's force.
Illya's mind boggled at the infernal cacophony beating on his ears. Somehow, though, Dr. Dargon's amplified cackle penetrated it:
"For dessert, let us try a sampling of Sahara heat."
To the wind was suddenly added boiling temperature. Perspiration rivered down Illya's face. He wanted to shout aloud in pain. He would not give Dragon and Otako the satisfaction.
He shut his eyes.
The heat was rising well into the one hundred and twenties. Illya felt as though he were being slammed back and forth by a killer sirocco. His arms vibrated with agony. Even his toes had begun to ache. Sweat plastered him. He felt himself growing faint –
With an abrupt jerk his body stilled at the end of the chain. The wind died. The heat diminished. Dimly he heard Dargon say, "The weak little fool has passed out."
Painfully Illya turned his head. He was glad to see Mei's head slumped on her breast. Unconsciousness was the best narcotic for this sort of punishment.
Dr. Dargon conferred with Major Otako. He seemed to agree with the major's whispered suggestion. A door inside the control booth opened, flooding it momentarily with light.
The technicians and a chuckling Otako departed.
Dr. Dargon removed a ring of keys from the pocket of his smock. He jingled them derisively at Illya hanging there and panting.
"Only a temporary rest, only temporary. We'll lock up until the girl recovers. We have a great many thrilling experiences in store for you. These were simply samples. I can see you didn't care for them. Well, it's a pity, because we'll be back. Of course you won't know how soon. Ten minutes? Two hours?" Dr. Dargon jangled the keys. "You can agonize over how soon we'll begin again. That, too, is part of the sport. Pleasant worries, Mr. Kuryakin!"
The amplifier coughed and went out. Dargon left the control booth.
"Napoleon," Illya said to the emptiness, "I hope you're grateful."
There was a faint clink of the chain as Illya accidentally moved and set himself swinging again. His arms felt hot and swollen. For the first time, he groaned in agony.
Time became unreal. Fear became the true reality. Illya tried not to dwell on the very thought which Dargon had planted. It was impossible.
The solitude and pain created dread. The dread induced a kind of reverse anticipation. Illya found himself hanging stone-still and staring at the heavily gasketed door, wondering, how soon will it open? How soon will the booth be occupied again? How soon? How soon?
Three
His head jerked up. He glanced around the egg-shaped room. The lights had been lowered. The chamber had a twilight dimness. It felt like the middle of the night.
Illya's arms were totally numb. He had feeling from his waist down, but precious little. He realized that he must have passed out for a time. Cautiously he turned his head. The small movement started him swinging. His arms throbbed and ached.
Mei's eyes were open. She stared at him dully, too tortured to speak.
"I think it's night," Illya croaked. "I think they're leaving us alone."
"Until the morning," the girl breathed through puffy lips.
"Napoleon will reach Hong Kong. He'll do something to help us."
"No one can help us. At least I shall die with - a brave friend."
The oval door clanged back. Dr. Dargon stepped over the sill. He carried a pistol in one hand and what appeared to be a black and white glossy photograph in the other.
Dargon approached and peered up at them. "Ah, you're awake. It is late, and other matters prevented us from returning our attentions to you this evening. However, I felt you must receive this vital news. It is my pleasure to inform you that your friend Solo has run out of rope. He is dead."
Illya's heart missed one pumping beat. "You're lying."
Dargon shrugged. "Well, for all practical purposes he is dead. Very likely General Weng has already attended to it. Solo's assault on the plane failed. Here, see for yourself. This picture was just transmitted from the electrophoto unit in the aircraft."
Horrified, Illya recognized the subject of the photo. Napoleon Solo lay unconscious on a carpet. A rifle had fallen at his side. Background details suggested the interior of an airplane. Illya squinted to see the photo better. It was untouched. Solo's face looked chalky, lifeless.
Dargon said: "I felt these tidings would help guarantee cheerful thoughts until we return to visit with you again. I am sure - aargh!"
The sudden slam of Illya's feet against the sides of Dargon's neck made the doctor squeal. In one burst of ebbing strength, Illya had swung forward and smacked his heels together. His feet held the scrawny flesh above Dargon's collar in a tight grip. Adrenalin pumping into Illya's body gave him the tiny extra measure of strength he needed.
Dargon struggled feebly and dropped his gun. It clattered away.
"The keys," Illya panted. "Throw the keys up toward my hands or I'll break your neck."
Dargon peered into Illya's face. What he saw there, coupled with his own innate cowardice, convinced him that temporary cooperation was the wisest course. He gulped in genuine terror.
Illya used every bit of his considerable strength to maintain the pressure on Dargon's neck. He said through tightly-locked teeth, "If you make a single move in the direction of that gun, I will cut off your circulation and kill you with the pressure of my foot. U.N.C.L.E trains its people in neurophysiology. My right heel is resting in a potentially fatal spot. You may be able to jerk away, but you will be dead by the time you reach your gun. Now throw the keys at my hands, and very carefully. You have only one chance.
I hope your aim is accurate."
Dargon's eyes grew saucer-like. "It's a - a cheap, filthy bluff."
"Then you have nothing to lose by submitting your conviction to the scientific method. Shall we run a little test, Doctor?"
He did no know how much longer he could maintain his pressure. But Dargon gave in. He clawed the keys from his smock. He licked his lips and threw them high.
Illya released Dargon's neck. The doctor had aimed to miss, as Illya knew he would. Illya
wrenched his body forward in a tremendous tumbler's kick-out. That way he managed to bring his hands into a position to catch the keys as Dargon dove for the gun on the floor.
Illya had to work by feel, twisting one key after another into the lock mechanism which he had previously located in the six-inch bar between the manacles. Dargon got hold of the gun. He whirled. Illya found the right key. The manacles snapped open. He dropped and hit the floor as Dargon's shot thundered.
Like a cat Illya raced for the scientist as Dargon tried to level the gun for another shot. His hand trembled like a wind-lashed bough.
"Help, help!" Dargon piped in ludicrously reedy tone. Then Illya chopped him brutally in the throat. Dargon collapsed.
"The shot!" Mei exclaimed. "The guards will come -"
"Possibly not," Illya breathed. "Unless I am wrong, a test chamber like this is amply insulated. Wait here."
He snatched the keys and ran out through the oval door. In moments, he had entered the control booth from an empty corridor. He located and activated the winch. Mei was soon on the floor, covered with several yards of chain. More was coming down on top of her every second as Illya sprinted back in and unlocked her. His eyes were grim.
"We must assume Napoleon is dead, Mei. Therefore this foul lump -" He prodded the just-awakening Dargon with the pistol. "- is going to be our tour escort. He is going to show us how to get out of here, and guide us to Hong Kong."
On hands and knees the stupefied, terrified Dargon stared up into the muzzle of Illya's gun.
Illya dragged Dargon to his feet. "Show us the scenic exit route. And quickly!"
Four
Napoleon Solo wakened with a buzzing skull and a mouth which tasted like a mixture of camphor oil and woolen athletic socks.
Above him soared a pastel ceiling. He turned his head. A rich wine-colored sea of nylon carpeting stretched away to a pair of white doors with gold hardware. Dotted here and there like islands upon the carpet sea were assorted pieces of furniture in the style Solo characterized as Assembly Line Modern. White, and upholstered in plastic.
Cautiously Solo stood up. In a couple of minutes the Oriental gong players inside his temples suspended their music.
The floor tilted into place and held steady.
Solo was in a luxurious hotel room. Tall French doors stood open on a small marble terrace. Past the balustrade he glimpsed high peaks with bright buildings crowding their shoulders. He saw water - a harbor.
A ferryboat chugged toward the distant, misty mainland. Junks and sampans clogged the water in the nearer distance. From out of sight below the balcony, a city's sing-song cacophony rose.
"Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Solo," boomed a familiar voice.
Spinning round, Solo gaped. Beside an open door which he had not noticed stood a Eurasian girl with shoulder-length black hair. Her eyes were pansy-colored. She did not have the typical, slender build of the Oriental woman. She was a few inches taller than Solo himself.
The girl wore a white, shimmering blouse, voluptuously tight black riding trousers and highly polished black boots. Her figure was gorgeous. Her eyes and her pistol weren't.
"Is someone using you for a dummy?" Solo said. "I heard General Weng."
The general's polished head poked around the edge of the open doorway where the girl with the slanted eyes had taken up her stance. "My little charade," Weng said in his asthmatic wheeze. "I am here, in the flesh, so to speak." He appeared, hands pressed to paunch and a jaunty white woven tropical hat freshly jammed onto his skull. "Are you surprised to find yourself alive in my suite in Hong Kong?"
"That's a considerable understatement." Solo had been outfitted in slacks, a fresh white shirt, shoes, socks and other linen, all of his size. In his shirt's breast pocket he felt an oblong thing, like an old friend. He reached up to pull it out.
"Do not raise your hand," said the girl with a charming smile, "or I will shoot you."
"You don't have to enjoy your work so much. I only wanted a cigarette."
"It will be permissible for him to smoke," Weng nodded. "Our agents searched him thoroughly when the plane landed. He has no weapons. A brilliant idea my pilot had, eh, Solo? Doping us both in order to capture you? And captured you are. May I present Miss Rachel Fong of our Hong Kong apparatus? Miss Fong is only twenty-two, but she has held the regional THRUSH medal for superior marksmanship for the past three years. I trust that will be sufficient warning."
The girl's ripe smile widened. At first, her pansy-colored eyes had seemed to hold a smoky, romantic warmth. Now Solo decided with a shiver that he had confused sensuality for good clean sadism.
Carefully he reached into his shirt pocket. He drew out the cigarette case and flicked the top open. After he had lit up, he replaced the case.
He did not yet know how he would capitalize on the error of the THRUSH searchers who had overlooked his pocket communicator. Probably there had been no time for an electronic scan of his person. The communicator did hold several cigarettes.
Unfortunately, the unwavering presence of Miss Rachel Fong's mammoth snout-nosed pistol gave him no immediate opportunity to use the communicator. So he left it in his shirt as his ace. He needed one if he was to play this game out, not only for Mr. Waverly, but for the sake of Illya, and Ah Lan and Mei. He wondered how they had died.
General Weng gestured to the open French doors. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"
"I suppose you'll do your best to change it," Solo said.
Weng's paunch heaved once or twice by way of appreciation. "You really are most entertaining, Mr. Solo. As a matter of fact I am on my way to do just that. The storm generating apparatus is stowed in my limousine." Weng examined his platinum watch. "The car is at the curb now, I believe. This hotel should be relatively safe. A pity we can't say the same for the Hong Kong International. Good day, Mr. Solo. Enjoy your balcony seat overlooking the display of Mother Nature at her most capricious. About an hour and we should be positioned for a bit of typhoon. Watch the sky."
General Weng waddled toward the door. Solo said, "Why can't you work from here?"
"We follow the recommendations of Dr. Dargon and our other scientists as to optimum location."
"Where is your optimum location, General?"
"Ah, Mr. Solo, even though I am positive that you can do THRUSH no harm while Miss
Fong attends you, it would be unwise, and a breach of policy, for me to reveal the information. Even Miss Fong does not know. As soon as my task is finished I shall return here and we shall fly back to Tibet together. There you will be most permanently decommissioned -"
Weng chuckled at his little euphemism "- as an agent of U.N.C.L.E. I have already decided to have motion pictures shot of the entire proceedings. They will be forwarded anonymously to your superiors, for whatever amusement they may provide."
With a jaunty wave General Weng marched out. Miss Fong latched the door behind him. Solo waited.
The Eurasian girl leaned against the gold-flecked panel and scraped her shoulder blades on the wood in a slow, feline way. Solo cocked a mental eyebrow. Maybe Miss Rachel Fong was not so loyal as General Weng imagined.
The World's End Affair Page 7