The Dolls of Death Affair

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The Dolls of Death Affair Page 5

by Robert Hart Davis


  And as he ran, ducking in toward those marching green men, Solo also guessed something about the line of little green marching figures.

  He guessed they were dolls.

  “Napoleon! Watch the saucer!”

  Solo had reached the bottom of the hill. He twisted his head up, saw one of the dome ports fly back. A shiny rod poked out. The rod proved to be a conventional-sounding gun barrel which began to burp and stutter. Bullets hit the earth all around him, sending up spurts of dust. Solo dodged and twisted like a broken field runner.

  A second port sprouted a gun. Solo slammed onto his face to avoid crossfire.

  The hatchway of the saucer began to telescope upward. Confused voices sounded from inside the vehicle. At least three or four men were all shouting at once:

  “All systems at full, all systems at full! Stand by for emergency takeoff!”

  “Get the greenies back in here! Reverse their power! Get them in!”

  “No, leave them! This station’s going out of action. The demolition trucks will be along---“

  “I’m in command. I said get them in!

  All this Solo heard with half an ear. The chatter and smack of bullets into the earth kept him wiggling and squirming from side to side. He assumed Illya was dodging along right behind him.

  A slug tugged at his left leg. Solo raced into the cover of the saucer craft itself. His blackened cheeks were bathed in the pin-gold radiance which seemed to be a property of the metal hide of the strange vehicle.

  The stairs came down again. Solo ran along until he was far enough beneath the ship to be out of the line of fire. The guns stuttered to silence as Illya crawled up beside him.

  The agents lay directly underneath the immense vehicle. A few yards to Solo’s right, the last of the little green men was stumping jerkily up the stairway. The stairs began to telescope shut a second time.

  Clenching his teeth, Solo rolled to the right. He stretched out his free hand and clawed. His fingers caught the leg of the green creature. He jerked. The earth rumbled and shook. The night was filled with a noise that made Solo’s temples beat with pain.

  The green figure, oddly metal-hard against his glove, writhed back and forth, as though trying to tear itself from his grasp. The figure was trying to answer the command to return inside the saucer.

  The roaring increased. Deafened, Solo hung onto the little green thing as it began to spout smoke from its leg and arm joints. The roar was coming from overhead, from within the saucer craft.

  “It’s taking off!” Illya cried.

  Solo twisted over, goggled again.

  Without showing a single sign of a belching rocket-tube, the saucer craft rose straight up into the air. It rose so swiftly that it was no more than penny-sized in thirty seconds. All the supporting legs retracted simultaneously.

  Solo followed the saucer with blurred, dazed eyes. All at once the craft seemed to halt its ascent, hesitate in the sky and then change direction. It shot off horizontally out toward the Atlantic Ocean.

  Soon it was no more than a gleaming, flashing mote. Then it vanished in the faintly graying east.

  “Did you see that speed?” Solo breathed. Illya limped over. “Nothing moves that fast.”

  “Nothing except the very latest weapon of THRUSH,” Illya replied. “The fastest aircraft in the world.” Illya’s gloved hand flopped out to point. “What is that thing?”

  Solo lifted the little green figure he held in his right hand. Its feelers drooped. Its green-glass eyes had ceased to glow in ugly, squat face. From the carefully molded articulated hunk of metal rose curls of smoke and a rubbery electrical reek.

  Solo took one of the creature’s metal arms and broke it at the elbow joint. Strands of sorted-out wire and bits of metal fell out of the opening.

  “A mechanical doll,” he said. “In the name of sanity, what would THRUSH use---“

  “Dolls. Dolls of death!” Illya interrupted with a sudden snap of his fingers. “It’s so clever, yet so completely logical. That cab driver fellow saw these things. What did he assume? Exactly what he was supposed to assume.”

  “He thought they were monsters from space, the pilots of the UFO. When actually the real pilots were---“

  “Our clever friends from THRUSH. Napoleon, I will wager that all those people who have seen extra-terrestrials in connection with saucer stories in the past have seen nothing more than mechanical dolls like this.

  “How easy for THRUSH to manufacture creatures of any shape and size, in case any of its inevitable ground tests were accidentally glimpsed by outsiders. What a perfect way to conduct a testing program and obscure its real nature!”

  For a long moment there was silence. A night bird cried forlornly in the distance. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents lifted their heads, stared into the pale sky stretching star-spattered to the east. In Napoleon Solo’s brain a tiny pinpoint image of the escaping saucer-craft burned bright.

  In the past the U.N.C.L.E. organization had faced the threat of awesome new techniques and devices of warfare spawned by THRUSH. But Solo couldn’t remember a single one of them which represented a threat of the magnitude posed by the disc-shaped air vehicle with its incredible speed.

  What if THRUSH mounted an entire armada of the craft? They could outdistance and outmaneuver even the swiftest of the world’s supersonic air forces. And that might be enough to tip the balance at last in favor of the fanatic supra-nation. That might be enough to bring the hour all of U.N.C.L.E dreaded---the hour in which THRUSH, finally confident of its omnipotence, struck at the whole world.

  Illya Kuryakin wiped his face with his sleeve. The fabric came away soot-stained. “I would think, Napoleon, that before we report back to Mr. Waverly, we should investigate further.” Grimly Illya pointed straight down at the earth.

  Nodding, Solo dropped to his knees. He dug with his fingers, uprooting living grass and weeds planted in perfectly authentic soil. At the depth of six inches, however, his fingers encountered the steel of the mobile doors built into the earth’s surface.

  “This must be a sort of underground hangar,” he said. “I wonder how many there are around the world.”

  “More important,” Illya said, “how do we get into this one? Just before they took off, the Thrushmen in the ship shouted something to the effect that this station was being abandoned.”

  “I wish we knew why.” Solo stood up. “And I wish we knew what had happened to Sabrina and the hackie. This could all tie in with Mr. Waverly’s information about THRUSH’s peculiar inactivity around the world. Maybe the troops are being pulled back---the saucers too---for a briefing before the big strike. But where are they being pulled to?”

  Solo’s eyes stood out ghastly-hollow in his soot-smeared face. “And how much time have we got?”

  “Not enough time for our immediate problem. The saucer crew said something about demolition trucks coming. Very likely there’s no life underground.”

  “Let’s find out,” Solo aid.

  For the next twenty minutes, Solo and Illya dug down to the concealed doors in several locations. The steel was solid. Then Illya gave a low yell:

  “Here’s a seam where the doors meet.”

  Solo rushed to kneel beside him. Illya scooped out a bowl-shaped hole in the earth. He took a small rodlike flash unit from a concealed pocket, let it shine down into the hole. Sure enough, the meeting point of the two doors was clearly evident. But the agents couldn’t even get a finger-hold between the panels.

  Frustrated, Napoleon Solo stood up. He peeled off his gloves and rubbed a bruised knuckle.

  “There’s got to be an entrance somewhere,” he growled. “If we don’t find it---“

  Illya Kuryakin clutched his arm. “Napoleon. Listen.”

  Through the misty gray air of pre-dawn a low rumbling reached their ears. It drifted over the hill separating them from the country road.

  “Trucks,” Solo whispered. “At least three of them.”

  He whipped his head around. Bec
ause it was near dawn, a few details of their surroundings stood out in gray-etched starkness. Across the little valley on a line with the clump of shrubs where they’d hidden most of the night, a stand of scrawny beech trees swayed in the morning wind.

  “Let’s go up there,” Solo said. “We can get out of sight and let our THRUSH friends show us the doors to the underground.”

  Turning, he bolted in the direction of the trees. Illya was right behind.

  They made it with only a heartbeat’s time to spare. Illya dropped down beside Solo behind the trees at the top of a rise as white light washed out over the little valley from the far side. Engines suddenly roared.

  Three unmarked vehicles, gray-painted, ground to a halt at the top of the hill. They had heavy, broad-tread tires to make it possible for them to turn off the country road and cross the field.

  The six headlights blinked out. Four men hopped out of each truck. They unloaded equipment---wire, detonators, sticks of explosives. One of the Thrushmen carried a flame-thrower over his shoulder. The dozen-man demolitions team moved down the hillside at a brisk, efficient pace, spreading out.

  Solo hardly breathed. The ghostly figures of the men stood out against the paling sky. The leader of the squad passed the mid-point of the valley floor. He crouched, lifted up a clump of weeds whose roots seemed to be planted in some sort of stainless steel cup. He reached down, twisted his arm as though turning a switch.

  To his right a trap door sprang back. Golden-pink light flooded up from below. The squad leader motioned. The first of his men climbed down through the trap onto what appeared to be a metal ladder. The other demolitions men followed in turn.

  “It appears.” Said Illya, “That getting inside is just a matter of knowing where to find the proverbial needle in the hayfield.”

  “Stack.”

  Solo felt better now, his nerves keying up for the action to come. He took a firm grip on the butt of his long-muzzled pistol. Then he adjusted the calibrations on the cylindrical baffle at the tip of the muzzle.

  “Tranquilizing darts ought to do the job,” he said.

  Illya Kuryakin adjusted his weapon to fire the same charge. Solo said: “Shall we take a look downstairs before the boys wreck everything?”

  “Excellent thought.”

  Illya and Solo stood up. Solo gave a quick nod. They broke from the cover of the beeches, plunging at a dead run down the hillside just as the last of the demolitions men clambered down the ladder into the underground.

  In swift, long strides the U.N.C.L.E. agents pounded toward the trap door. But luck was against them.

  Running in the half-light, Illya failed to see a gnarled, exposed root. His toe caught it. Flailing his arms, he spilled forward onto his chest. The impact knocked a loud, involuntary exclamation out of him.

  Solo pulled up short. Illya jumped up again. The echo of his accidental shout rang in the silence. Solo remained frozen, waiting to see whether anyone had heard.

  A shadow flickered in the trap door opening. Solo and Illya hit the dirt as a head popped up, peered around.

  There were not enough concealing weeds to hide the agents from the man looking straight across level ground. The THRUSH man saw them.

  “Up here!” the man bawled down to his companions. “Spies!”

  Clinging to the iron ladder, the man whipped his gun hand up. His automatic pistol began to stutter. Streaks of fire chewed the gray morning. Solo and Illya rolled to the right and left as bullets ripped the earth between them.

  Coming up on his stomach after the frantic roll, Solo fired twice. The man on the ladder slapped his cheek. His automatic pistol fell down into the opening. From below, someone cursed, evidently banged on the head by the falling weapon.

  The Thrushman on the ladder slumped forward, digging his drugged fingers into the ground. He couldn’t hold onto the crumbling earth. He disappeared, falling.

  More shouting and cursing from below. Suddenly another Thrushman appeared on the ladder, pointing the circular end of a metal cone at the U.N.C.L.E. agents.

  Solo lurched to his feet, letting out a yell of warning: Flame thrower---!”

  With a thunderous whoosh, fire gouted from the metal cone, a licking, sizzling, tongue of fire that almost reached Solo. He felt the intense heat as he dodged wildly aside.

  “Behind us!”

  That was Illya Kuryakin. His voice counterpointed the roar and crackle of the fire from the flame thrower. Its operator had clambered up out of the trap door, was advancing now behind the fiery gush of burning napalm. As though he were using a garden hose, the Thrushman moved the fire from left to right and back again, trying to catch Solo in the swathe.

  The little valley was lit up like some infernal stage-setting, crawling with the glare of firelight. Solo responded to Illya’s cry, spun around. Another trap door had sprung open in the hillside behind them.

  A THRUSH man had come up that way, unlimbered a machine-gun, was balancing the tripod on the earth. The machine-gunner had Solo in his sights.

  Solo fired a tranquilizing dart, missed. Behind him he felt the ferocious heat from the advancing spurt of the flame thrower. The machine-gun belched. Solo lunged to the right, realized he was running into the lashing tongue of fire, hurled himself back the other way.

  Meantime Illya had flattened on the ground again. With two rapid shots he nicked the gunner’s neck with the dart. The operator pitched backwards through the trap door. The gun stuttered into silence.

  Napoleon Solo ran like a trapped animal, first to the right, then to the left. The hellish tongue of flame followed, crackling and crisping the earth behind him.

  Solo’s lungs began to hurt. He slipped. The squirt of fire kissed the heel of his left boot. His whole leg felt scorched as he leaped away from the wash of fire.

  Stumbling backwards, he stamped his heel on the earth again and again to put out the flames that were blackening the leather boot. He lost his balance. He pitched over, slammed down hard with the wind knocked out of him.

  Gasping, Solo struggled up on his elbows. Not three feet in front of him, a third trap door opened with a bang. Another THRUSH agent poked his head up.

  The man spied Solo’s sweaty, sooty face directly ahead, grinned savagely as he pulled himself up off the ladder.

  “Got one of them,” the man yelled. “Hold the fire back! I said pull the flame thrower back! We want to see who they are---“

  Solo heard an intense crackling and roaring. The weed-grown earth all around was lit up with scarlet brilliance, The flame thrower’s spurt of hot death had almost reached him. Now it receded suddenly. The Thrushman leaped forward, stamped down hard on Solo’s wrist as he struggled to bring his pistol into firing position.

  Hobnails dug into his wrist. Solo jammed the muzzle of his pistol against the calf of the THRUSH agent. The agent was fast on his feet. He leaped aside. This released the pressure on Solo’s wrist the instant he fired. The tranquilizing dart missed. Before he could fire another, he was blasted in the side of the head by a murderous kick.

  The blow lifted Solo half off the ground, knocked him over on his back. His eyes blurred. Come on! He thought, trying to lash himself into action. Just because it’s six to one is no reason to fold up.

  The Thrushman moved in again, rather cautiously now. Solo fought back dizziness, brought his shaking gun-hand up, pointed the long muzzle into the Thrushman’s face.

  The pain of Solo’s skull blew up with pain.

  Brilliant lights danced behind his eyes like fireworks. He rolled over onto his belly, dropped the pistol, and seized the left leg of the Thrushman who’d come up from behind to smash him across the head with the butt of his gun.

  But Solo’s fingers seemed to be made of gelatin dessert. He couldn’t hold on. The Thrushman’s harsh laughter grated as he shook off Solo’s grip the way someone would shoo away an irritating but harmless puppy. Then the second Thrushman booted Solo again, this time in the rib-cage. Groaning, Napoleon Solo flopped out on his
back.

  Visible as nightmarishly elongated figures, the two Thrushmen met and faced one another across Solo’s sprawled body. Against a crackle of burning weeds and a reek of scorched earth, Solo heard the first one say:

  “Look at that outfit. He’s dressed for night work. This isn’t some hayseed out goggling at the funny lights in his pasture.”

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Take him. They’ll want to interrogate him. Where’s the other one?”

  “I don’t know. I thought they had him cornered up by those beech trees. Yes, look. They’re going into the trees after him.”

  “All right. Situation under control. Send the rest of the men back to setting the charges. It’s almost dawn. I’ll take this one to the truck.”

  Struggling, Solo fought against the big, hard hands of the Thrushman who lifted him, dumped him across his shoulder and began to trot up the hillside.

  Solo thought he was fighting, battering at the man who carried him. Then he realized that his hands were only twitching feebly. All the strength had been kicked out of him.

  He needed to stay awake. Needed to fight, get away, in case Illya Kuryakin didn’t make it.

  Where was Illya?

  As if in answer, gunshots crackled from the beech trees.

  His mind was darkening. Like a meal sack, he was carried past one of the trucks by the big Thrushman. The sense of failure was like gall in Solo’s mouth. He had a last, wildly distorted view of the little valley. Thrushmen were disappearing down the trap doors again, vanishing into the wash of golden-pink light from below the ground. Patches of weed and turf sparked and smoldered in the aftermath of the flame thrower. Gunfire crackled again.

  The Thrushman levered open a rear door of the truck. He dumped Solo inside. Solo’s head hit metal flooring, hard. He lay for long minutes, just on the edge of unconsciousness. Like dull thunder came a muffled explosion.

  Another.

  Another.

  The last thought that drifted into his mind was, They’ve wiped out the installation.

 

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