The Burning Air Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  SEVEN

  THE MAN IN THE DARK

  The recorder, April!” Mark called anxiously. “They'll call for a minute before they attempt to break the door down. See if you can find something in the dead man's voice that will reassure them!”

  April nodded. She shoved the gun in her jacket pocket and grabbed the compact-recorder. The touch of her finger on the hidden key sent its mechanism whirling. She listened intently to the playback, trying to find in the seconds she had something in the renegade German's voice she could rebroadcast over the door speaker.

  Outside the voices were becoming more insistent. Fearful that an accident had occurred that might endanger the entire THRUSH headquarters, she could expect them to start tearing down the door at once.

  Then April Dancer heard the faint voice of Rottermund saying to the now dead Michaels: “Wait! Give her some rest and everything will be all right!”

  Gasping with relief, April turned up the volumes as she ran back the tape a couple of feet. Holding the tiny recorder right against the door speaker, she restarted its forward movement.

  The dead man's voice cried: “Wait!”

  Before the rest could be replayed, April cut the volume so low it was inaudible over the speaker to those outside. She let the words “Give her some rest---” run past and turned the volume high so those outside could hear “Everything will be all right!”

  Then she stopped the replay, listening intently to the voices outside. She slipped the recorder back in her pocket and pulled out the gun. April Dancer stood waiting tensely, ready to shoot it out with them if she must.

  She waited for a breathless moment. Then she heard a voice outside say, “Then back to your guard posts. He must know what he is doing.”

  Another said, “Shouldn't we take a look anyway?”

  “No, we have orders never to enter this room under any circumstances unless with Rottermund's permission. Temperature controls, humidity and a dozen other things can affect that temperamental machine of his.”

  Suddenly, now that they were leaving, April decided that she didn't want them to leave after all. Quickly she reversed the tape to the word “Wait!”

  Holding the recorder back against the door speaker, she let the dead man's voice call: “Wait!”

  Then quickly reversing and replaying, she had it repeat, “Wait!”

  On the other side of the wall, Mark whispered frantically, “April, you idiot! What are you trying to do?”

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. did not reply. She whirled around and ran to the recorder in the interrogator console which was used to catch the answers of the unfortunate victims of THRUSH.

  She switched it on and then started her own compact-recorder. Then she kept backtracking her tape, selecting a word here and there in the dead man's voice. Each selected word was recorded on the other machine. Swiftly she patched together a complete sentence.

  Watching her, Mark Slate sighed. After his first protest, he said nothing. He knew too well that stubborn uplift of her jaw. April Dancer was the world's most determined young woman when she set her mind to it.

  Once April had jigsawed the new sentence together with her two recorders, it was but the work of a couple of seconds to re-tape the few words on her own compact-recorder.

  “Okay, Mark,” she said, facing toward the man she could not see but who was watching her with almost rueful admiration. “Here's where we sink or swim.”

  “April, my dear,” he said softly, “you'll never sink. You don't know how!”

  April tossed a grin in his direction. Something about his presence, even separated as they were, gave her added strength. She had the same feeling she had often experienced before. It was that with Mark Slate as her partner it would be impossible to lose.

  It had taken scarcely two minutes to make the voice patch, but April could not be sure that the men had waited. Her lips pressed in a tight line as she held the micro-recorder by the door speaker and tripped its forward advance.

  The dead scientist's voice said, “Bring Mark Slate. I am ready for him.”

  “Okay, doctor,” one of the guards replied.

  April let her breath out in a relieved sigh. She dropped the recorder in her pocket and shifted the three-way THRUSH gun to her right hand. She moved back where she could cover the door with the weapon and waited.

  A minute passed. Two. And then three. It seemed an hour, but her anxiety for Mark Slate kept her from attempting to leave.

  Then through the speaker to his cell she heard the guards order Mark to come with them.

  “Fasten his hands,” the second guard suggested. “You know what happened the last time we tried to move this bully boy.”

  “Yeah!” the other said gloomily.

  “I can't understand how anybody who looks so much like a rock-and-roll jerk can fight like a prize fighter!”

  “Really, gentlemen,” Mark said with a touch of irony in his voice. “It is in the hair. Never get a haircut, you know. The Samson idea, of course!”

  “Put out your hands,” the guard said grimly. We'll see how tough you are with the cuffs on.”

  Then she heard a swat! It was the unmistakable sound of bone hitting flesh. Her heart leaped, but her reaction was fury rather than fear.

  “If that crazy man has started a fight and ruins everything, I'll snatch his un-barbered hair out by the roots!” she muttered grimly to herself.

  The next sound showed her it was not Mark Slate who started the trouble. She heard one of the men laugh.

  “No hard feelings,” he said with a sneer in his voice. “Just a partial payment on that lick you gave me when you tried to escape before!”

  His companion said hurriedly, “The doc wants to question him in that machine. If you beat him too badly now, it may interfere with the questioning. “

  “Yeah,” the other man replied.

  “I guess you're right. We'll be bringing him back though. I'll take care of him then!”

  “He'll be unconscious,” his companion said. “You know how that infernal machine leaves its victims.”

  The other guard snickered. “So he'll be unconscious. He'll wake up eventually, won't he? Then he can feel what I'll give him!”

  Evidently the door to Mark's cell was closed by them for the sound of their voices were cut off. April grimly faced the door and waited. Her only regret was that she did not know which one of the two made the threats to Mark. If she had to kill she wanted that brutal man to be the first.

  The minutes ticked away. When they went to the cell the wait had seemed an hour. This one seemed longer.

  The minutes continued to tick away. April shifted her position to eliminate strain and wondered if they would ever come.

  As if in answer to her question, the door speaker crackled into life.

  “Doctor?” the guard's voice said.

  “We have the prisoner Mark Slate.”

  There was a remote control switch on the interrogator console which opened the door. April had seen the dead scientist use it. However, she could not decide which button to press. None were marked. April ran quickly across the room to the door to open it by hand. This complicated her problems. It was impossible for her to open the heavy, soundproofed door by hand without exposing herself.

  She had no choice, however. Once again it was not for herself that she feared, but for Mark Slate. April Dancer expected to have to shoot quickly once she swung back the heavy door, but she had no way of knowing just how they held Mark. There was a distinct danger that a poorly aimed shot would slam into him.

  Her eyes flashed with a stubborn determination. She had made a decision. It was too late to have doubts now. There was nothing left but to follow 'Kuryakin's law.' She was ready to come out swinging.

  But the door was heavy and difficult to manage. It opened easily with the electrical switch, but was hard to handle by hand. April had to ram the gun in her jacket pocket and pull with both hands. She realized this would put her in a difficult position. Experience had
long since taught her that THRUSH did not employ the “dumb cop” type for guards. They were men who could think rapidly and move fast.

  The odds were two-to-one against her. And there was the possible problem of Mark Slate being in the way. She took a deep breath and grabbed the door handle with both hands. She jerked back with all her strength.

  The door moved. She caught just the glimpse of the two guards and their prisoner through the crack. She dropped the handle and grabbed the gun. She jerked it up and fired. The needle-thin serum pellet struck the belt buckle of the nearest guard and shattered harmlessly.

  April fired again, raising the gun barrel. There was no answering reaction. She had fired the last pellet!

  April dropped to the floor, frantically thumbing the catch on the side which switched the cartridge cylinder from pellets to bullets.

  The guard already had his gun out. His hand jerked down, leveling the barrel directly at April's head. Behind him his companion hastily stepped to the side to get in line for a shot at her himself.

  But before either could fire, Mark hunched his shoulders and rammed into the second man. The guard lurched forward, striking his companion just as the gun in his hand exploded.

  The bullet intended for April smashed into the floor inches from her head and ricocheted off the hard tile with a whine of death.

  The guard whirled around as April's bullet caught him in the chest. He hurtled back, upsetting the other guard. Before the second man could recover, Mark caught the man's fist with a savage kick. The gun flew from the THRUSH man's hand and skidded across the hall.

  The guard whirled and dived for the gun. April raised her own weapon to fire, but held it, for Mark was in the way. Slate leaped for the guard. The man whirled, kicking viciously at Mark's legs. The U.N.C.L.E. agent skirted the kick and brought his manacled hands down with a hard chop on the guard's head. The man sagged.

  “Quick, Mark!” April cried. “We've got to get out of here!”

  “Excellent idea!” the Englishman said with a wry grin at the girl. “Where's the nearest exit?”

  “Stop making jokes!” she snapped. “How do I know?”

  “If we don't do something quickly, the noise of those shots will have every guard and THRUSH man in this place playing tag with us.”

  Mark Slate was on his knees, fumbling for the key to his manacles. April darted across the corridor and grabbed the guard's gun. She turned as Mark fished out the key. She opened the lock for him. He snapped the bracelets on the unconscious guard.

  Then, to April's surprise, he grabbed the unconscious man's arm and swung him around in a fireman's carry.

  Despite the gravity of their situation, April could not resist saying, “Collecting souvenirs, Mark?”

  “I prefer to call it life insurance!” he returned. “Come on, April. The life we save may be our own!”

  Mark Slate started down the corridor in a run that was surprisingly fast for the burden he carried. April followed. She wasn't sure Mark knew what he was doing, but she was certain that he knew at least as much as she did about getting out---and what she knew was absolutely nothing.

  As they went around a corner, April heard the whine of an elevator's doors opening. She looked back, raising the gun. She didn't have to use it. The men running out of the lift were attracted by the dead man in front of the laboratory door. They did not come in the direction of the fugitives.

  She followed behind Slate. Her co-agent ran with a purpose, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

  And surprisingly, he did. He turned down a short hall and stopped, puffing in front of a closed door.

  “Push it open,” he said to April. “It isn't locked.”

  As April stepped past him to obey, he said, “And please, whatever you do, don't speak a word. They'll be able to hear you.”

  April nodded, not understanding, but having complete faith in her co-agent. She pushed open the door. Mark entered first with his burden. April followed.

  The room was flooded with light.

  It was so bright after the dark hall that April Dancer was momentarily blinded. She shut her eyes for a moment to permit the irises to adjust.

  Then when she opened them, she gasped. She found herself looking straight into the face of a man from THRUSH! Behind him were three others.

  Every one of them was staring straight at her stricken face. She took a startled step back and bumped into Mark. To her further bewilderment, her co-agent laughed quietly.

  EIGHT

  THE LONG WAY HOME

  Suddenly she felt like laughing with him, but she stifled the impulse for fear the three men staring at her might hear.

  In the first burst of surprise at seeing the men staring at her, plus the distorted vision caused by the brightly reflecting lights from the white laboratory, April had not immediately recognized where she was.

  Mark had brought her and their prisoner back to the cell where he had been imprisoned. The brilliant projection on the wall was the interior view of the interrogation room. The switch had been left on. It was like the communication between her and Mark. They could see from the cell, but the wall was blank in the laboratory. She suspected that the arrangement was set up in this manner in order to act as a war of nerves on prisoners before they were taken to the machine. They could see its effect on previous prisoners and their own resistance would be corroded.

  Behind her Mark was stuffing his handkerchief into the prisoner's mouth to prevent him from warning the others.

  Then silently the two agents from U.N.C.L.E. watched the worried guards search the laboratory and then rush out.

  “I think we're safe enough here,” Mark said. “I don't think they'll suspect we were crazy enough to run back into a prison.”

  “You may be willing to set up housekeeping and spend the rest of your days in this cell, but I'm not!” April snapped. “Let's start figuring a way to get out of here--fast!”

  Mark smiled at her. Although always exasperated at the casual way he treated the most extreme danger, she, as always, took comfort from it. It was totally impossible to get that all-is-lost feeling around a man like Mark Slate. What he felt like inside, only he knew, but outwardly he always gave the impression that every difficulty would topple with the right kind of push.

  He motioned to the guard. The THRUSH man had regained consciousness. He was sprawled back on the couch with his manacled hands behind him.

  “This gentleman knows the way out of here,” he said. “I am sure he will provide us the information for a consideration. A consideration---say---of being left in a condition of being able to keep on breathing. “

  He held out his hand. Wordlessly April passed him the extra THRUSH gun. He reached over and pulled the gag from the prisoner's mouth.

  “You have it on paralysis,” April said. “If you want to kill him, shove the slide to the last adjustment.”

  “Excellent!” Mark said lightly in a tone that did not match the cold stare of his eyes. “That is just exactly what I want to do.”

  “You---” the prisoner began defiantly.

  “Please!” Mark silenced him by sticking the gun muzzle within inches of the man's sweating face. “I know what you are going to say. Why should you show us the way out to save your life when THRUSH will kill you if you do?”

  He shoved the barrel of the gun deeper against the sweating THRUSH man's belly.

  “I'll tell you the answer to that,” Mark went on. “If you don't show us the way out, you die right now. That's the end of it and of you. But if you act sensible about this thing, you will at least last a little longer. And in that time, who knows? Anything can happen. You might even figure a lie big enough for your THRUSH superiors to swallow.”

  The guard looked back at Mark with stubborn hate in his eyes, but he swallowed hard. He knew the quality of the men from U.N.C.L.E.

  “As long as you are alive there is always hope,” Mark said. You are as close to dying right now as a man can be and still breathe!”
>
  The guard's Adam's apple bobbed again. He was sweating profusely. He looked from Mark Slate to April Dancer. He got no sympathy there. He shivered and nodded his head.

  Mark reached down and pulled the gag from the man's mouth.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “Is this THRUSH headquarters?”

  “No,” the man mouthed the word thickly through jaws that still ached from the gag.

  “What is this place?”

  “It is an industrial research laboratory attached to the KaTab Company. THRUSH gained control of the company to get the services of the laboratory staff.”

  “Where are we physically?” Mark asked.

  “In the basement of the KaTab building.”

  “Then we are right in the center of Manhattan,” Mark said. “The KaTab is a highly respected manufacturer of electronic gear for the U.S. Armed Services.”

  April made a grimace. “Yes, and they make the printed circuit for the tape recorders built in my compact and in your cigarette lighter. It will be a joke on THRUSH if we escape because of something its people made!”

  “Not if we escape,” Mark said reprovingly. “When we escape!”

  “Sorry,” April said with a grin.

  “When we escape. And may I ask when do we stop talking and do something about making that when a now?”

  “A typical Yank,” Mark smiled. “Always in a hurry.”

  “How many floors down are we?” April asked the guard. “Answer quickly!”

  “Three,” he said. “But there is no outlet on the elevator between here and the fifty-second floor. It goes straight up as a precaution against unauthorized entry and to keep the scientific staff from leaving unannounced.”

  “Where does the elevator open into on the fifty-second floor?” April asked.

  “Into the guard room,” their prisoner replied.

  Mark looked at April.

  “Now isn't that a bitter cup of tea,” he said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “How about Kuryakin's law?” she said, her dark eyes flashing with the excitement extreme danger always stirred in her. “When all else fails, come out swinging!”