by Simon Latter
"The researchers' plan maps and the regular maps don't tally. Someone's lost a whole section of the island. The contour lines don't tally."
"And you went on record with your own maps?"
"Yes, Miss Dancer." Randy Kovac sounded apprehensive. His grand ambition was to be an agent. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were his heroes, Mark Slate his idol, but woman-wise and agent-wise, April Dancer was his goddess. To please her was to feel the gods smile upon him. To fail her would be stark tragedy.
"Well, if you believe you are right, you should say so," said April cheerfully. "We rely on you back-room boys not to work blindly. The researchers could be wrong. There can't be many modern maps of this part of the world, and they might be too old and badly drawn."
"Oh, they are!" said Randy eagerly. "Indeed they are, Miss Dancer." He laughed ruefully. "Mr. Waverly said that only doughnuts had pieces out of the middle — not islands — so I would be assigned to Mr. Paru for field progress work to check my own figures — so — so here I am."
"Welcome to the rat-race." Mark was friendly. "Sama, did Kazan mention Cheval?"
"Colamina did. Kazan lost his voice. I too remember the name Chaminal. He once went to the Arctic with some expedition to study stresses on the human body — something like that. And he was the man who identified the little bug a few years ago, before we were overrun by an influenza epidemic. Yes — I know of him. A clever man, I think. But these scientists — there are so many. I couldn't say exactly what he is."
"He's not been mixed up in any trouble in Europe?"
"Not to my knowledge."
April's communicator began bleeping.
"Contact out," said Mark to Sama. "H.Q. is on."
April said: "Yes, sir?"
"Ah, Miss Dancer! Is Mr. Slate with you?"
"Here, sir," said Mark. "We've been talking to the D.X.5."
"Good — then you know why the launch is delayed. It is now on its way, Kazan and Carlson having received maximum dosages to help relieve their considerable sufferings. Miss Sherez is aboard here — likewise affected. It is on this matter I call you."
"Yes, sir?"
"You will remember the phial Miss Sherez obtained as sample of contents of boxes now on your ship?"
"I remember," said Mark.
"Mr. Kazan foolishly opened this phial — gently sniffing at the contents, trying to assess its purpose. Mr. Carlson and Miss Sherez also — er — hmm — had a sniff! We have just analysed the contents. They are the most vicious cold virus you could ever wish to meet. That is, if one ever wishes so to do.
"The point is that it appears highly probable that all the boxes contain the same contents. Moreover, we have ascertained that a large quantity of a similar virus, suspended in a jelly, was reported missing from a government research centre close to the Mexican border."
"Reported missing?" said April. "Did they think it walked out?"
"Laboratory jargonese," said Mr. Waverly. "Undoubtedly it was pinched. It appears to have been packed into phials by someone who knew that extreme heat would melt the jelly and make the virus an uncontrollable mass. The jelly has, in fact, melted in the phial. These virus multiply in heat. And as long as they stay in a warm atmosphere, they will continue to multiply. Each phial — if broken — will be a near-lethal bomb in its effect upon those closest to it, who will at once inhale a vast concentration of the virus. Do you follow me?"
Mark said: "Mr. Waverly, sir — we are an astonishing way ahead of you!"
"I thought you might be," said Mr. Waverly. "Do I need to add that there is no possible way of giving immunization? The effects can be treated, but severely dosed persons would die of congestion before penicillin or other drugs could have any effect. In such a concentration of virus, a mask is some protection. But — as our expert says — it would be as much help as a paper tissue against cigarette smoke. In other words — if you devise a mask to prevent the virus entering mouth and nose, you will suffocate yourself."
"A gas mask?" April suggested. "Or smoke mask?"
"In time, perhaps," said Mr. Waverly. "They have been experimenting on such an appliance for about ten years. In another ten, perhaps…"
"And a ruddy great 'tishoo' to you too!" Mark muttered.
Mr. Waverly overheard it. "Levity will not solve our immediate problem, Mr. Slate. These virus cannot be destroyed by water. Once released, they will be drawn up by the sun, multiply even more in heat, and travel with the breeze. A crucible heat might be effective, but the phials would explode and crack the container — it would need experts to carry it out in specially controlled conditions. I doubt if any exist on the Island Traveller, in which these boxes of phials now repose. In fact, we could say you are indeed sitting on them right now."
"We hadn't overlooked the fact," said April. "What are your orders, sir?"
"In the circumstances, Miss Dancer, I have no alternative but to issue an open directive for the guidance of all agents assigned to this project. You now are operating on S.F.D. directive. We are standing by to aid you in any way we can. Seek, find, and destroy. Good luck to you!"
April looked at Mark.
"D'you have a hanky?" he said. "I feel a sneeze coming on."
CHAPTER SEVEN: COOPERATION PLUS
THE enemy — and THRUSH forever was the enemy — in the form of Lucy Padrack had, through personal weakness, betrayed the presence of an operative cell aboard Island Traveller.
The personal weaknesses of April Dancer and Mark Slate lost them much of the advantage they had gained. Perhaps the word "weakness" is unfair. No one told the passengers the E.T.A. of Island Traveller at Taradata. Most passengers didn't care. The islands were off the rat-race routes of the world. Most people were merely seeking sun and fun — not timetables. Mark made his own estimation, but they should have checked. They didn't.
They slept too late. No radio calls through ear and pillow receivers disturbed them. They reached the dawn-gilded deck in time to see the flat-decked harbour launch bobbing shorewards. On the launch were the Padracks, Cheval, and a cluster of boxes.
"S. and F.," said Mark glumly. "But D.? Not this time."
"Let's not feel too bad," said April. "We agreed last night that, short of calling in the Navy, we couldn't capture the ship single-handed. And we couldn't chuck the boxes overboard, even if we'd battled our way to the hold."
"But we could have tried. We just slept." Mark cussed softly as Chas came towards them. "So your V.I.P.s have special treatment, huh?"
Chas peered shorewards. "Who — them? They always get taken off first."
Mark saw Kazan's launch speeding towards the ship.
"Your rich boy-friend has arrived. Devoted, ain't he?" said Chas. "Why don't you hail him and ask him to take you off for a trip?" There was a hard edge to his voice.
"Why should I? If it's any of your business?"
"Suit yourself. Only trying to be helpful," said Chas. "But if you don't get off now — you'll stay aboard. The island is barred to visitors on this trip."
"What have they got?" said Mark. "Rabies?"
The brown eyes surveyed him calmly, quizzically. "It'd be nice to know," said Chas softly. "Very nice, it would be — to know just what they have got."
April looked steadily at him. "It had to come, Chas. You knew that, didn't you? Both ends against the middle is okay while you can keep swinging. Comes a time when they close up. Then you duck out and let them go ker-plonk. But if you can't duck…"
Mark said: "Ker-runch! Nasty! Not nice, eh, Chas?"
"Nah!" The brown eyes danced with defiant laughter. "Like you say, mate — not nice."
"Mate?" said Mark. "Not sonny?"
"You got to grow up sometimes. Could be now."
"Not money, Chas," said April. "We've got money. From us you can't buy."
Chas nodded. "And a Navy over the horizon."
"But you don't scare?" said Mark.
"Daddy warned me," said Chas. "They've never done this before. You tell. I play. There
comes a time."
"Palaga backing?" said April. "Palaga company? The Taradata boat trade? Economy sewn up? Restricted travel? A deposed chief? Introduction of guards? All radio contact through new authority? Slow, very slow."
"And plenty profit for the taking?" said Mark. "Lush pickings. New engines, special cargo rates. Even pirates never had it so good."
Chas nodded. "You know some good history. That's how it was."
"So now you want out?"
"Nah — I want in. Some of my people are in the valley." He jerked his thumb at the shore-line. "Up to two trips ago they came to meet me. Then only a few. Then none at all. Now they've sealed the port. No one goes out. No one comes in — except them lot. I'd empty the ship at Lagelo. Fill it with my people. I'll open this port — you bet. Thugs I take as part of the game. But not funny-looking phials, nor top scientists. Not on these islands."
April took off her headscarf and flagged the launch. Kazan saw and zoomed an arc, to curve back to the ship.
"I'm going to reccy," she said. "Hold Kazan while I get my gear."
The launch bumped the side as April reappeared. Captain Sidano came down from the bridge. Chas said: "Go astern, Cap'n."
"But Maleski says…"
"Rot your guts!" Chas bellowed. "Go astern!"
April said quietly to Mark: "Crunch coming. You can handle?"
"Sure. Get going. We'll be in touch. Warn the sub and Waverly."
She was down the rope ladder and into the launch when Maleski came thumping up.
"Get below — both of you," he snarled.
Chas winked at Mark.
"Get knotted," said Chas.
"My sentiments entirely," said Mark.
"Come," said Maleski. "Move." A gun was levelled on them.
Mark moved. So did Chas. Mark chopped the gun-wrist, crashed a foot against Maleski's knee-cap. Maleski buckled, but swung a fist, spinning Mark away. His foot kicked the gun. Sheer luck. It shot overboard.
Maleski bellowed orders. Chas whistled — a long, fluting call. Maleski went to put the boot in as Mark stumbled. Chas hooked his foot under Maleski's raised leg. Maleski fell on Mark, who squirmed away, rolling, then jumping, cat-like.
Maleski's men came pounding from amidships. Chas's own seamen sprang from the bridge and positions aft. Followed melee-filled seconds of turmoil. Difficult to see who was doing what to whom. Mark and Maleski, clear of the THRUSH men. Maleski heavier, swinging blows, using the boot to groin and stomach. Mark weaving, darting in with numbing blows.
Leader of the THRUSH men, flaying air with a cargo hook, reached them as Mark pivoted to dance out of Maleski's boot range. Maleski lunged into the man's path as the hook slashed down, intended for Mark's face. It tore open Maleski's skull. The blow, together with his own impetus, crashed him against the deck rail. He crumbled, dangling doll-like, before sliding over — bumped once on a porthole, and dropped into the sea.
Mark caught the THRUSH man, who stood transfixed by surprise, and applied a lever lock with such force that the man's arm snapped and his shoulder was dislocated. The hook dropped as he sprawled away.
Two more THRUSH men broke clear of Chas and his sea men. Mark attempted to leap away so as to strike as they came past. His foot stumbled on the THRUSH leader. As his body angled, so a heavy shoulder crashed into him like a charging bull. Mark was flung up and back. He hit the rail, grabbed vainly at air, then plummeted backwards.
His brain flashed warnings. From this height a belly-flop into the sea would split his guts open. He spun his body in mid-air, straightened arms and legs as the cool green mass rushed up at him.
Not really cool. Surprisingly warm. He went deep in a tortuous, unending dive. Tortuous because his lungs, already pressured by the fight, had not had time to fill. Steel clamps locked around his chest. His ears sang with pressure. He had no breath to exhale. Could not inhale.
Willpower alone kept him from panic, forcing his body to act smoothly to help his upward travel. Long, agonizing seconds moving through a green cavern. Then growing lighter, amber-green, to burst into sunlight, mouth retching, gasping, as he trod water.
Swiftly recovering, Mark began to swim. Maleski's body lay, face downwards, sleeping on the green-sea couch. The ship now was going astern, very slowly. Mark swam around — saw the launch heading towards Taramao Point.
Suddenly the ship's engines stopped. Mark trod water, searching for a rope, not wanting to go back to where the ladder hung. He heard a low whistle, looked up as a rope snaked down: Captain Sidano's head appeared over the rail as he hitched the rope to a stanchion. Mark swung up, using feet on the hull and fast-hauling on the rope.
Sidano said: "Maleski is dead?"
"Yup. You changed sides, skipper?"
"I am still captain of a ship. I cannot support murder or mutiny, nor leave a passenger to drown."
"Hallelujah!" Mark squeezed water from his hair. "Thou hast seen the light!"
Sidano's heavy face creased in what appeared to be a smile. It made him look as if he were going to cry.
"And great shall be my salvation! I must lower a boat to pick up the body. Maleski was killed by one of his own men. You are a witness."
"What goes on?" Mark indicated the far side, now hid en by the superstructure.
"Chas is in control. The seamen have overpowered Maleski's men. I do not know who you are, but legally you are a free man, even though we signed you on from the same prison as them. There are things I do not understand."
Mark thumped the captain's chest with a stabbing finger.
"In that, my crafty captain, you are not alone. But this I tell you — there now is only one side on this ship. You will obey orders, or, so help me, I'll call up our Navy and have you and the whole caboodle arrested."
"But I have done nothing wrong. Even now, I do all the right things. I do not break the law of the sea."
"What nationality are you?"
"Me? I am Palaganian."
"I might have known it. Anyway — forget your seagoing purity. We can still arrest you and apologize later."
Sidano pulled a package of letters from his pocket. His strong, stubby fingers shredded them into small pieces — confetti floating seawards.
"Now there is nothing that anyone can arrest me for — at any time."
"You must have been off the bridge and into Maleski's belongings before he hit the water."
Sidano spat over the side. "I already had them while he was helping the Padracks. Later, I would have killed him." He beamed his tearful-looking smile. "I am such a happy man this lovely morning. Ah, but you would not understand how it feels to see a blackmailer die!"
"I can imagine," said Mark, wringing out his shirt. "What was the object?"
"Only to use my rank, my signature as a Palaganian captain, my silence about certain types of cargo. Some equipment must not be carried on a Palaganian island ship unless it is supplied by Palaga. Many things like that could not be done without the captain's knowledge."
Mark squee-jeed his pants. "What type of equipment?"
"Laboratory equipment used for medical research. Anything that can be used for processing must come through Palaga. Also presses — small power presses. Such things are forbidden. Palaga is protected by International Law. No other ship would carry them to the islands. Palaga controls all the Customs in the islands."
"Including Taradata?"
"Ah! You must ask Chas about that. He knows more of how somebody has got control. You know he is the owner?"
"So he told me. And you've been double-crossing him?"
"No, that is not so. Well — at first, perhaps, but not for the later trips."
"Palaga — one-time paradise of the pirates!" Mark exclaimed. "As Chas would say: a nice bunch of rake-off merchants you are! But, my God! Don't you squeal when things get out of control! The trouble is, the damage you do has to be cleaned up by somebody else."
"Why, yes," said Sidano. "No respectable pirate ever cleaned up after himself!... That is m
y little joke," he added hastily.
"I'm laughing my head off!" Mark pulled on his shirt.
"Okay, Sidano — back to your bridge. We're going into Taradata."
"The owner will tell me — not you."
"I am telling you. You're not the only people who can play pirates. Obey orders, or I'll call up a boarding party." Mark left Sidano, ran between the holds, met Chas on the way.
"Sidano will do as he's told," said Chas. "I overheard you talking." He pointed upwards. "I was looking for him to order stop ship, so we could pick you up." He grinned. "That was a nice howdedo! Our regular crew have been wanting to have a go at Maleski's men — so have I." Blood oozed from cuts on his arms. His knuckles were skinned, one eye puffed in promise of a blue-black "shiner". "I'm going below to cure these cuts." Chas surveyed Mark. "You ain't cut, are you? Got to be careful in this part of the world."
"I'm not cut, but I'll come with you. Tell the captain to stay stopped for a while longer."
"Okay. See you in the purser's office."
Mark went to his own cabin, collected certain gear, including special assault devices, then decided to make a quick change so as to fit on some secret body attachments because his clothes were shrinking — a fact he hadn't allowed for. "All nice stuff!" he chuckled. "That Chas is going to lose some of his profit on this gear!"
Fortunately, the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and other electronic devices were waterproofed. A quick test showed these were functioning well. He made a three-way link-up between April Dancer on the launch, Sama Paru in the submarine, and Mr. Waverly on his floating H.Q.
"I'll come back to you in a short while," said Mark. "Standby."
What Chas called the purser's office was at the end of the passenger cabins. Mark hadn't seen inside it. The door was double-locked, with a steel outer. He now saw why. Smallish, with a domed ceiling, the air pungent with the smell of incense. Bright-coloured woven mats, small, odd-shaped, formed a circle beneath a rack of glistening gold, purple and flame-red robes. Chas was kneeling on the mats, stripped to his waist. He turned.
