The Howling Teenagers Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Gotz has a score to settle with you, Mr. Solo."

  "First we learn what he knows," Marcus Fitzhugh said. "And this time, Herarra, we must not fail. This time we have tall the time we need."

  "He won't get out The Belly," Herarra said. "Gotz will make him talk."

  "Just keep your monster in hand, Herarra. We want answers, not smashed bones—not at first," Marcus Fitzhugh said.

  Solo tried to move. He forced the orders from his clear brain to his muscles. He did not move a hair. His brain reeled with the effort. It was no use. The drug they had used rendered him totally rigid. He heard Marcus Fitzhugh laugh—a terrible sibilant sound like escaping air.

  "I believe an eyelid actually twitched that time, Mr. Solo," Fitzhugh said. "You are a remarkable man. I can't remember when anyone managed even a hair twitch under that particular little drug of mine. Yes, a remarkable man. It is too bad. Our poor stupid Maxine was right. It is too bad you are U.N.C.L.E."

  The disfigured industrialist laughed his reedy hiss again. "But, I too am a remarkable man. The world failed to see that. Because I am disfigured, my larynx and vocal chords destroyed, they think I am only a freak. The fools!"

  "The fools, they believe the accident in my laboratory not only made me a horror to look at, but a deaf-mute. And I wa mute. This voice you hear, terrible though it is, is a voice I created for myself. Yes, I build a new power of speech with plastic and metal. I can do as much for others, and I will when we of THRUSH rule this stupid world."

  "We must rule because we can rule. Have you read Plato? Of course you have. He was a genius. Only those who can rule should rule. The herd cannot rule. Look at what they have done? Stupid children are allowed to run free, to do as they want. What idiocy! Children, teenagers, must be shaped, told, commanded."

  Solo tried again. His brain commanded, cajoled, begged his muscles to move. It was no use. He could do nothing but listen to this madman, stare at the back of Gotz's bull neck. The sight of the giant made him as afraid as he could be. He had seen the look in the pig eyes of the giant. Gotz would not forgive him for knocking him out. That blow would have killed anyone on earth except the giant.

  Solo felt the car turn off the dirt road onto a smaller one. Clouds of dust rose in the hot Australian air. The car bucked and slewed, but Solo felt nothing. It was his hope. They would have to free him from this paralyzing drug to torture him. His only hope was that they would torture him, not kill him at once.

  He strained again. Useless. Marcus Fitzhugh laughed his hissing laugh. Solo stared ahead beyond the bull neck of the giant to where the desolate countryside was visible as the car climbed a small hill. Sky and sand hills and glaring sun—a vast, empty desert. Not a stick of cover anywhere, only the tall mine shafts standing up against the blue sky.

  This time they had searched him completely, removed everything except his clothes. If he ever got free, that would be their mistake. The thin thread of silicon carbide woven carefully into his trousers, saw edged and hard enough to cut all but a diamond. The loop of the same material, thin as hair, that was, in the hands of an expert, a deadly weapon, and that was sewn, woven into his jacket.

  "Well, my dear Solo, here we are. There you see my true home. The Belly, they called it when there were people here. There are no people within two hundred miles, I saw to that. They called it The Belly, because that is what it is—a great belly inside the earth. NO hill, just flat earth, unseeable from the air or anywhere."

  Solo saw it ahead. A shabby mine-shaft exactly like all the others they had passed. Yet there was a difference. To his trained

  eye, the shabby shaft was not wood at all but metal. The dilapidated two by four hanging at the top was a radio antennae. The circular shaped bucket lift was a radar pickup.

  There was nothing else as far as he could see except flat land—treeless, coverless, empty.

  And he could guess that beneath the disguised mine shaft was the stronghold of Marcus Fitzhugh. Hidden in the bowels of a flat earth, with no clues as to its location from the land or sky—The Belly.

  FOUR

  To Illya Kuryakin, the desolate country looked like the arid deserts in the southern part of Siberia. He had been to that harsh area once on a job before he came to U.N.C.L.E., and he had thought then that there was no land on earth so abandoned, forgotten, like a piece of some distant and dead planet. But he had been wrong, this land was as utterly desolate and silent.

  To follow them had been as difficult as it had been bizarre. First to the airport near Sydney, where he had managed to attach the directional signal device to the black car before it had been loaded into the giant cargo plane. Then, in the air, at the controls of the fast Beechcraft, maintaining contact by the directional signal and by radar.

  Finally he had found a man at the bush airport, where they had landed, who had a battered jeep—for a price.

  Now he drove along the dusty road, with the very faint cloud of dust from the black car far ahead. He drove much too far behind them to be detected, following his directional signal. Grimly he continued the long chase, awaiting only the chance to move in with some hope of success.

  There had been time in Sydney only to report the description of the small man with the disfigured face. After Sydney, the distance had become too great, and there had been no time anyway. Only at the bush airport had he managed to leave a message-a carefully coded message locating where he was, that would be telephoned to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in Sydney.

  There was nothing more he could do now but follow the black car, check his weapons, and hope.

  The distant, faint dust cloud continued to move steadily across the vast and deserted land. The glare of the sun reflected as if from water. Nothing at all moved in the land, not an animal, not a lizard.

  Illya had not seen a human being or a house since leaving the bush airport-and they had been driving all day. At least a hundred and fifty miles had been covered already without a trace of human life or habitation.

  The sun itself was low in the sky when, at last, the signal on his direction finder told him that the black car had turned off the dusty main road. Illya slowed down. If they were looking for pursuers it would be now that they would leave a man to check. From the aspect of the countryside, he guessed that any vehicle would be suspect, it was that deserted.

  He drove ahead very slowly, letting the car move on ahead of him. The beep of the direction signal showed that the car ahead was proceeding slowly and at right angles to the road they had been travelling. The only danger was that it would move out of range before he found the side road, but he did not think that was likely at the speed it was maintaining now.

  Then the car ahead stopped.

  Illya stopped, leaned down to listen closely to his direction finder. There was no doubt, the signal was no longer moving. The black car had stopped somewhere less than ten miles ahead. Illya started the jeep and moved on very slowly. Then he stopped again. There was no sense in taking chances by becoming too hasty. The sun was low; he could wait for night. And he would avoid the road ahead if he could.

  He got out of the battered jeep. He took out the small box of the miniature direction finder all U.N.C.L.E. field agents carried disguised as a box of wooden matches. With the small box in his left hand and his U.N.C.L.E. Special, loaded, cocked and ready in his right hand, he left the jeep and the road and started out across the hot land.

  There was no cover, but he did not think they would look for a man on foot. In any case, it was a chance he had to take. The open, completely empty aspect of the country worked for him as well as against him. There were no high hills, no trees, no cover of any kind for an observer. There were only low, flat rises bare on top, and shallow gullies that might once have contained water.

  He moved ahead, taking advantage of every gully, every hollow. It was slow work, and the last rays of sun beat down on his bare head. Already the air was growing chill. He stumbled ahead, his head broiling in the sun, his body beginning to feel the chill o
f the approaching night.

  The sun was like a copper disk sitting on the horizon of the yellow land when Illya topped a low rise and saw it ahead. He dropped to his face at once. Slowly, then, he raised his head to look again. He rolled behind a small boulder and looked.

  It was a shaft-head, like all the others he had passed, but not quite like them. His trained eye detected the radio antenna, the radar disk, the solidity of the seemingly broken down building.

  And the black car was parked in front.

  As he watched, the man in the policeman's uniform appeared from out of the shaft-head and walked to the car. The car moved off and vanished behind the building. Illya waited for it to appear on the other side. It did not. He backed off down below the crest of the small rise, circled, and looked again.

  There was nothing behind the shaft-head. The car had vanished.

  Illya bent to his direction finder. It was still operating, the faint bee-beep-bee-beep showing that the car was close by, even though he could not see it. He crawled back down into the hollow behind the small rise to wait for the night.

  Night came in this barren land as it came to all deserts, suddenly and completely. One moment there was light and the last heat of the day; the next instant there was only darkness and the rising cold chill of the night.

  Illya checked his weapons; the Special, his small bombs, the camera, his tiny radio, the thermite foil in his shoe, the special belt, and all the other miniature devices that made all U.N.C.L.E. agents walking arsenals.

  Then he stood up and moved off in the night.

  He reached the shaft-head without incident. There was no guard above ground. He found the disguised elevator. It looked exactly like an abandoned shaft elevator, but Illya touched its walls and found them solid steel.

  It was locked. In the night he considered. He could break into the elevator, but there were probably alarms. Anyway, the operation of the elevator would certainly be noticed.

  He went back out of the shaft-head and began to search the area in a wide circle, his infra-red flashlight revealing the ground but not revealing his presence. At last he found what he wanted-a cleverly disguised inspection ladder which ran down the inside wall of the elevator shaft. With a deep breath, moving slowly, he started to climb down.

  He lowered himself a long distance. At last he felt the in-rush of cool air. It was probably an air-conditioning intake, which meant that he had to leave the shaft before he reached the air conditioning unit, which evidently fed into the passage. At the first cross duct, he turned and crawled until he found a frill. He burned the grill off, and dropped down.

  He stood in a darkened corridor of steel. Far off he heard the sound of machinery. He bent to his direction finder. The signal was strong from the left. He moved cautiously to his left. He heard and saw no one. Whoever operated this hidden center was highly confident.

  Illya smiled. They would find that even here in the center of nowhere, they were not safe.

  The signal grew stronger.

  He rounded a corner carefully and saw an opening ahead. There was a faint light inside. The car must be inside the opening. Illya moved carefully. He reached the opening and looked in.

  He saw a bare room with a single tiny spotlight.

  In the center of the bare steel floor, in a small circle of bright light, was a tiny object. Illya stared at it and froze.

  The object was his tiny directional signal device!

  It lay there, the only object in the bare room.

  A hand clamped on his neck. A giant hand. He twisted. A second hand gripped his waist as if he were no bigger than a toothpick. Other hands worked swiftly, stripping him. He was held there naked while something was passed over his body-a metal detector. Helpless and naked, he waited.

  Then he was flung forward. He lay on the floor beside his directional signal. His clothes were flung after him, shirt, trousers, and belt, all searched.

  The small spotlight went out.

  "Welcome, Mr. Kuryakin," a horrible inhuman voice hissed. "Rest now. You can join your friends later."

  And the hissing laugh chilled the darkness.

  ACT IV: A POWER OF TEN

  The loud machinery pounded somewhere all night. It seemed to pound in Illya Kuryakin's brain. He dreamed of witches and giant hands. He floated helpless in a cauldron of blinding sun and empty dark.

  When he opened his eyes he saw that he was not alone. Nor was he lying down in the room where he had been caught.

  "Hello, Illya," Solo said. "Welcome to the club."

  They were all standing against the walls, one in the center of each wall. They were shackled to the walls, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles shackled. Illya faced Napoleon Solo across the room. Mahyana stood pale against the wall to Illya's left. Joe Hooker was shackled to the wall to Illya's right.

  "We seem to be caught," Illya said, still half stupefied.

  Joe Hooker looked sad. "Man, I thought you could run faster. When I stopped for the chick, they put me away."

  A voice seemed to come from the ceiling. The hissing voice of Marcus Fitzhugh.

  "Mr. Hooker, I truly regret your part in this. I realize now that you were merely a helpful American. But, alas, it is too late. You must, I fear, share the fate of your Uncles."

  Illya looked up at the ceiling. "Please, spare us the bad jokes. We have troubles enough."

  "Of course, Mr. Kuryakin," Marcus Fitzhugh said.

  The small, disfigured man had suddenly appeared inside the steel room. They all blinked. A door in the wall had opened and closed so quickly they had not seen it. Marcus Fitzhugh was not smiling. His hissing voice came seriously.

  "I apologize. No jokes, no sadistic toying with helpless victims. And I will not reveal all you need to know about PowerTen. Those movie villains are so ridiculous, aren't they? Who knows-you might still escape, and then wouldn't I seem foolish?"

  "You understand the program ahead, I'm sure. You all have knowledge we can use—Mr. Hooker excepted, of course. We will torture you, until you tell us or die. That is it. Naturally, we will try to keep you alive as long as possible, but we are only human."

  "You will die whether you tell us or not. It is really only a matter of pain. We have drugs; we shall try to break down your conditioning. Miss Mayhana may not be conditioned, my agent Herrara tells me. And I will not insult either her or your gentlemen by suggesting you talk to spare her pain. I think we are all aware that the stakes are far too high for chivalry. Miss Mahyana, I'm sure, knew what she was getting into when she joined you."

  "So, that is the schedule. It begins at once. First, experts want to study your pain thresholds, so we can make an intelligent working schedule. For that, you will all go together this time, Mr. Hooker excepted. You will only be killed, Mr. Hooker."

  Joe Hooker said, "How do I thank you, let me count the ways. Is the creepy one for real?"

  "I'm afraid he is very much for real, Joe," Illya said.

  Marcus Fitzhugh did not answer either of them. The small, disfigured man with the metal and plastic voice had vanished through the same swift and silent secret door. There was a silence in the steel room.

  Suddenly, as if pushed, flung down, all four prisoners fell forward to the steel floor. The chains had been removed by some remote control. There was a sharp rattling sound as the shackles scraped the walls, steel against steel.

  From where they lay, their muscles cramped from the long chaining, the four prisoners watched as the shackles and chains vanished into the walls.

  Illya stood up. He had been chained the shortest time and he was not numbed like the others. He crossed to where the shackles had been. There was nothing but smooth walls. His slender fingers could feel no trace of a break. He crossed the room to where he thought the door was. The wall was smooth, unbroken, not a hairline crack.

  "Excellent engineering," Illya said.

  "Excellent methods," Solo said. "Not even a guard to unshackle us and give us a chance to jump him. All done with mirrors."r />
  "Electronics and complicated engineering," Illya said. "And what is complicated is easiest to sabotage. It is typical of THRUSH to equate complexity with efficiency and progress. Of course, they have us under surveillance and voice monitoring. Is that not so, Mr. Fitzhugh?"

  It was the deep voice that answered. "Quite true, Kuryakin. And I don't think you will sabotage us. Mr. Fitzhugh is preparing for you now. I'm sure Gotz will enjoy another meeting with Solo."

  Silently the hidden door slid open. They waited, the four prisoners, but nothing happened. Then the voice of Herrara came again.

  "Step out, except Hooker."

  They looked at each other.

  "Come on," Herrara's voice said impatiently. "We can prod you, but why make it hard? You might as well walk where we tell you."

  Illya shrugged. "Why not? Come."

  The three agents stepped through the door, which instantly closed behind them, shutting off Joe Hooker. But the door did not close fast enough to stop the bearded boy's gallant parting message.

  "Stay loose, Dads," Joe Hooker said.

  Then they were alone in a long silent corridor. They walked ahead. As they neared the end of this corridor another door slid open. They passed through, and the door closed behind them. Smoothly and simply they were forced along corridors by doors that opened and closed. The steel corridors were smooth and doorless. They were under constant scrutiny. At last they entered a series of corridors that were different.

  "Keep walking," Herrara's voice said.

  They had seen no human being, nothing they could attack even with bare hands. Herded by opening and closing doors, watched on closed-circuit television, they marched now in corridors that reminded them of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. There were doors, windowless and smooth, but marked with small metal plaques. Casually, Illya looked at the plaques on the doors.

  At last, after what seemed like a walk of a mile in the maze of corridors, a door opened and they saw the figure of the giant Gotz standing before them.

  TWO

  There were three men in the torture room. The giant, Gotz, and two smaller men in white coats. All around the walls were the instruments of torture—some old, like a simple hot iron glowing white in its brazier, some new, like a simple square box with electrodes for the temples.