"Central has a job for you at last. Come down and call them from here."
"Any idea what sort of thing it is?"
"Involves U.N.C.L.E. NorthAm, apparently. Old Waverly's gone off for a rest cure and Solo's in his place. You've likely been picked as advisor for something to do with their headquarters—that's your field."
"You pay me well enough. I'll be down there in half an hour; have them waiting for me, there's a good chap." He rang off, rose, and beckoned for his hat and coat. It had been rather blustery out earlier—he hoped this assignment might involve a change of scene.
Dr. Pike was at his desk, working on a report. Outside his window night had already fallen, and the cold wind muttered around the doors. He was running a pencil lightly down a column of correlation figures, muttering to himself, when a chime summoned his attention. Abstractedly he felt around the litter of papers and found the telephone handset. "Yes?"
"Dr. Pike? I'm afraid your work will have to be set aside for a while. A Blue Priority order has just come through from Central requesting you to call them at once."
"Read me the message."
The caller did so, and added, "We can patch the signal from Central through this telephone, if it would be more convenient for you. You will lack the video signal, but it shouldn't be necessary. While we establish contact, I suggest you locate your dossier on Napoleon Solo. He is to be your target."
"This is Greaves, speaking for Central," said the flat voice. "You three have been taken from your duties for a sudden opportunity. We are all acquainted with Napoleon Solo's activities in the field—his admitted strengths and his definite weaknesses. Now we have this man at the key post of the entire United Network Command. If we can test him beyond his capacity, put a strain on him great enough to cause him to lose coordination, we could achieve great things during the resultant period of chaos.
"You three will devise plans for applying the pressure to the best advantage, submit these plans to the Ultimate Computer for evaluation, and then direct the operation. Solo can be broken—he must be broken.
"Allow me to introduce you to each other. Roger Ladoga worked as sub-agent in the New York office of U.N.C.L.E. for three years before coming to us six months ago. He is completely trustworthy, despite his questionable background. He will advise you on the layout and procedures which surround Solo."
"How d'you do, all," said Roger's voice lightly.
"Dr. Theodore Pike, one of our finest behavioral psychologists. Tell us how well you know Mr. Solo, Dr. Pike."
"It would be impertinent to say I could predict his every mood, but given available data I can predict his reaction to any set of circumstances with roughly eighty- five percent accuracy." The Doctor's voice was rather dry and slightly hoarse. He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.
"And Miss Helena Thomas."
"Hi. Pardon me for not turning on the vision circuit, but it's the crack of dawn here and my hair is a sight."
"I don't have any vision equipment here," said Dr. Pike.
"No wonder my screen stayed blank," said Roger. "Greaves, what is Miss Thomas's specialty?"
"Miss Thomas has encountered Solo personally several times, both professionally and socially. We feel she may be able to supply valuable insight into your target's mental processes."
"Such as they are," said Helena under her breath.
"You three will remove to a mutually agreeable spot, where a satellite computer will be given you for direct communication with Central and the Ultimate Computer. It is suggested you choose a location with roughly the same time as New York for maximum efficiency. We have a cover available for you in Bogotá if you wish to take advantage of it. Prepare to stay from one to two months. Any questions?"
"Tickets and local covers for our absence?"
"Local satraps will be responsible for both. You will be expected to rendezvous in twenty-four hours, noon New York time, on Monday. Prepare proposals en route. Dr. Pike, you are nominal leader of this sub-group. Your priority code is Blue, your computer access code is Waterloo. Acknowledge."
"Priority Blue, CAC Waterloo."
"Your local satraps will give you the rest of your orders in official form. Start thinking now of ways to apply pressure. Anything else? Greaves out."
"Ta, then," said Roger. "I'll see you both in Bogotá tomorrow."
Helena and Dr. Pike bid each other farewell and signed off, Dr. Pike to shuffle his papers together and Helena to return to her apartment.
As she rode up alone in the elevator, chic silk lounging robe wrapped about her, she wondered briefly about Greaves. Was he the voice of the Ultimate Computer itself, or a human secretary, or one of the Upper Twelve? She might know someday if she kept advancing. This assignment was a chance for another boost up the ladder, if it worked out well, and it would be fun anyway. She slipped the lock on her door, yawned daintily, drew heavy drapes over the sun-bright slats of the venetian blinds, slid out of her robe, and burrowed down into the bed in search of her interrupted sleep.
In Bogotá they met in a hotel suite, with three separate bedrooms and baths, and total privacy. The satellite computer was brought in two suitcases, connected, set up and tested in about twenty minutes. Dr. Pike had a plan in outline form when he arrived, and neither of his partners had one to offer nearly as comprehensive. He offered it to the computer and explained it to Roger and Helena while the distant circuitry chewed it over.
"We have enough different projects under way that merely a slight shifting in schedules and a replaced emphasis can create more work for Solo. I'm sure we can hit him with a major crisis of some sort every day for at least three weeks as things stand now. By the time we begin to run out, we can have more ready. I believe the frustrations of his enforced physical inaction and noninvolvement will begin to wear on him. His nerves will begin to fray, since his desire for action will have no outlet. Then we will see about the second part of my plan."
The screen of the satellite computer flashed blue, then faded to a black surface on which appeared glowing letters in perfect block printing:
3010671846 Z DE: UCR TO: WATERLOO RE-
SCHEDULING PLAN ACCEPTED AND ACTED
UPON... CALCULATIONS COMPLETED... RE-
SULTS TRANSFERRED...
SCHEDULE CHANGE ORDERS TRANSMITTED
TO ALL AFFECTED OPERATIONS. FIRST OVERT
ACTION 1800 HOURS LOCAL TUESDAY 31 OCTO-
BER. SCHEDULE FOLLOWS ON PRINTER READ OUT.
By the time the last phrase appeared, the first lines had faded. The printer began to chatter, and an eight-inch-wide strip of paper started unreeling from some where within it. Roger caught it as it came out, read some of it, and whistled softly. "We really will be keeping him busy. Memphis, Detroit, Cape Kennedy, Denver, Seattle... Here we go! San Salvador, Anchorage, Las Vegas, Teguei—Tegucigaipa? Martinique..."
"And it starts tomorrow," said Helena with a feline smile. "Happy Halloween, Napoleon. May it last until Christmas."
Napoleon Solo answered Channel D about 6:28. An emergency report had just been processed in the Denver office concerning an explosion at a top secret missile base, and positive evidence of sabotage. Two high-rank officers were deeply involved, and the entire affair was very touchy and terribly important. They needed at least two men immediately.
Miss Williamson had clipped a memo to it, stating that Section Two Number Five, Jock Tuber, was available for assignment. Noting this, he thought of Miss Ewert, of Communications, as a second agent for the job, and sent the call signal.
It was dark outside his windows when he had collected the necessary data, received files, passed them on to his two agents and offered a few basic suggestions. Their tickets to Denver were for ten o'clock the next morning.
Four routine notes had piled up during his conference; he looked them over and filed them, with part of his mind still wondering about the exact nature of the explosion until the priority call chimed again and he reached for the slim silver mike to a
nswer.
The two agents monitoring a tense post-revolutionary situation in Tierra Caliente were suddenly in the midst of a new outburst of fighting in the least defended part of the city. They needed help, and the Managua office was out of contact.
Quickly punching a code number on his control panel, Solo watched the main screen as a status map of the Central America Subcommand flashed into view. San Salvador was tied up at the moment, San Jose was still inoperational... He made a cross-connection to Mexico City.
"Can you spare about ten men for penetration in Tierra Caliente? There's some kind of agitation going on and we want to put a stop to it."
He left the Field Agent talking to Mexico City to work out details, and cleared the channel. He signaled Miss Williamson on the intercom and said, "Could you see about having a tray sent up from the commissary? Something simple but nourishing centered around a large rare steak and followed with something to maintain the blood sugar level, and several cups of hot coffee timed to arrive about every fifteen minutes for the next couple of hours?"
"Certainly, sir. And by the way, I would like to bring in my opposite number to introduce you."
"Opposite number?"
"She works the night shift in my place."
"Don't bring her in until I've eaten or I'll be rude."
"All right. Dinner will be—"
Channel D flickered and chimed, and Napoleon switched his attention to the call. The third one in as many hours; he hoped this wasn't an average.
This one was from the agent on bodyguard duty to the Akhoond of Swat. It was seven in the morning there, and the Akhoond's prize greyhound had been found with its throat cut at the foot of the Imperial bed. The inhabitant of the bed was in a roaring royal rage, and the servants were absolutely in the clear.
Napoleon was half-tempted to say, "Don't touch a thing—I'll be on the next jet." But he bit his tongue and asked, "Any indication of a struggle?"
"None, but there wasn't much blood either. I think the dog was killed somewhere else. Which is funny, because he usually sleeps right there where he was found."
"How sure is the Akhoond that this is his greyhound? Could someone have kidnapped the prize pooch and left a ringer?"
"It's a possibility. There'll be a Royal tattoo inside the ear if it's the real one, and His Imperial Hotstuff wouldn't have bothered checking for it. If it's there I'll call you hack."
"If it's there, Mr. Harbeson, you can take action on your own. You're a field agent and a good one, but you'll never catch anyone if you stop to call me first. If we can't take the initiative, we've got to keep our reactions as fast as possible; I can have a three-man team in to back you up in two and a half hours if you need them." He didn't think that was quite what Waverly would have said, but it'd have to do.
The distant bodyguard verbally clicked his heels, saluted and rang off. Solo reached for the intercom, licking his dry lips.
"About my dinner..."
"It's on its way up now, sir."
"Good. By the way, it isn't eleven o'clock already, is it?"
"I'm afraid it is, sir."
"No wonder I'm hungry."
Channel D remained mercifully silent during dinner, though one or two calls came through on lower priority lines; neither demanded immediate action, but both added to his burden of worries. There were now definite signs of concealed manipulation of the Paris Bourse; U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in Geneva was quite capable of handling the situation, but it was a factor that might affect his operations and he had to know about it.
Channel D signaled just as his dinner was cleared and he began to stuff a pipe with Waverly's private mixture. He answered the call between puffs. The voice was strange to him, and he tapped the code for a lighted map display of the sender's location. He found the light as the caller finished his identification. "Buck DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba."
Napoleon sought through his mind for data on the Flin Flon office and found nothing. He decided to play it straight for the moment, coming to this decision as he said, "Yes?"
"I think we have something here worth a look at, sir. It started a few weeks ago with a couple old trappers who came in from the woods claiming they'd seen the Williwaw. That's the local imaginary monster. Since then I've heard stories from some of the lonelier farms, and seen one very blurred photograph. Tonight the entire population of Cranberry Portage saw the thing, just about four hours ago."
"What does it look like, and what does it do?"
"Well, it hasn't done anything yet except move around a little. I haven't seen it myself, but the photograph tallies closely with the descriptions I've heard. It doesn't have any particular shape, but it's pretty big. The picture was taken just about dusk—the earliest the thing's been seen. It's shaped like a fat fir tree, almost conical, but rounded. It doesn't have any particular color either, I'm told; the black-and-white snapshot here shows it as medium dark, indeterminate texture. I can see trees silhouetted against its base, though, and knowing the heights of those trees it has to be about a thousand or fifteen hundred feet tall."
"Fifteen hundred feet?"
"Uh-huh."
Napoleon considered that for a few seconds, and asked, "Any features visible at all? Anything that remains constant?"
"The man from Cranberry Portage who drove up here to tell me about it says all they could see was something big beginning to block out the stars in one whole part of the sky. It kind of reared up over them, he said, and the only thing they could see were two dim red stars up about where its eyes might have been. They have no idea how far away the thing was. It stood over the town for about ten minutes, then gradually went away, back the way it had come, and was gone entirely in about two minutes. And one other thing before you ask. The wind has been from the Northeast at a steady twelve knots since shortly before sunset. A nice stiff breeze."
"How much of this is known around town already?"
"All of it. The guy who drove up here phoned it to a paper in Winnipeg for twenty-five dollars. Tomorrow the whole province will know. I'm already planning to look into it, sir; I just wanted to be sure you knew what was going on in case something happened. I'm pretty much on my own up here."
"Thank you," said Napoleon. "But bear this in mind, Mr. DeWeese: raw courage alone does not win battles. If this becomes more than you can manage single handed, don't hesitate to call for backup forces.
"I plan to live to a ripe old age, sir, but I want to find out a little more before 1 cost the organization money. I'll give you a call back if I touch on anything I can't put in my pocket."
"Very good. Best of luck."
"Thank you, sir."
The connection was terminated, and Napoleon turned his chair to a large microfilm file reader. He punched a combination of buttons and found DeWeese. A former guide, six foot three, two hundred and thirty pounds, IQ 175, responsible for maintaining U.N.C.L.E.'s watch over half a million square miles of desolation where, as the poet has said, the Northern Lights have seen strange sights.
One of the strangest, he thought, must be a thing as big as a mountain, with glowing red eyes, that stood still and reversed direction in a stiff and steady breeze, and had silently menaced the town of Cranberry Portage. Solo had to suppress an automatic smile at the image of the rural name, and suddenly remembered that tonight was All Hallows Eve. What a way to celebrate, he thought wryly.
He glanced at the master clock. The evening reports from Honolulu would be coming in shortly; the West Coast had been processed... and there was that repeated attempt at a coup in Tierra Caliente. Something would have to be done about the men behind it; tomorrow morning would be soon enough. Even if the revolution was backed by Thrush, the soldiers would demand their rest at night. He wished he could do the same.
He sighed. It looked as if this could become a full-time job. He tapped the intercom for the night girl— what was her name, now... Cindy? She answered and he said, "Can you dodge all my calls for about half an hour after Hawaii checks in? I think I'
d better take off to close my apartment and pick up a few items. Don't bother with a driver; I can catch a taxi up First."
"I'll put a lock on your line, sir. Signal me as soon as you come back in."
"Right."
Napoleon dug his knuckles into his eyes and sorted quickly through the things he would have to do to move in here for a few weeks. His apartment could be secured in a moment; his toilet kit was always packed and ready to go, and he'd probably need a fresh shirt. It looked as if it was going to be a long six weeks.
Section II "A Principality In Utopia."
Chapter 5
"We Could Use A Man Like That."
BY THE END of his first week there, Alexander Waverly was becoming adjusted to life in Utopia. He wasn't quite used to it yet, and he was determined he would never be able to like it, but he was able to find his way around without a map and knew four of the staff on a first-name basis. He'd had six quiet days to observe the activities that were going on about him, and as a guest he had certain privileges of movement which enabled him to study the operations of "The Park" more carefully.
His data added up to a picture similar to that he had imagined, but quite a bit larger. There was a fair-sized atomic power pile under the hill which was the Park's eastern wall, supplying electric power and fresh water, steam heat and an endless supply of low-grade but marketable radioactive by-products. The brochure had mentioned a radio blanket over the entire area, but he had observed Park personnel using something which looked very much like a radio for communication. He wondered how they did it, and made that his next point of interest.
Meanwhile there was the day-to-day life of the resort to be coped with. Every effort was being made to find something to occupy his time for the next month, and no expenses were spared in Utopia to keep the guests happy. Waverly hardly felt he was unique among the clientele in being taken forcibly from a job he enjoyed; he was even reasonably certain that Utopia would be prepared to deal with a certain amount of recalcitrance among the inmates. After all, the staff members were there essentially to determine that anyone paying the appropriate fee would enjoy himself whether he wanted to or not. He gave himself credit for no more stubbornness than any top executive; if they could be won over, so could he. But the staff would have a job trying.
15 - The Utopia Affair Page 4
