15 - The Utopia Affair

by David McDaniel

  A buzzer sounded sharply from across the room, and a desperate electronic clamor. "Better call back," said Napoleon casually. "Headquarters is under attack again."

  "Again?" said Fred's voice faintly as Napoleon cut the circuit and switched to the television monitor.

  Figures were running through the halls, heading for battle stations, except in Corridor 12. There sporadic gunfire seemed to have both sides pinned down, and the familiar bark of the U.N.C.L.E. Special alternated with the deeper, harsher rattle of the Thrush automatic rifle. He jumped to his feet. The invaders were only two corridors away from Section Eight's research lab!

  A red signal flashed on his console and the chime sounded for Channel D, but Napoleon was halfway to the door and neither saw nor heard.

  "In a moderately low light level, with no high contrast background, it should work well enough for the situation," Simpson said as he lifted the bulky pack from the table. "But I really don't think you should be the first one to try it in the field."

  "We have the extra cable ready, sir," said someone in a white coat.

  "I'll need at least a hundred feet," said Napoleon.

  "Line loss would be too great past one hundred twenty-five," said the anonymous worker, "but you've got that much. As it is you'll fade in and out if we get any induction from the floor alarms."

  "You'll have to wear these," said Simpson, holding up a heavy pair of opaque-looking goggles with a cable as thick as his thumb running from one side to the pack slung over Solo's shoulders. "You won't be able to see anything through them until you turn on the field."

  "How do they work?"

  "Sometime when you have two days and a degree in quantum mechanics I'll explain it to you. Right now just trust me. This knob here at the right temple will adjust the phasing. Turn it until you can see, then leave it alone. Although it seems to function in the lab, it hasn't really been subjected to practical working conditions, or what we call the nitty-gritty." He handed the goggles to Napoleon and said, "Hook the control box through your belt, and don't trip on the cable. No, wait––I'll have to adjust your screen from outside. I don't know whether you can do it yourself. I'll set it and then give it to you. The button on the end will turn everything off."

  "Check. Plug me in and I'll be ready to go. I've got the grenades. Oh—signal the boys in Corridor 12 to hold their fire and hope the other side doesn't take it as an invitation." He paused, looking over his shoulder at the cable that was being connected to his pack. The cannon plug had at least fifty prongs, and the cable that fell away behind him was nearly as thick as his wrist. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"

  "Oh yes," said Simpson. "Reasonably sure. But I shouldn't step in any puddles if I were you—we might not be perfectly grounded."

  Solo lowered his goggles, and a moment later, as Simpson fiddled with a small box, he became somewhat blurred and indistinct, then went out entirely. A length of black cable rose slightly from the floor at one end which appeared freshly cut, and a thinner cord stood nearly parallel to the floor in a half-completed catenary from the box Simpson held.

  "Here, Mr. Solo. Hook it through your belt."

  The box disappeared, and a slightly muffled voice said, "Got it. And I can see fairly well now. Is Corridor 12 clear?"

  An agent in shirt-sleeves and a shoulder holster turned from the door and nodded. The heavy black cable began to hump across the floor as if under its own power, and the agent stood back from the door with a bemused smile on his face.

  "Well? Am I invisible?" said the muffled voice.

  The agent nodded slowly. "I'll say you are, sir."

  "Good. Let's see what Thrush thinks of our version of their little toy."

  The cable humped out the door and started down the hall. There the defenders had been tipped off as to what was happening, but only to the extent of having been warned to look out for a cable and not to get in front of it or try to stop it. Napoleon made his way to the battle lines with dozens of fascinated stares directed several feet behind him.

  The walls and the people were green glowing silhouettes inside his goggles, and faces dissolved to a bright blob, but he saw an overturned chair clearly and was able to avoid it. As he pushed it aside, he realized he couldn't see his own leg, and wondered just what was actually happening to him. He didn't take more than a moment to wonder about it as the mouth of Corridor 12 became a dark void to his left. He put his head cautiously around the corner into the embattled hall.

  The Home Team had fallen back under cover, as per orders, and the Visitors were only beginning to advance. He unslung one liquid grenade from his belt and stepped forward to meet them. A two-man vanguard was starting out, rifles at ready. Just short of the end of the corridor, both dropped, a second or so apart, and lay unmoving while Napoleon massaged an invisible hand and started forward again.

  The end of the cable peeked around the corner be hind him, and two Guards spotted it. "Captain…" They pointed, and the officer raised his sidearm. As he did so something fat and dark appeared out of nowhere and fell beside him. He had just time to flinch away from it as it burst with a gentle plop and spattered him. He and the two Guards fell, limp, as did some four others nearby.

  The next in command looked down and said crisply, "Right! Fall back!"

  As the gray-uniformed troops retreated towards the entrance they had forced, something like a cloud of dark smoke began to appear before them and rapidly assumed the shape of a man, fumbling with something around his head. In seconds the figure solidified and tore a mask from his eyes as two gunshots echoed up the corridor.

  Napoleon Solo dived for the wall, dragging the next two grenades from his sling and hurling them blindly. Slugs spattered near him, something snapped at his sleeve, and then the echoes died away. He lifted his head slowly and looked around.

  Nothing stirred. Ten or eleven Thrush guards and a captain slept on the floor; the rest had fled. Footsteps tapped rapidly behind him, and several people were helping him up, unplugging him and looking the gear over anxiously. Simpson was among them.

  Before Napoleon could speak to him he shrugged. "An unforeseeable accident. The Aleph generator tumbled. How did the goggles work?"

  "Fine. The screen did well enough too; we won."

  "Good. Now once we get the miniaturization problem licked we'll have that Tarnhelm Mr. Waverly has been after for so many years."

  Back in his office again, forty-three minutes after he had left, Napoleon Solo surveyed his communications console. No signals coming in, only a thick stack of Operations Summaries to cover in the next few hours. Then he had to see if he could get the rest of Fred Tibbon's report. This business with Runge got more complex every time new data was added. He stretched, and flexed his fingers. That little bit of exercise had burned up his excess adrenalin for the time being and he felt better than he had for days. He was beginning to catch on to the job, and he felt ready for anything else Thrush could throw at him.

  Two thousand miles due south, Dr. Theodore Pike looked up from his viewscreen. "The New York operation has withdrawn," he said. "They lost fifteen men, twelve to something indistinct which turned out to be our Mr. Solo in a clever invisible disguise."

  He turned, leaned back against the table, and scratched idly at the side of his jaw. "Perhaps you were right, Roger. Putting it at the farthest level from his office might have been a little risky after all. But apparently the danger to Section Eight was enough to override the counter-motivation. Very well—Helena, you may tell Central that we are doing nicely, and are ready to start Phase Two. My expectations have been fully justified, and Mr. Solo is reacting precisely as predicted."

  "You might also remind them that Phase One wasn't scheduled for termination until Saturday," Roger added. "Doc, I'll bet whatever Solo used to turn invisible is the newest trick Simpson's turned out. And I'll bet they stole it from that thing of Morthley's. Did you hear about it? Up in Wisconsin, a year or so ago."ª

  Helena laughed. "Solo never could pass
up a chance to play with a new gadget," she said. "When we get through with him he'll be cutting out paper dolls."

  Dr. Pike nodded, and smiled a self-satisfied smile.

  Section III "Death In Utopia."

  Chapter 9

  "After All, It Is War."

  ALEXANDER WAVERLY and Silverthorne began to meet socially, as opponents in a game are likely to do when neither takes it seriously. From the first moves they had appeared evenly matched, and like two old cronies meeting daily over a chessboard their antagonisms were channeled into their game. Naturally much of their conversation centered around the theory and practice of winning battles, on the board, in the field, or in the conference room. Each fenced lightly about his own specific preferences and approaches lest he give away too much of his intentions for the Game, but each was carefully attentive for any slip the other might make.

  Each day brought new challenges and decisions, flexible conditions to be considered and compensated for, plans to be hastily revised and battles to be joined. And within minutes the plump, smiling Gamesmaster would enter the command rooms where they worked with a sheet of print-out paper and the latest combat results. The Gamesmaster always smiled, regardless of the outcome of battles, though he showed a proper concern—the Game was his own invention and the program that analyzed it for human minds to comprehend was unique.

  Alderson himself was probably unique, combining the knowledge of all aspects of warfare with the programming talents which had made the whole operation feasible. Waverly had made a mental note to contact this young man through private channels later on and inquire as to his interest in applying his abilities to something of more immediate value to U.N.C.L.E. and the rest of the civilized world.

  Oddly enough, Waverly thought once, he hardly minded being away from his desk for so long. His mind occasionally wandered back to the priority file, but more with an air of unfulfilled curiosity than of urgent concern. He wasn't quite aware when he stopped thinking of Utopia as a plush-lined open-air prison, but it was easily within the first two weeks. The idea of an enforced vacation still irritated him, but the boredom he had half-feared was easily tolerated with the constant distraction and challenge the Game offered.

  Illya was becoming increasingly exhausted. His cover job was designed to keep an average worker fully occupied and free of boredom. And when it had to share his waking hours with surveillance of four planted bugging devices and special personal alertness, it became something of a strain on a worker who was in fact far above average.

  Although Illya had little time for social activities and little real interest in making friends among his coworkers, he found Curley Burke, the little mechanic, an easy companion to tolerate. After all, he told himself, in a situation like this any man who made no friends would be regarded with some suspicion. Curley was that rarest and most valuable of friends, a good talker who knows when to stop. He did not care to inquire too closely into Illya's supposed background as Klaus Rademeyer, which Illya minded not at all since his attention was generally occupied with more than keeping his cover straight.

  In his few free moments, the Russian agent would wander over to the maintenance desk. Getting his hands dirty was good therapy for frustration and boredom, and Curley always had a stock of the latest rumors. Late one afternoon they knelt beside an engine block and fought with the valves.

  "So the secretary tells him he'll have to come back tomorrow, but by this time he's about fed up. Gimme the number three head....Huh! These kids sure don't take very good care of their trucks. Look at them rings. Disgrace. And then the phone rings and it's him, and she's got to dodge around 'cause if Danny figures it out, he's just as like to grab the phone and let him have it. That'll do. Wanna get started pulling the loom?"

  Illya rose from the floor and wiped his grease-grimed hands on a filthy rag. "And this runaround means Dan may be on his way out as head of Design? Who's likely to replace him?"

  Curley knew everyone in the Park, employees and guests, and had almost as much data on them as the Client Files. Illya had checked, carefully, on Leon Dodgson and found that he was head of some big foundation in the States. Good enough. The opportunity had not yet arisen to check out the two counterfeit gardeners Thrush had sent, but Illya could wait.

  "Aw, who'd know? Front Office could pull somebody in from outside. If I was running things, I'd put Howie Montforte in. But I ain't. They'll take somebody like Rahman Sikhiri—that fake. Nearest he ever was to Nepal was Tel-Aviv."

  "?"

  "He's no more a Hindu artist than I am. Almost everybody's fooled by him. I may not know everything, but I've been enough places to know when somebody's never been there. I'm gonna have to talk to the boys in Security one of these days. See if these ringers belong to them and tell 'em to give the workers here credit for a little more brains. Guy I know in the Greens Department was telling me about a couple eight-balls they got. Come in when the ragweed was so bad. To hear him tell it, they've got all the recommendations in the world and they don't hardly know which end of a shovel to hold. Like the kids on these trucks." He gestured.

  Illya's eyebrows hardly stirred. "Two men together? A team?"

  "They come on like a team, anyway. Rooming together. A Jap and an Ayrab or something. Wiry cuss—I seen him at the staff pool. All over scars, and a mean look to him. If he was a tree surgeon I don't ever want to go into a forest. You gettin' that loom okay? Pair of dykes over on the bench."

  "You haven't gone to Security yet?"

  "Naw. If something happens I'll think about it. Feel like a fool if they're plants after all."

  Illya grunted acknowledgment and changed the subject. Sometime he might need Curley's help, but better not to stimulate his curiosity unnecessarily.

  Every night he monitored his bugs. It went faster as he developed his ear for high-speed chatter. He sat at the desk now for only a little over an hour every evening, light plastic earphones joined beneath his chin by a thin plastic tube, staring blankly into space as the fingers of his left hand rocked lightly back and forth across the motor switches of the little playback unit. Inside his head voices twittered as the tape sped by, then squawled to a stop and reversed. Two second's silence, and then…

  A door opened.

  "So the cottage is definitely out. Is his office invulnerable?" The voice spoke French; Illya followed it fluently.

  "Of course not. He is often alone there with the maps and charts for that strange game they play. There are even potted plants to tend in that room."

  "Noon break tomorrow? Our work will be near—we can enter quietly and meet him."

  "If he is out?"

  "Mmmmmm... Not a bomb... Pressure-sensitive gas capsule under the chair cushion? Symptoms of syncope, only a bit of plastic left? A pity it must be so remote and impersonal, though."

  Their voices faded as they passed into the second room, and Illya boosted the gain. Nothing of interest— complaints about the work crew they were with, speculation about one of the messenger girls... His thumb rocked down and the voices rose an octave. A minute later the conversation ended. Illya's index finger pressed its key and the faint background roar of the shower rose to a whistle. Occasionally a word or two would chirp—nothing worth stopping for. A brief string of twitter brought his ring finger down and the tiny hysteresis motors strained their magnetic fields as they reversed. The middle finger descended and voices appeared.

  "Set the alarm clock."

  "Six fifteen."

  "Right."

  A pause. The index finger held down for a moment as vague sounds played past, then the thumb. Silence. At last the little finger rocked down and the sound stopped. His eyes focused for the first time as he looked down at the machine to see that it was rewinding properly. His first thought was Well, there goes my lunch.

  Waverly and Silverthorne occasionally met for lunch when hostilities were relaxed, and on this day it happened that they did. They were served on the open balcony of the Main Lodge, looking over the grass t
owards the trees, while the warm Australian summer sun soaked down on them.

  "Good day, Dodgson. I trust I find you well."

  "Ah, Silverthorne—yes, quite well. Better than your defense around Sector Seven."

  "Indeed. Your encirclement maneuver was masterfully executed, sir. I fear my flank has been broken. Never fear; I will have it re-formed in an equally vulnerable position by mid-afternoon." His dark face smiled leanly as he drew up a canvas chair and signaled a waiter. "I must thank you, sir, for an interesting game. Frankly, I had not expected the diversion to prove so challenging."

  Waverly carefully and tenderly packed his noon pipe. He could easily nurse it along through the hour after lunch. His self-ordered rationing ensured his limited supply would last until his departure, but temptation sometimes twitched at his fingers. "I have you to thank for precisely the same reason, Silverthorne. And may I say I admire your familiarity with the techniques of small-scale warfare."

  "A modest acquaintance. But after all, it is only a game. What of value is really at stake? A bit of pride perhaps. My interest is but loosely held, I fear.

  "What of value did you have in mind? A sort of side bet?"

  "Perhaps. I hadn't actually begun to consider it."

  "Mmm. The madreleine looks rather good this afternoon. And the Chef's salad has been recommended."

  The subject did not recur for nearly an hour. Waverly was half-reclining on the balcony, drawing deeply on his pipe as Silverthorne sipped a liqueur. "I'm handicapped by not knowing your background," the latter admitted at last. "What would you consider a reasonable side bet?"

  Waverly thought through another long pull at his smoldering pipe. "What have we in common? We're both here. Each of us can afford the expense of this place—and each of us would prefer not to have to. Either of us could probably afford to cover the other's expenses."

  The aristocratic black eyebrows arched. "My dear Dodgson!"