by Unknown
"... induce a resonant RF from here?" said Irene. "It's not impossible. We have a reasonably powerful transmitter here—and he is close by."
"All you have to do is find the right frequency, hoping he hasn't cured the Scrooch Gun of its need for extensive shielding, and lean on it till he blows up!"
"An adequate oversimplification of our intended procedure, Mr. Solo," said Baldwin, as the ceiling shook and their ears stung under the impact. "We had best get to work on it directly. Irene?"
"It may be a long job, dear—I'll have to make some modifications before we can start."
"How can we help?" asked Illya.
"By staying out of the way," said Baldwin.
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other until another round slammed into the rear wall. "When I was in old-style wars," said the Russian, "the part I hated the worst was the shelling. I think it was the feeling of helplessness when all you could do was hang on and wait for it to stop. Do you know what I mean?"
"Perfectly," said the American. "Do you think we might be able to do something else this time?"
"If there's only one of him, maybe we could get to him. And Baldwin says there's only one."
"But he's got an awfully accurate Scrooch Gun all around the house. Now you tell me he can't get both of us between the door and the trees, and I'll let you go first."
"He can't see all four sides of the house at the same time unless he's in a balloon," said Illya. "All we have to do is figure out what side he can't see and go out that way. Dig?" He turned to Baldwin. "Irene checked me out on the TV remote units—may I?"
"Go ahead, Mr. Kuryakin. I have no objection to you doing your part."
Illya fired up the TV screen and switched to the camera monitoring the rear of the building. He extended the zoom to its greatest focal length and scanned slowly along the ridge, peering among the trees. Several seconds passed.
"Uh...nice gear," said Napoleon, conversationally.
"Thank you," said Irene, passing through from the workroom towards the kitchen. "I built most of it."
"You built it?" said Illya, not taking his eyes from the screen as she left the room.
The sound of rummaging came from the kitchen, and in a moment she returned, drawing on a pair of heavy rubber gloves. "Well, not the television set, of course, nor the cameras or their remote controls, but I wired everything together and built the image-multiplier from a kit."
"That's amazing," said Napoleon.
"Just a hobby, really—after all, Ward has his needlepoint..."
"There he is," said Illya suddenly. "Look! Up on the ridge!"
Among the trees they could discern a flat, narrow, jeep-like vehicle. Its profile and the disconcerting camber of its wheels identified it as the 'Mule' configuration. A man was standing on the rear section beside a heavily braced fat-barreled monstrosity with a glittering lens just above it.
"That looks like him," said Illya, and the rear of the lodge endorsed his opinion with a thunderclap. King quickly secured something and clambered into the single seat of the Mule; a few seconds later they wheeled away and out of sight to the left.
"Mobility," Napoleon quoted, "is the keynote of Thrush. Do we have another camera around to the side?"
"No—I can swing the front and rear cameras to catch him coming or going, but why bother? He's gone east; let's head out the west window."
"Ready any time you are, C.B."
"I shall close the window after you," said Baldwin. "Should you return, you will be able to ring the front doorbell."
They went out the window, across the open stretch of ground and into the trees, ears tensed for that almost inaudible cue to drop. They were under cover before they heard it again, and it was followed almost instantly by a splintering crack from the far side of the lodge.
"He's riding in rings around the house, firing as he goes," said Napoleon. "Primitive, but effective. He isn't doing much damage yet; shall we hide and wait for him to come to us?"
"Seems reasonable. Why don't we spread out. I'll signal if I see him coming."
They spread. The PAR mired once more for the east side of the building, and hit the front door area again less than ninety seconds later. The silence was perhaps the strangest part of the one-sided battle—except for the slam of a corner of the lodge being hit, the whisper of leaves and the calls of undisturbed birds could be clearly heard. The clear bright noon sun dappled through the leaves where Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin crouched in the chilly shade, and watched and listened.
King shifted across the front of the house at his leisure, loosing a round every thirty seconds or so. A beautiful scrollwork cornice exploded into a puff of white splinters, and another section of the steep shingled roof was blown clear of cover to the steel sheathing beneath, which rang like a tin can with the impact and cratered strangely.
Another minute passed as the two UNCLE agents hugged the clammy ground beneath their chosen bushes, watching the house fifty yards away and listening for the muffled engine.
Then a corner of the house burst into a brick cloud and fragments shattered and splattered the wide white door of the garage. A red hole gaped in the masonry as though a berserk airhammer had gone through, but as the larger shards pattered to the ground they heard King's Mule approaching.
Napoleon gathered his feet under him and got ready to move in any direction called for. The jeep engine raced and slowed, ground gears and came closer. It sounded as if it stopped fifty feet or so north of his hiding place, and he waited, squinting among leaves and trunks, for further evidence. Slowly he rose to a crouch and moved forward, ducking from his bush to a stout tree to an outcropping of rock.
On the other side of the rock a good twenty-five feet of open ground separated him from Joseph King. King was climbing from the seat of his Mule onto the rear deck where the Particle Accelerator Rifle was mounted onto a sturdy tripod, with guy wires and a chain. He started to aim the gun, which indeed fit into his arms like a huge clumsy rifle, his eye at the telescope and one hand falling naturally to a panel set with buttons.
As he did so, Napoleon charged directly over the rock, scraping on the face of the granite and sprinting towards the Mule. Even as he left his cover he saw King shift his weight, swinging the gun around like a pool cue, and wondered if he could make it. The twinge in his ears triggered his knees, and he skidded to his face in the wet grass as the rock behind him shattered into gravel.
He rolled desperately, leaped to his feet as he heard Illya's voice yell something from the other side of the clearing and dove behind a large stump. King swung the Rifle and fired again, into the trees where Illya had appeared and vanished. A small tree fell, a larger one cracked, and Illya flopped limply into view.
Solo recognized the cue. While King was checking to see if Illya was playing possum, he could sneak up on him. He rose from behind the stump—and leaped sideways as the PAR swung about to bear on him again. The stump blew to flinders and left a few roots protruding from the churned soil.
Where in hell was Illya? He should be on King's back by this time. Solo lay flat in the shadow of a dense bush and peeked between its tangled stems to where his partner lay, a lump of white against the bright leaves of October. But...he was supposed to be playing possum...
The tree next to him burst a few feet above the ground and showered him with splinters; the main trunk hurtled itself backward two feet and toppled dramatically forward, its leafy crown pointed accusingly at the Mule.
"You haven't got a chance, Solo," King yelled. "I got your partner and I'm going to blow you to a bloody mist before I take Baldwin back and feed him to the Computer!"
Most of Solo's attention was occupied with an advanced-grade field manoeuver which involved crawling backwards rapidly without lifting his stomach from the ground; as a result he may have failed to appreciate King's threat. He rose to his elbows behind another tree sixty feet away and swore bitterly under his breath at the condition of his suit. He was lucky in one respect—th
at lovely telescopic sight was worse than useless against a fast-moving target at close range. He didn't let himself think about Illya, but looked cautiously around a tree.
King was shielded by another tree, but he seemed to be facing the area, watching closely. This really has gone quite far enough, Napoleon said to himself, and slipped his UNCLE Special from its comfortable shoulder rig. He intensely disliked shooting anyone from cover, but the circumstances would seem to dictate...
Running in a perfectly straight line, he kept the next tree precisely between himself and King. He put the edge of his face around the corner to see where his target was—and jumped back as half of the tree made a loud noise and ceased to exist between four and six feet from the ground. Then he jumped forward, another boulder as his goal. He dove ten feet away and rolled to a protected position before King could fire again, and found the automatic still in his fist. Even before he could grab a quick look around there was a deafening CRACK! and the rear half of the boulder toppled slowly forward.
Solo leaped to his feet, snapped the pistol into firing position and worked the trigger once before his thumb released the safety. In the instant before he fired, he was paralyzed by a head-splitting sound and an indescribable wave of tingling heat shot through him. The gun fell from his fingers and his knees trembled. Then his eyes focused on the Mule and he thought, I'm not dead!
King was still wrapped around the gun, but his legs no longer supported him. He slumped limply over the fat coiled breech, a faint stench and thin curls of steam rising silently from his clothes. As Solo stared, he began to slide, and where his face touched the metal it left a smeared black trail. The rear of the PAR was smoking slightly and part of the tubing seemed to be fused.
Something white moved across the clearing, and Illya staggered forward to lean on the side of the Mule as Napoleon approached from the opposite side. His coat was gone and there was a smear of blood down the right side of his face, but he seemed functional. He looked up at the seared ruin of what had been Joseph King, then looked back at Solo.
"I think," he said, "he was scrooched."
Chapter 16: "You Have But Mistook Me..."
A week and a day after the conclusion of certain disastrous events in the Maine woods, in the privacy of his own office deep within UNCLE headquarters, Alexander Waverly once again faced his two top agents.
"It was definitely King this time," he said.
"If that was King standing up there blowing holes in things," said Napoleon, "that's the body we brought back."
"The prints checked," said Illya. "The ones we lifted from the corpse are identical with the latest set you developed on King's forged record sheet. It really was him this time."
Waverly nodded. "Then we have succeeded in our mission. Section Eight is presently analyzing what's left of the advance model of the Particle Accelerator Rifle; the power supplies are already surrendering their secrets. And a great intellect which was lost to us four years ago has now been lost to our enemies as well."
"Leaving Baldwin effectively unopposed for his seat on the Thrush Council," said Illya.
"Yes," said Waverly. "That is that."
"I didn't really want to bring this up," said Napoleon, "especially now—but do you think we've done the best possible thing? I mean, King certainly would have been the most dangerous individual for the position, with his intimate knowledge of UNCLE, but Baldwin has got to run him a close second."
"At least he's not a fanatic," said Illya.
"True," said Waverly. "But he also knows far more about our patterns of action than King—far more than anyone should, for our personal security, if nothing else. There is a definite risk that in the long run Baldwin could prove far more dangerous to us. Still, we shall have another opportunity to assess the resolved situation when we meet with the Baldwins over dinner this evening."
* * *
The Masque Club, on East 54th Street, was a key club long before the Great Democrat Hugh Hefner made them public property. It assures its members of privacy by handing out black domino masks to every individual at the door and quietly insisting that they be worn in the common rooms. There the waitresses, also masked, may be distinguished by their relative lack of other costume.
A small percentage of the notorious and the merely famous are seen to enter and leave among the generally anonymous clientele, and many make use of the very private dining rooms which are available to members in good standing. A few people on the New York Board of Liquor Control know the real owners of the club, and a few people on Centre Street know that the waitresses are hired for many peculiar reasons beyond a good figure, but none of them has seen fit to comment on this. No one seems to notice if an anonymous customer should seem to stay inside for several days, though many do.
The private rooms fit the masque motif—the Harlequin, the Pierrot, the Fiammina, the Pantalon—and this night the Scaramouch was prepared for a very special party of seven. Five were there, two were expected. Irene Baldwin sat between her husband and Napoleon Solo, who, with Illya, bracketed Alexander Waverly as he faced Baldwin. Aperitifs were set neatly around the table, and Chandra's impending arrival with an unspecified friend would effectively curtail business conversation.
"I suppose you will be leaving us shortly," said Waverly.
"I must return to the University before Monday next, but we have a place here in Manhattan until then."
"You'll be concluding your business there, I take it."
"Oh, no. I have an obligation to the Physical Science department and to my own research work there. I shall be in Vermont the remainder of the semester."
"I hope we can see you again before you leave," said Illya.
"Oh, we'll be coming down to New York from time to time," said Irene. "It's not San Francisco, but it is convenient."
Waverly sipped his Cinzano and asked, "The entire semester? I had thought the Council election was imminent."
"In point of fact, it has already been held."
Napoleon spoke in surprise. "But...weren't you elected? With King's whole plot exposed?"
"Oh yes—I turned it down. It would have meant traveling about, living abroad...Certainly you never thought I coveted that position! San Francisco is my home; I have compared the rest of the world and found it wanting."
"What about the vacant seat, then?" asked Illya.
"It went to the nearly-unanimous second choice of the Council. A minor Balkan economist. You've never heard of him—but you will."
A discreet tap at the door announced Chandra Reynolds, who sparkled into the softly lit room followed by a lean dark man whom she introduced as Lee Lang. He brought two chairs from the wall, and she seated herself on Ward's right, which put Lee next to Illya.
"Ward, you must tell me all about what happened in Maine! How did you ever find his weak spot? How did you even know he had one?"
"He was a monomaniac, my dear. Monomaniacs are incapable of taking adequate precautions."
"Really, Chandra," said Irene, "this is hardly the place to get him started on a story."
Napoleon picked up the cue. "Uh, where's Ed?"
"Oh, Ed couldn't make it. But Lee wanted to meet you—he knows all about you."
Illya glanced at him and could believe it. As Chandra held his partner's attention, he caught Solo's voice in a whisper and leaned back to catch it.
"It just goes to show, Mr. Kuryakin, only one thing is sure with Baldwin and his buddies—you never know where you stand."
The Russian nodded. "Absolutely, Mr. Solo."
"Positively, Mr. K."
THE END
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posted 7.13.2002, transcribed by Graculus
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