by Unknown
The THRUSH women seemed to strain forward, eager for blood. Vanessa Robin knocked the bullhorn against her leg in a gesture of anger.
"Very well, Solo," she thundered, horn at her lips again. "Since you wish to continue the charade, we'll finish you in style. My girls are eager to get at the three of you. But you have no weapons. And you are burdened by poor Mr. Kuryakin hanging in your arms like a potato sack. So perhaps we should let you feel the real strength of THRUSH before you die."
Vanessa Robin turned and executed a kind of mocking little bow of invitation to Klaanger standing beside her.
The misshapen hulk straightened up. A slack grin of delight crawled across his liverish lips. His huge hands twitched at the ends of his incredibly long arms.
"General Klaanger and I will do the honors, Solo." Vanessa waved her left hand at him, the fingers fluttering in a dainty, lady-like way that was somehow horrible. "With our hands."
Flinging aside the horn for the last time, she began to walk forward. She unfastened a golden clip which held her hair in place. She shook her head. Her hair fell loose, trailing blonde and glittering to her waist.
As she walked she smoothed her tunic. Klaanger shambled forward beside her, cracking his knuckles.
Solo and Helene, meantime, had continued to back up steadily. Helene whispered, "The wall—"
Simultaneously, Solo's shoes caught in something which nearly caused him to stumble. He glanced down.
They had reached the patch of stones just under the wall and to one side of the booth which sheltered a door that led through the wall. Solo gauged the distances.
No go.
Vanessa and Klaanger were running now, running with their faces full of malicious triumph, two immensely tall, immensely powerful creatures. If Solo tried to get Illya through the gate, Vanessa and Klaanger would be on them first.
Solo suddenly felt small, weak, powerless to cope with the two monster-people charging toward him. They would finish him no matter how hard he fought.
"Helene!" he whispered. "Drag Illya into the booth. I'll hold them back."
"But you cannot stand against them!"
"Do as I tell you!"
Thud-thud-thud-thud. In the silence of the windy parade ground, the boot-soles of Vanessa Robin and Felix Klaanger thudded on the turf. Another five or ten seconds and they would be on top of him.
Klaanger's fingers flexed as he ran; flexed in anticipation of getting hold of Solo's arms and legs and ripping them out of their sockets; flexed in anticipation of tearing his body apart like a hunk of meat from the butcher's counter.
Alone, weaponless, cold in his belly and slightly dizzy, Solo stood his ground. He'd stand them off as long as he could.
Helene had responded to his order. She was dragging Illya's unconscious form toward the booth.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Vanessa's hair streamed out behind. Her slanting green eyes were infinitely cruel. Klaanger laughed from deep in his gigantic chest, the laugh of a beast. Far back at the edge of the sky, Solo though he heard a thin, whistling whine. It was probably only his imagination.
His eyes were blurred. The monstrously tall, monstrously strong pair came charging steadily on while he braced himself there on the patch of stones, hoping to fight as long as possible with his bare hands before they tore him apart—
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Almost three-quarters of the distance was gone. They raced with incredible speed, like a pair of—what had Illya said?
Yes. Like the Biblical giant.
Like Goliaths—
Suddenly Solo's mind clicked over.
He shot out his right hand, gesturing.
"Helene. Helene! Give me your belt."
Confused, fumbling, she unfastened the brass buckle and threw the belt. Solo caught it in the air. Almost growling like an animal, he chewed at the leather, ripped at it till he had bitten a small hole through the belt.
He dropped to one knee. He grabbed a medium-sized stone from the path, wedged it into the makeshift hole and, gripping both ends of the belt so that it formed a long loop with the stone at the bottom, he whipped the belt around and around over his head and let one end go -
There was a quick, whizzing sound.
Vanessa Robin screamed and fell.
The stone was imbedded in the center of her forehead and her smashed frontal skull oozed blood.
Klaanger howled with maniacal rage. He shot his hands out in front of him, mindless, maddened, wanting only to kill the little man dancing back and forth in front of him, the wiry little man from U.N.C.L.E. who had knelt down again, fitted a stone into the belt and was whirling the belt around and around above his head -
"Filthy, filthy!" Klaanger shrieked, charging on, "Filthy, I kill you!"
Solo let go of one end of the long belt.
The stone sped with a deadly buzz.
And missed.
"Filthy, filthy U.N.C.L.E. man!" Klaanger howled with glee, zigzagging now to present a more difficult target.
Solo fumbled with another stone. He got it wedged into the hole in the belt.
Klaanger was no more than fifteen yards away. His great brown eyes shone like mad lanterns.
Around and around Solo whipped the belt in the air over his head. His arm-muscles were tormented with the pain of the effort—
"Filthy, filthy, I kill—" Klaanger screamed, hands questing out in front of him.
The stone flew from the improvised sling.
Klaanger choked, rocked back in his tracks. He clawed at his throat where the stone had struck.
From his neck a red spout of blood shot forth, splattering the grass.
With a gurgling, witless yell of frustration, the last of the two Goliaths fell.
On the parade ground a frenzied yell of hate went up from the throats of the THRUSH girls. They pulled their rifles and pistols into firing position, just as the low whistling whine Solo had heard a few moments before became a metallic banshee wail. The first of the silver-pale fighter bombers came in over the Schwarzwald and the parade ground, laying down a stick of bombs that Solo saw tumble in lazy, slow-motion fashion in those surrealistic moments when he turned and plunged for the booth.
He snatched Illya's body up over his shoulder and literally kicked Helene ahead of him into the booth and out through the door in the wall.
He didn't have to urge Helene to run after that. Panic got hold of her, real panic. She sped along beside him as they plunged into the forest and pelted ahead in the dark, banging against trees, bashing their heads against limbs -
The night opened up behind them into a bloom of fire and smoke and blasting thunderclaps.
The shock wave blasted Napoleon Solo and Helene to the ground. His forehead smacked the earth heavily.
Fireworks and fury lit up in his mind.
He fainted.
Fingers stroked his cheeks. Solo groaned, he opened his eyes.
At once his skull began to vibrate like the head of a snare drum. He kept his eyes closed a moment in the cool darkness, inhaling the fragrance of pine and fir.
Gradually the throbbing ceased. He opened his eyes again and got his bearings.
He was lying on his back with his head in Helene Bauer's lap. She was either laughing or crying. He couldn't quite tell which until he felt the warm tears dropping gently onto his dirty, sweat-streaked face.
Above him he saw gently soughing treetops. A scarlet glow washed the undersides of their leaves. He tried to struggle up: "Illya—"
From the near dark a familiar voice said weakly, "Here. I'm awake. I think I'll make it, although this wretched leg certainly hurts."
"The bombers—" Solo asked.
Helene was sobbing softly: "Gone, all gone. The headquarters is gone too. There were awful screams in the smoke. Now there's nothing but the fire—"
Suddenly she bent and pressed her cheek against Solo's.
"What will they do to me? What will they do to me for working with THRUSH?"
/> He wanted to tell her that because she'd helped them escape the authorities might mitigate her punishment. He couldn't find the words. He was bone-tired. The night swam around him, a confusing of swaying boughs and flickering red lights and, somewhere, a last piercing moan of agony as the last of the super-creatures of THRUSH perished in the bombed-out ruins.
Illya Kuryakin said:
"Why is it, Napoleon, why is it that, no matter what happens, no matter what horrors we pass through, no matter what nightmares fall upon us, you always manage to emerge as the one to have your head cradled in the girl's lap?"
Napoleon Solo felt Helene's soft, soothing fingers.
He croaked, "Takes talent," and promptly fainted once again.
THE END
* * * * *
home
posted 7.13.2002, transcribed by Graculus
