The Hungry World Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  The scientist expressed his pleasure, added: “Very clever, this telly-conference. We’re at distant ends of the earth, yet you are so lifelike on the screen here in Rome I feel almost as if I could reach out and shake hands with you.”

  “You and Mr. Solo may have that pleasure in the near future,” Waverly said, “Mr. Solo, are you familiar with Dr. Doulou’s professional achievements?”

  “Who isn’t? He’s the agronomist who knows more about grains than any other human on the planet.”

  “Quite true,” Alexander Waverly said. “His latest line of research, vital to the world, is now in the hands of THRUSH. And that’s where we come in. We’ve never been faced with a job more urgent.”

  Waverly drew in a heavy breath. “I will let Dr. Doulou brief us. But mind you, Doctor,” Waverly gave an admonishing waggle of his briar, “in layman’s language, without the scientific terms and details that would confuse us.”

  Doulou nodded. His eyes were somber. “As you know, gentlemen, half the world’s population will go to bed with empty bellies tonight. With each passing hour, the population explosion aggravates the problem. The problem to which I applied myself---“

  He paused to wipe his neck with a damp handkerchief. “The first primitive farmers worked with plants that were little more than weeds. Centuries of selective breeding produced the grains we know today. But we’ve not that kind of time left to us. Not centuries. Perhaps not even decades.

  “However, we do have a weapon unavailable to men of the past. In the invisible sub-world of the atom, we have the power to produce mutations, those departures through which the process of evolution operates. And that, simply put, was the basis of my research. I discovered a sub-atomic particle harmless to animal tissue, that in theory would affect the basic genetic structure of grains.

  “In short, I saw the possibility of bringing about almost instantly a mutated, high-yield grain that would have taken centuries to produce by evolution through selective breeding.”

  “And it worked,” Napoleon Solo hazarded, “And THRUSH got hold of it. Now they hope to lure the human race to defeat through its stomach.”

  “A very logical deduction, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, “but entirely wrong. We face sheer disaster---because the Doulou Particle did not work.”

  “The contrary was true, Napoleon,” Kuryakin said. “The mutant grain reverted to its prehistoric state, yielding little more than a husk on a spindly stalk.”

  “Instead of creating food, I destroyed it!” Doulou said in a voice ragged with self-incrimination.

  “Easy, Doctor,” Waverly’s suave tones became gentle, comforting. “No one blames you. Research is just that. A search, a blind alley. A re-searching, over and over again, until the accumulated facts reveal a truth. Edison knew that a certain material should glow when energized by an electric current. But how many hundreds of materials did he test before his searching turned up the right one?”

  Doulou closed his eyes. “Would to God the price of my false start was no higher than Edison’s!”

  The doctor breathed heavily for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes, they were haunted. “If THRUSH perverts the particle to use as a weapon, can you visualize the horror, gentlemen? Bread becomes non-existent…grain-eating livestock perishes…Men slaughter each other for a crust.

  “But the thousands, millions killed in the food riots will be the lucky ones. Pity those survivors who turn into wild beasts, mindless with hunger, who start eating each other!”

  Three

  Napoleon Solo endured a moment of trance-like numbness. His mind refused to accept the harrowing pictures Dr. Doulou had verbally painted.

  “Earth may be a grain of sand in the universe,” he said, “but it’s a sizeable chunk of material as we humans see it. Are the nations supposed to sit still while THRUSH agents scatter the Doulou Particle over the fields and crops?”

  “Any group or nation with nuclear capabilities may prepare the particle, Mr. Solo,” Dolou said heavily. “Carried aloft by ordinary missiles, a couple of run-of-mill atom bombs, exploded at the edge of outer space over the polar regions, would scatter the particle sufficiently. The particle would diffuse through the atmosphere and reach the earth’s surface as fall-out. Its effects would show up in the next grain crops.”

  Solo stared at the faces ranged in the visi-screens. Kuryakin looked as hard as white marble. Waverly had not twitched a muscle, but Solo detected a sheen of fine sweat on his chief’s brow The evidence of Waverly’s inner feelings was more than cause for alarm.

  Still, Solo’s mind fought for a way out, a reasonable objection. “Are you telling me that THRUSH has decided to destroy what it can’t conquer? As Hitler dedicated himself to total destruction of a world slipping out of his grasp?”

  Waverly gave the reply. “Hardly, Mr. Solo. THRUSH’s fanaticism is of a different turn. THRUSH values its own self interests too highly. THRUSH will not destroy itself merely to annihilate the rest of us. THRUSH is greedy for a world to exploit, filled with living slaves, not for an empty desolation.”

  Napoleon Solo leaned forward. His jacket button grated and broke on the edge of the conference table. “You are implying---“

  “Yes, Mr. Solo?”

  “That THRUSH will have foodstuffs while its opposition dies of starvation.”

  Waverly’s bushy brows inched closer together. “I have racked my brain. You have stated the only possible deduction. The Doulou Particle is but half of their master plan. As you point out, Mr. Solo, the particle becomes the most potent weapon ever to fall into their hands only if THRUSH can offer an alternative to starvation.”

  “Do you know what this alternative is?”

  Waverly tapped the bit of his briar against his lip. “Our entire computer system has been busy on the subject from the moment we got wind of the attack on Dr. Doulou. We’ve also had the assistance of a defecting THRUSH man who offered his brains for thorough picking in exchange for asylum.

  “And, I might add, my own mental faculties have been wholly occupied with the problem. Every factor indicates that the answer lies locked in the brain of a brilliant young marine biologist---and pray we are right! We won’t have a chance to second-guess!”

  “My assignment?” Solo asked.

  “Indubitably, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said.

  “Who is this marine biologist? And where do I find him?”

  “To answer your questions in reverse order, Mr. Solo. Not a him. A her. Very lovely, too, I might add. She is Princess Andra Chaupetl. Genuine, blue-blooded royalty, not India-Indian, if I may coin a phrase. Her forbears were Aztec kings.”

  Solo eased warily back in his chair. His chief, he knew, would dish up the complexities of the assignment in his own time, own way.

  “Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, almost musingly, “you know of course that the most abundant supply of foodstuff on this planet comes not from the soil.”

  “You’re speaking of the limitless plankton in the oceans and seas.”

  “Precisely Mr. Solo. The inexhaustible, endless stuff that feeds everything from the shrimp to the whale.”

  “But the best scientific brains haven’t yet figured a way to harvest plankton and process it for human consumption. Unless---“ Solo’s voice trickled off.

  “I sense the conclusion you’ve reached,” Waverly said. “And you are quite correct. We believe Princess Andra has achieved a breakthrough in the plankton problem. Else THRUSH would not have considered the time ripe to put its latest scheme in operation.”

  Solo slouched in his chair, eyes half closed, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth revealing the tension he was under.

  Summed up, then, THRUSH’s two-fold plan is simple. First, use the Doulou Particle to plunge the world into a state of starvation, massive riot, chaos. Second, lure the survivors into eternal slavery by offering them a share of the harvest from the oceans, which THRUSH, and only THRUSH, monopolizes with Princess Andra’s process.”

  “I could not have
expressed it more succinctly myself,” Waverly said. “The man behind this master stroke by THRUSH bears a curious resemblance to Mr. Kuryakin. We can assume he is brilliant, even though he has perverted his talents to evil. Such a man will have left traces of himself in academic and scientific circles. Our research people are hard at work running down his identity. We also have the problem of a new THRUSH weapon---hot togs.”

  “Come again?” Solo said, eyes snapping wide.

  “A garment that carries its own power pack,” Waverly said. “Worn by a THRUSH agent, it makes him as lethal as a high-voltage transformer.”

  “We had a spot of luck,” Kuryakin said, “and got hold of some of the suits when Dr. Doulou and I stopped a limousine carrying three THRUSH agents.”

  “Our technicians are taking the suits apart a thread at a time,” Waverly said. “As soon as we have devised a defense, we shall of course advise you.”

  “Meantime,” Kuryakin added wryly, “don’t tap a THRUSH agent on the shoulder.”

  Excellent advice,” Waverly said. “Quite.”

  “Meanwhile,” Solo said, “where do I find this daughter of the fabulous Aztec kings, this Princess Andra?”

  “At a small city on the coast of Peru, Mr. Solo. It’s called Chambasa. The waters there teem with marine specimens. The princess has a laboratory located on a large estate which she inherited.”

  “Then I should be off, if there’s nothing else on your mind, Mr. Waverly.”

  “I---ah---as a matter of fact, there is one more thing,” Waverly said. “Princess Andra doesn’t need money and she’s not particularly concerned with being famous. She pursues her line of research simply because it fascinates her. Art for art’s sake, in a matter of speaking.

  “As a consequence, she is something of a loner. I can’t say that she cares very much for undercover agents, either. Her father happened to be an altruistic political leader who was murdered during a South American revolt. The experience left the princess more than somewhat embittered against anything smacking of politics.”

  Solo exhaled a long breath. “Are you finished now, Mr. Waverly?”

  “For the moment, yes. I have outlined your immediate problems. Kuryakin will lend you a hand shortly.”

  “And you might have given me something simple. Like, say, merely blowing a hole in the sky.”

  ACT TWO

  FARM GIRL OF THE SEAS

  The people of Chambasa referred to the Chaupetl residence as El Castillo, The Castle. Spoken with a certain comfortable arrogance, the tag became a descriptive phrase. The Chambasan said “El Castillo” the same way that a New Yorker might say “Empire State Building” or a Japanese “Fujiyama”. Each took it for granted that the label would evoke the picture of the whole.

  The folder issued by the tourist bureau in Lima was more explicit. It devoted a paragraph to Chambasa, and a dozen to The Castle.

  Situated on a promontory overlooking Chambasa and the harbor, The Castle was a gray pile that somehow escaped the gloomy look of most such structures. It did not suggest dungeons or dank, dripping, secret stairways, or screams echoing from a torture rack.

  Instead, its sunny, ivy-covered walls and ramparts reminded one of childhood tales of knights in shining armor and gracious ladies. It was a castle in the air, straight out of Lewis Carroll or the Wizard of OZ. Its backdrop on one hand was the sparkling Pacific; on the other, the rugged Andes pierced the clouds.

  Dion Gould acquainted himself with floor plans of The Castle in the dusty archives of the Cuzco Museum.

  It had originally been built with Indian slave labor by a Spaniard descended from a member of Pizzaro’s staff. Falling into disuse and marked with the scars of ruin as time swallowed the generations and fortunes of men, The Castle had eventually been incorporated into the estate of the Chaupetls.

  The final restoration had been made by Princess Andra’s grandfather, as much to preserve an historical landmark as for his own use.

  The original builder, Gould noted, had feared both rebellious natives and designs against his bloodstained gold by his own kind. He’d made his redoubt just about attack-proof. The thick outer walls would survive cannon fire from men-o’-war lying in the harbor.

  Attack parties rash enough to scale the barren heights would have found the single entrance to the courtyard blocked by a massive, finely-balanced iron door.

  Mulling about the long table strewn with the drawings, the THRUSH master-brain had a pleasurable sense of power. He had the means to reduce the redoubt to shattered gravel, if he cared to snap his fingers. Gould laughed as he thought of the crude ships, inefficient swords, and puny cannon of a by-gone era.

  You had to admit one thing, though. Those old boys had done a remarkable job of butchery with their available means. What might they have done with the firepower that a present-day THRUSH team enjoyed!

  He broke off the interesting speculation. His own prospects were too dazzling for him to waste time thinking of the feeble successes of past conquerors. He thought of the nearness of total victory, and a savagely glorious sensation shot through him.

  He was Dion Gould, free of the moral stupidities that fettered mortal men! The earth would be his, simply because he had the god-like power to reach and take it, mold it to any shape he wished!

  The power of THRUSH was at his beck and call. The Doulou Particle was being readied. The missiles even now were being set up to carry the particle aloft and scatter it over the earth.

  Gould thought of the time it had taken. The plotting, the dirty work, the rise through the ranks, the evolvement of his plan and the scheming to get it accepted.

  Now a single final step remained. The answer to a single question: “When the earth has ceased to yield, how do we harvest the seas to feed our slaves?”

  When I’ve picked the answer from the brain of Princess Andra, he thought, no power on earth can stop me.

  But he knew it must be done quickly, quietly. Correlating every known factor, U.N.C.L.E. would detect the pattern. Their brains and computers would struggle through to the importance of Princess Andra’s research. No helping that. But it wouldn’t do U.N.C.L.E. the slightest bit of good. The wire was just ahead, and U.N.C.L.E. was barely out of the starting gate.

  Even as he hurried from the museum, Gould had devised the tactic to turn the final trick. He knew a moment of breathless admiration for the cleverness and rapidity with which his mind worked.

  Marlene Reine was waiting in a rented car at the dusty curb. As Gould slid in beside her, she said, “You seem very pleased with yourself. Discover a secret entrance to Her Highness’s secret chambers?”

  A breeze washed Gould’s blond bangs across his high forehead. He raised a finger to flip the hair back. “Any secret tunnels were not included in the formal plans. No, there are only two ways into The Castle. From above, or below. It would be a risky job to drop a ‘copter in the courtyard. The area’s cut up by fountains, arbors, secondary buildings. Anyway, a ‘copter would warn the inhabitants of our arrival.”

  “Which leaves us below,” Marlene said. She was cool blonde perfection, perfectly formed from toe to crown, lovelier than the dream of the artists who worshipped female beauty. Almost icy---except for the hint of savage passion lurking in the depths of her frost-blue eyes.

  She rested her palms on the steering wheel and watched Gould closely. She knew he had something clever up his sleeve. He was not as adept as masking himself with her as he was with other people.

  She understood him better than even she sometimes wanted to. She had known him early in his THRUSH career. She’d been with the supragovernment a year longer. They’d gravitated on a personal basis when both had been assigned to a minor affair in the Middle East.

  She’d sensed very quickly that Dion Gould was a personality that would rise to the top or destroy itself in the attempt. The prospect fascinated her as much as the man himself did. Tacitly, they’d linked their lives, their work, the icy dynamite of their personal emotions. She was the
cool counterbalance for Gould’s sometimes erratic impulses.

  They’d made a great team. She was his most trusted adviser, furthering his career, and thereby her own, at every opportunity. Now they were on the brink of the biggest coup in history.

  “When you’re quite through breaking your mental arms patting yourself on the back,” she said, “perhaps you’ll tell me how we’re to get into The Castle.”

  “There is only one entrance, my dear. The massive portal is in the outer wall. So THRUSH shall walk in.”

  “Just like that?”

  “How else?”

  She reached and patted his cheek lightly. “Don’t be droll with me, darling. Remember that Andra’s father was a high politico. Some of his personal bodyguard have remained with her. Including that captain of the guard, Pico, who lost an eye and part of his face in the explosion that killed her father.”

  “Quite a fellow, that Pico,” Gould mused. “Wish we had a few like him. He tried to throw himself across the bomb, give his life to save the man whose life was in his keeping.”

  “You’re not thinking of trying to bribe such a man?”

  “My dear,” Gould tipped her chin with his fingers, brushed her lips lightly with his. “That remark is unworthy of you. Certainly you can’t think I’m asinine enough to consider a bribe attempt on a man who---“

  “How then? Strike The Castle in force?”

  “And chance our prize escaping or perhaps getting killed in the fray?” Gould made a clucking sound with his tongue; knowing his question needed no answer.

  “Very well,” Marlene said. “Keep it to yourself. It’s your problem and I---“

  “All right.” His youthful face slipped into cunning lines. “Here it is. A small group of girls from a veddy-veddy private school---let’s make it the Somerset Academy For Young Ladies, shall we?---are furthering their education through travel. What could be more natural for them to include The Castle and its famous young lady occupant in their itinerary?

  “Even Pico couldn’t suspect a small group of lassies chaperoned by their headmistress, Madame Reine! Unless you have slipped badly, my dear, you’ll have no trouble arranging a tour of the historic Castle.”