“So!” Waverly said, drawing the word out in a thoughtful manner. “In that case perhaps I will not send you to assist Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate in Paris. Perhaps -”

“Yes, sir?” Solo prompted.

“Perhaps I made an error, Mr. Solo.”

Thoughtfully the U.N.C.L.E. chief reached over and picked up a briar pipe. He leaned back in the leather upholstered chair and rubbed the bowl between his palms as he contemplated the ceiling.

“The very nature of our business brings us a great deal of peculiar information,” he said slowly. “Much of it is worthless, but occasionally it may be priceless.”

He leaned over and punched a button on the communications console in front of him. A young man’s voice said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Waverly?”

“Mr. Kovac, bring me that letter referring to Mr. Mallon, the movie producer.”

Randy Kovac, U.N.C.L.E.‘s first on-the-job trainee, brought in a folder and handed it to the chief. Waverly extracted a letter and handed it across to Solo.

The man from U.N.C.L.E. scanned it quickly, his eyes narrowing as he read: “There is a hideous threat building up because of a THRUSH offensive directed at American teenagers. Fred B. Mallon knows something about this. If he refuses to talk, force him! It is that important. You must work fast to prevent THRUSH from turning our youth into monsters!”

Wordlessly Solo passed the anonymous note to his partner. As Illya read it, Napoleon said, “After seeing the truly startling change in that young woman, I can believe that this note is telling the truth.”

“Possibly,” Waverly replied. “I had it investigated, naturally. There have been several teenage riots across the country lately. I thought there might be a connection. After all, we know THRUSH very well by now. This evil international organization is extremely clever and will take advantage of the most diabolical methods of advancing its dream of world domination.”

“What did you find out, sir?” Illya asked, passing the letter back to their chief.

Waverly laid the unlighted pipe down with an annoyed gesture.

“This handwriting was compared by electronic scanners with signatures on every income tax report filed last year. From the similarity of letters we were able to trace the writer.”

“Yes, sir?” Solo asked.

“It was Mallon himself!”

“You mean, he wrote an anonymous note asking U.N.C.L.E. to force information from himself?” Illya asked incredulously.

“It would seem so,” Waverly said.

“But why?” Napoleon asked.

“I had a complete report prepared on Mr. Mallon,” Waverly said. “I found that he specialized in horror movies designed for a teenage audience. He just completed a picture called The Million Monsters.”

“Sounds like he rigged up an elaborate publicity stunt at U.N.C.L.E.‘s expense,” Napoleon said.

“That is what I thought and dropped the matter,” Waverly said.

He reached over and picked up the pipe again. Using the stem for a handle, he rapped the bowl on the console to punctuate his words.

“Now I am not so sure,” he replied gloomily. “I did attempt to phone Mallon directly, but I was told that he was not receiving any calls from anyone. I forgot about the matter until you mentioned this curious reaction of his daughter. No matter how publicity crazy this producer may be, I am certain he would never permit his daughter to be arrested just for a plug for a cheap picture.”

“Also,” Napoleon put in, “her record shows that she is hardly the type to go along with such a crazy stunt.”

“The cincher is that you gave her a dose of knockout drops sufficient to render any human being unconscious. Yet she kept fighting. That is not normal and points to something sinister. THRUSH may be involved in this. If so, we face a grave danger.”

“But why did Mallon write an anonymous note urging you to investigate himself?” Illya asked. “Why didn’t he just tell you what he knows about this THRUSH thrust at America’s teenagers?”

“That is Mr. Mallon’s secret,” Waverly said. “However, I suspect that he wanted to protect himself in case his warning note fell into THRUSH hands before he could get it to me.”

“Probably so,” Napoleon said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Return to Hollywood. See Mallon. Also, if there are any teenage riots again anywhere in the United States, I want them carefully investigated and analyzed for possible THRUSH instigation.

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said, getting up. “Shall we go monster hunting, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Let’s, Mr. Solo,” Illya replied, getting up himself.

Alexander Waverly got up. “Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “I know it is unscientific to depend upon hunches. But I have an uneasy feeling that this may prove to be the most difficult case we have ever encountered.”

“If it does not prove to be a publicity stunt for the Million Monsters film after all,” Napoleon returned cautiously.

“Do you believe it is, Mr. Solo?”

“No, sir!” Napoleon replied. “I’m a hunch player too.”

“Good luck,” Waverly said. “You’re going to need it.”

THREE

WHEN THEY ARRIVED back at Los Angeles International Airport Napoleon went directly to a telephone. When the operator refused to give him the unlisted private telephone number of Producer Fred B. Mallon, Solo gave the chief operator a code. Instantly the objections vanished. He was switched immediately to the producer’s phone.

It rang and rang. Napoleon was on the verge of hanging up when someone picked up the phone.

“Yes?” It was a girl’s voice. It was strained and held an undertone of terror.

“This is Napoleon Solo,” the man from U.N.C.L.E. said. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Mallon for a moment. I -”

“He isn’t speaking to anyone,” she said hastily.

“This is an official government matter,” Solo went on. “We are interested in Mr. Mallon producing a propaganda film for showing -”

The phone went dead. The banging in his ear suggested that she threw the receiver in the cradle with a savage force.

“Yeah?” Illya asked.

“A girl,” Napoleon said. “At least her voice sounded young. And it sounded fearful and angry. According to her, Mr. Mallon isn’t talking to anybody.”

“And according to N. Solo?”

“He is going to talk whether she or he likes it!” the man from U.N.C.L.E. snapped.

“I - Look out, Napo -”

Napoleon tried to whirl, but Illya Kuryakin was faster. He grabbed his companion’s coat lapel and swung him around in a savage judo throw.

In the background there was a deafening blast of gunfire. A bullet just missed Napoleon’s head as Illya threw him back out of the line of fire.

The slug smashed into the glass door of the telephone booth. Illya dodged, falling flat on the airline terminal floor. He snaked his body around, pulling his U.N.C.L.E. Special from its shoulder holster under his coat.

As he jerked his head around, seeking a target, he glimpsed Solo, who was on his knees pulling his own Special.

“Wham!”

A steel-jacketed slug scraped the fleshy part of his thigh. He was knocked back flat. Oblivious of the pain, he spun his prone body around.

He saw Solo fire and heard a scream. A burly teenager who looked like a fugitive from Muscle Beach collapsed. Two companions behind him stumbled over his falling body. They all had long hair and were bare-footed. All three had guns.

Napoleon hurled himself at them. His frantically kicking shoe caught the gun wrist of one. The gun spun across the floor. The second gunman tried to blast the charging Kuryakin. Solo hit him with a football tackle.

The berserk hipster went down. His head cracked against the hard floor. Blood streamed from the cut. His eyes rolled back in his head. But like the girl the day before, the would-be killer’s body acted independently of its unconscious mind.

His gun was jarred from his hand when he fell, but he hurled himself on Solo. The other caught Illya, who was at a disadvantage because of his own bleeding wound.