The commands which Dr. Bauer crackled out in German sent the technicians scuttling to the control board consoles. Solo heard switches being flipped, a powerful motorized whining begin somewhere.

A thick head strap cut across his forehead and ran down past his ears. He could not turn his head or move more than a fraction of an inch on the table, so tight were the bindings. All he could see, directly above, was an expanse of concrete and, nearer, the stainless steel ball suspended between the two slender poles.

In the center of the ball, the black lens-like device began to glow a strange metallic blue.

You may be a dwarf with the strength of a two-year old.

Or the process may not work at all in reverse.

You may simply be dead.

Dr. Bauer continued to call orders to the technicians. Solo heard switch after switch being thrown.

The metallic blue light in the lens far overhead pulsed brighter.

You may be a dwarf—

In dreadful fascination Solo watched the lens glow with a brilliant blue. Sweat poured off his forehead, turned his clothing sodden.

Without warning there was a low roar, a whining, and scarlet sparks shot across his field of vision. Then came smoke, more sparks, another flat explosion. Helene Bauer screamed.

ACT THREE — The Harder U.N.C.L.E. Falls

ONE

The yapping of the mastiffs grew louder and more ferocious behind him.

Illya Kuryakin was running with less and less speed every second. His right leg grew more painful with every step.

But how could he stop? Those nine savage animals were snarling and bounding along behind him, gaining fast.

Illya was growing dizzy from the exertion of the run. Every time his right foot smacked down against the carpet of needles and dead leaves on the forest floor, a burst of pain shot up into his skull and blurred his vision.

He breathed in huge, noisy gulps, heedless of the sound he made. At this critical moment, outrunning the animals was more important than keeping silent.

Outrunning? The idiocy of that approach finally penetrated Illya's mind.

For perhaps seven or eight minutes he had been blundering through the sun-dappled forest, hoping to escape the THRUSH canine pack. He had concentrated every effort, every thought on running at top speed despite the handicap of his leg. Now he was beginning to slow down through no fault of his own; and the mastiffs were catching up. He had to think up some alternate plan and quickly.

He rejected the notion of using the pistol which was still clutched in his right hand. The time required to turn and pick off the mastiffs one by one would be too long. Even if he shot one or two of the dogs, the others would charge the moment they heard the pistol-shots and probably attack him from a different angle within seconds.

Illya didn't care for the idea of digging in and standing fast, either. The dogs could surround him if he remained in one place for too long. He had to devise a way to strike once, effectively.

This whole thought process actually took place in Illya's mind in seconds, while he limped and lurched onward. The light in the forest was tricky. Patches of deep fir-scented gloom alternated with sudden brilliant glades where the sun managed to find its way downward through the boughs.

He had just crossed one of these glades and plunged into the shadows on the far side when he found what he hoped might be the solution—

Bursting through a row of trees on the far side of the glade, Illya nearly pitched into space. He dug in his heels and rocked to a stop, panting.

Directly in front of him the side of a gully sloped precipitously downward. It was a drop of about eight feet. At the bottom a gurgling stream meandered. What attracted Illya's notice was a large, dark opening in the wall of the gully opposite. It was some kind of animal's burrow, nearly four feet high and three feet wide at its opening.

Just behind this, an immense old deep-rooted oak thrust upward through the soil of the gully wall. One of the oak's lower branches hung out over the burrow entrance and the little stream.

The plan was desperate and even a trifle ridiculous because it was such a long, long shot. It sprang full-blown into his mind in an instant. He decided to trust his instinct and go ahead, provided he still had the one bit of armament he needed—

Desperately Illya shoved his pistol into the waistband of his trousers and dug his hand beneath his belt to the utility pocket where he carried a number of items such as lock-picks, a suicide capsule and a special communicator pack shaped like a half-sized cigarette pack. Gingerly and carefully he pulled out a small football-shaped pill.

The pill was a low-charge pressure-fused demolition device usually employed for creating a blast in a highly limited area. Such devices were valuable in blowing open a lock because the charge was concentrated. To fling such a pill back at the dog pack would have been useless; there was not enough scatter.

Buried in earth, though—Illya's eyes glittered hopefully as he charged down this side of the gully, staggered across the stream and crawled up to the entrance of the animal burrow.

Peering into that musty-smelling opening, Illya noted a pair of feral, red-gleaming animal eyes regarding him from far back in the dark. He heard a faint, rasping snarl.

A fox! What luck!

Carefully Illya bit down on the brown pill, holding it between his teeth as he stripped off the scrofulous knee-length coat and floppy hat which had been his costume of the day. He flung these rags into the animal's den. Then he clambered up the gully-side and leaped high. He caught hold of the thick, swaying tree branch which overhung the gully wall.

His right leg throbbed. He managed to swing it up and stretch himself precariously upon the branch, which swayed like a hammock under his weight.

Across the gully, the first of the mastiffs bounded from the trees, tongue lolling, savage eyes sweeping the scene before it. The other dogs appeared almost at once. Their smooth coats shone in the dim sunlight. Their teeth gleamed like white needles.

The dogs stopped yapping. One scratched his way down the gully-side and padded across the creek, sniffing and whining. Far back in the forest there were shouts, the crashing of boots. Time was precious. The THRUSH agents would be here in a matter of moments.

The mastiffs seemed confused. They were all sniffing up and down the gully bank. The dog that had crossed the creek was growling and advancing with a twitching muzzle toward the dark circle of the burrow.

"That's it," Illya breathed. "Don't look up."

The limb upon which Illya was hanging gave a faint, horrendous crack.

Illya hung on tightly as the limb sagged perhaps a foot. There came another splintery sound. More wood gave way.

Illya wished he were sixty pounds lighter. There was nothing to be done about that now. He was hanging barely six feet above the head of the curious mastiff, absolutely immobile.

The dogs would know Illya was somewhere nearby; scent would tell them so. But he had thrown them off by pitching his clothes into the burrow. If this accursed limb only held up long enough—

With a ferocious yelp, the mastiff just below shot his muzzle into the burrow, growling savagely. Then, as though jerked by a collar-tether, the mastiff totally disappeared inside.

Illya waited for the next act in the naturalistic drama. It was not long in coming.

A yip, a sound of earth being violently disturbed, the angry barkings and snarlings of more than one animal all indicated that mastiff and fox had met.

Hearing this call to arms, the rest of the dogs shot into action. They barked and charged across the creek, and for a moment there was a considerable traffic-jam at the narrow entrance as the mastiffs all tried to squeeze inside to aid their comrade.