Solo pondered a minute, said:

"From the contents of that file, we also know Dr. Shelley was gathering reports and data on similar tidal waves that have occurred mysteriously at various places around the world during the past year. He may or may not have concluded that THRUSH was perfecting a means to control ocean currents. But THRUSH thought he'd stumble on it sooner or later if he hadn't already. So that was a good enough reason for them wanting both Dr. Shelley and his master file wiped out."

"Good thinking, Mr. Solo." Waverly rolled back sliding glass doors and stepped into a two-story chamber filled with incredibly big computers all a-dazzle with winking lights.

A young man with spectacles as thick as safety glass bustled toward them as Waverly finished: "Now we must attempt to make some sense out of that one small hand-scribbled note we discovered in the file. Ah, Boltshot, good morning."

"Morning, sir, morning," said the computer technician. Noting Illya's bandage-swaddled head, he added, "You visiting firemen must have been spending a bit of time carousing, eh? Well, nothing like a good night on the town away from home."

"That's right," Solo said sourly. "It's just been one good time after another."

Mr. Waverly gestured. "Which of these units have you programmed with the problem, Boltshot?"

Dry-washing his hands, the technician led the way. "Right down here, sir. Supervac twenty-two-Q our latest addition. It's a regular little darling of a unit, sir. The only thing Supervac twenty-two-Q can't do is cook up a nice bowl of red cabbage and if it ever learns to do that, Tessie my dear, I tell my wife, you'll be posting a Situation Wanted in the newspaper."

The technician whipped a punch card from a slot in the nearest, Eight-flecked monster.

"As I was given the details, sir, Dr. Shelley's file contained a handwritten excerpt from a news clipping to the effect that some fishermen off the coast of Holland swore one day last month that they saw something like a white whale surfacing. Fantastic, of course. They were probably loaded with schnapps."

Under Waverly's glare, Boltshot returned his attention to the card, waving it back and forth: "Uh—well, you wish to know whether this whale-like apparition could have been a submarine. Of course Supervac has no way of telling that. Operating upon your second assumption—that the thing was a submarine—what locations might currently be serving as the necessary fuelling station or stations? Supervac has no way of knowing that, either."

Illya said darkly, "It must be good for something." Two tape drums began to spin with an eerie whine. Napoleon Solo nudged his friend.

"You've hurt its feelings."

Boltshot sniffed. "Many lay persons do not understand the computer, gentlemen. It can only perform within certain fixed limits. One thing it can do is report on locations in Europe at which THRUSH operatives have been observed within the last six months. Narrowing the selection to locations in a coastal position—obviously a requirement for a submarine fueling station—Supervac twenty- two-Q has already pinpointed a single current possibility."

Boltshot thrust another punched card proudly at Mr. Waverly, who scowled.

"Come, come, man, I can't make out what these holes mean!"

"The language of logic, sir. This punch stands for Cornwall. This punch, the coast. This punch, Castle Sykedon. That's a small village whose exact location can be found on any map. I went to the trouble of phoning up the Information Center for additional facts. Castle Sykedon, for which the village was named, is an actual feudal castle which has stood in disrepair for many years.

"Mid-summer of last year, a private syndicate known as Pan-British Tourist Properties, Ltd., bought it up and refurbished it. They opened it in late September as an attraction for visitors. There were workmen of all sorts on the scene for months prior to this time, or so the Center told me. There was a great deal of heavy construction equipment present also. And THRUSH agents were seen in the vicinity at various times."

Mr. Waverly touched the punch card with his pipe. "This may well be it."

Frown lines appeared on Solo's forehead. "Refurbishing an entire castle would be a perfect cover for moving in the equipment needed to build a submarine fuelling station. That is, provided the castle itself is actually located on the water."

Boltshot looked wounded. "We specifically requested Supervac to supply only those locations which are directly on the ocean. Supervac does not make mistakes."

Mr. Waverly nodded briskly. "Yes, yes, Boltshot, no offense in tended. Thank you very much."

As they rode downward in the elevator again, Mr. Waverly said, "Gentlemen, I believe we may finally be making some headway to ward uncovering the nature of Project Ahab. The sightings by the Dutch fisherman––Naglesmith's warnings about a white whale—the mysterious reappearance of Commander Ahab—Dr. Shelley's research—it all points to something extremely big and extremely dangerous for U.N.C.L.E. and the world. Mr. Solo, is your Brownie in repair?"

The elevator stopped. Solo said, "I beg your pardon?"

"Your Brownie, your Kodak, your camera. All tourists carry cameras."

"I have a feeling," Illya said, "we are going to be sent on holiday."

"All expenses paid," said Mr. Waverly, unsmiling. He waved the punch card. "To Cornwall."

THREE

THE ROAD was steep. It wound upward from the tiny village, a gravel thoroughfare so rough that tourists had to take it on foot. The central crown of the roadway stuck up so high that it would have scraped away half the underparts of any taxicab which attempted the trip.

The air smelled of sea wind. Far below, combers broke on rocks. Solo and Illya had been tramping for perhaps fifteen minutes. The afternoon was bright and sunny.

Ahead of them the road twisted out of sight behind huge boulders. But their destination loomed against the sky, great stone turrets standing out in sinister relief. Dozens of tourists of every description were going up and down the road to Castle Sykedon.

Solo and Illya passed a low, flat rock upon which sat two portly American ladies. One had her shoe off.

She was massaging her toe and bewailing the inavailabiity of Coca-Cola.

"Personally," Solo said out of the corner of his mouth, "I think we've carried things a little far with this get-up. This idiotic tassel keeps falling in my eyes."

Illya was attired in a wide-brimmed straw hat and one-way sunglasses with immense lenses. He carried two cameras and a gadget bag strung over his shoulders. He clucked his tongue.

"It may irritate you, Napoleon, but it's excellent cover. No one will remember our faces, only our paraphernalia. Besides, Americans overseas always go out of their way to look like Americans."

He was referring to Solo's red fez with black tassel. The fez bore gold embroidery identifying the wearer as a member of the Imperial Order of Pachyderms, Lodge No. 302. Solo also had a camera strung around his neck, and a gadget bag bulging with road maps, tourist folders and several bags of potato chips.

In a few more moments they reached the summit of the road. Tourists were lined up outside a booth beside a turnstile set in a high outer stone wall. Two men who looked much too burly and scarred to be villagers collected entrance fees, scrutinizing each arrival hard eyes. As they got in line, Illya whispered, "Look at those lads. Do you hear a bird singing?"