Ahab crossed the plush ivory carpet to the chart table, returning with the oceanographic map he had consulted earlier. He pointed to a number of bright red crosses on the map.

"Here, here and here our divers will plant charges necessary to create a tidal wave of such immense proportions that it can easily sweep up the Thames River and destroy all of London and the countryside round about for a radius of fifty miles. Once the charges are set, we shall sail back to England and detonate them. When London is inundated and all its inhabitants drowned, THRUSH Central will hand a letter of ultimatum to all the major governments of the world. The letter will demand immediate surrender. This time we shall achieve our goal."

Ahab smiled good-humoredly. He was about to continue when Illya sat up. The thrumming had stopped.

Rather excitedly, Cleo St. Cloud leaned forward. "The engines are out."

"And the divers will be starting down. Well, Mr. Solo, now comes your moments of glory."

Once more Ahab tapped the chart. This time he indicated a cross that was not scarlet, but black.

"This is the reason we allowed you and Mr. Kuryakin to come aboard the Moby Dick. This mark. Just here, a charge must be placed—a key charge—at such a depth that the man who places it will very likely perish. Congratulations, Mr. Solo!" Ahab rolled up the chart and gestured. "You have been chosen! My men are standing by with your diving suit and the explosive package."

Solo scowled. "I didn't raise my hand, teacher."

Still grinning merrily, Ahab snapped his fingers. The seaman turned down a rheostat, plunging the chamber into semi-darkness. The only illumination was a faint phosphorescent gleam cast by the sea water lapping at the viewports.

Cleo St. Cloud picked up a small, silvered pencil-like affair. She touched a stud which started a purple bulb in the tip to winking at half-second intervals.

"Miss St. Cloud has ways of overcoming your reluctance, Mr. Solo," Ahab said. "That is why I invited her along for the voyage. Guard! Hold Mr. Kuryakin near the door so that he does not interfere."

The guard leaped forward, jammed his power-rifle into Illya's shoulder blades and jerked his head to indicate that Illya should follow. Illya tossed his napkin aside, hesitated as though ready to start swinging. Solo blinked once, very fast. Illya caught the signal, contained his anger. Solo had called the shot. They would try to ride it out a bit longer.

Illya accompanied the guard. Ahab walked around in front of Solo. "Please." He indicated an easy chair. "Be so good as to sit down."

"All of a sudden, Ahab, I'm not feeling very polite."

Ahab's face flushed. With surprising power, he jabbed his fingers hard at Solo's chest while Cleo, sneaking around from behind, shoved the chair forward so that it struck Solo's legs from behind. He sat down abruptly.

Iron bands snapped out from the body of the chair to pinion his arms and legs. He writhed, heard Ahab chuckling. The purple light floated near in the gloom.

Somewhere out beyond the blinking purple pinpoint, Cleo St. Cloud murmured, "Relax, Mr. Solo. Just let yourself relax. All we're going to do is relax you to the point where you'll be willing to follow Victor's orders through a headset."

"Your act is lousy, dear," Solo said. But he didn't feel confident. He remembered the glazed, mindless look on Illya's face in the Golder's Green lab. He braced for an ordeal.

"Cleo won't fail me," Ahab said out of the dark. "Not if she wants to see London again."

Solo's arms ached from the constriction of the steel bands. His forehead and cheeks felt clammy.

The tiny purple bulb seemed to swell in size, sending out star-like rays. Solo realized the starry effect was the result of his eyes watering. Already he was having trouble concentrating on anything except the blinking light.

Soothingly Cleo's voice reached him:

"Mr. Solo—may I call you some thing a little less formal? Napoleon. That's better. You're quite a charming man. You would do well as a member of the THRUSH team. Pity you're not with us. Still, the two of us can be friends, can't we? Nothing but trust between us, Napoleon my dear.

"Once you trust me, you'll realize that all this is for the best. You'll feel so much better if you relax and quit wrenching around in your chair that way. Victor told you the mission was dangerous, didn't he? Of course it is. But it needn't be fatal. No, not at all. Provided you obey instructions carefully, you have an excellent chance of coming out alive.

"Naturally you won't be able to obey instructions, if you continue to fight against us. You must stop fighting. You must let your muscles relax. That's the first of the important steps, my sweet Napoleon. Relax. Then sleep. Relax and sleep—"

Somewhere, faintly, another voice drifted. "Give her the raspberry, Napoleon."

Illya had hardly uttered the words when Solo heard a thud, a groan, a slumping sound.

"Don't let him interrupt us again," Ahab snarled.

Solo was growing drowsy. He wanted to say something to Cleo St. Cloud. Something smart; needling. Anything to show her that his mind was his own, unresponsive.

That purple light—how restful it was. Going off, then coming alight with a soft blaze, like a flower blooming in silence.

His upper arms tingled. Vaguely he sensed that Cleo St. Cloud was talking to him. Actually she hadn't stopped. It was like living in a house beside a waterfall. After five years the splash no longer bothered you. He'd been listening to Cleo for at least ten––

On and off went the purple light, blossoming, blossoming. On and off, on and off—

"Yes, Napoleon my dear, yes, that's it. Relax and sleep, relax and deep—"

A dim corner of his mind rebelled.

The purple light was soothing. But they were going to send him out into the ocean's depth to plant a bomb that would help create a tidal wave to destroy London, England. Desperately his mind tried to erect a wall against the soothing-syrup of her voice.

How many human beings in London? he asked himself with the small, still-alert part of his mind. Four million? Five? He wasn't sure. He tried to think of them as all dead. One by one he began to count macabre bodies floating over a fence.

One dead.

Two dead.

Ten dead.

Hundreds, thousands, millions dead if he let her win—

Blink blink blink went the purple light, so softly, so subtly, so treacherously.

A guttural male voice: "Is he responding?" Doggedly Solo counted corpses in his mind.

"Sssh! I think so. He's difficult. A minute longer. Then I'll have him."

He heard the rustle of her gold slacks as she eased nearer. Cool fingers tested the pulse of his left wrist. The purple light was inches from his eyes, on and off, on and off—

"Relax, dear sweet Napoleon. Relax, let your mind and your body respond only to me. Relax and respond to me—"

He'd run out of mental steam trying to count the dead bodies that would haunt him if he failed. His whole brain felt like a sponge, soaking up soothing sounds and purple lights. She had him. The whispering witch had him. He was about to go under, he—

Suddenly there was an absence of pressure.

She had taken her fingers from his wrist.

In the dark Napoleon Solo gambled.

He curled the fingers of his right hand under and jammed his nails into his palm as hard as he could. digging, digging—

Pain lanced along his nerves. He stared straight into the purple light, head lolling to one side, eyes barely open, mere slits.