"Is he still in Kandaville?" Solo said grimly.

"As far as Section-II there knows, he is," Waverly said. The Leader of U.N.C.L.E. stood up in a gesture of dismissal. "He is your man. I assume you will think of just what to do with him?"

"Any suggestions, sir?" Solo asked. Waverly had returned to his desk. The older man seemed to have already forgotten the presence of his agents. The job he had just given Solo and Kuryakin was only one of many he had to consider each day. After a moment, Waverly appeared to hear and look up again.

"Eh? Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something—uh—Solo."

Illya was grinning like a cat as Solo turned away from Waverly. The two of them walked out through the door that silently opened and closed itself. They went to check on their transportation and on the Section-II agents in South Africa.

FIVE

Idlewild Airport, renamed John F. Kennedy International Airport, bustled with the night-departing passengers. Three giant jets were departing within the hour. Napoleon Solo, carrying a briefcase stepped to the loading desk to claim his seat on the London-bound B.O.A.C. jet.

Some buildings away, a small, bent old man with graying dark hair and a heavy beard shuffled up to the loading desk of the Air France flight non-stop to Paris. The uniformed loading clerk studied the old man closely but without giving himself away.

The old man muttered in French but with a heavy German accent. The loading clerk stamped his ticket, gave him his seating card, and turned his attention to the next person.

At the B.O.A.C. loading desk, the actions of a baggage handler were vastly different. Observing Napoleon Solo, the baggage handler suddenly bent over for a dropped suitcase.

At the loading desk, Solo was passed through and took his place on a seat to await the time to board. Idly, he noticed the baggage handler pushing his cart away down the long, bright corridor.

Solo became aware of the noise before he actually heard it. A rumbling like the sea, turning into a roar that came closer. Solo leaped up, walked quickly toward the fence that imprisoned him inside the loading area.

He was too late.

The first of a horde of teenagers appeared running at the far end of the wide and shining corridor. Behind the first few young boys and girls he saw a solid wall of howling teenagers coming toward the loading area. Solo whirled and sprinted for the door to the plane. It was locked.

Quickly he opened his briefcase and produced a small, circular object. He touched it to the electrically controlled door. He pressed a button. The door, activated by the special electronic circuit activator, sprung open. Solo dashed through, just as the howling mob of teenagers reached the loading area and smashed down the fence.

In the loading ramp, a long tunnel with corrugated sides like some giant bellows, Solo ran toward the door into the jet. Already the howling teenagers were in the tunnel behind him.

Solo ran into the jet, past the protesting stewardess, and along the aisle toward the pilot's cabin. Behind him the teenagers knocked down the screaming stewardess.

Solo, inside the pilot's cabin, locked the door behind him. Again he opened his briefcase and produced a small pellet. Setting the pellet on the escape hatch, he pulled a tiny cord on the pellet and jumped back.

The door was bending, breaking under the pressure of the screaming mob behind him.

The pellet burst into white, flame-less heat, a heat that would melt any metal known. The escape hatch dropped open. Solo threw his briefcase out, lowered himself through the open hatch and let go.

He seemed to fall for minutes.

He hit hard on the concrete, rolled and came up on his feet. Above him the mob of teenagers had reached the hatch. One was already jumping through.

The first teenager jumped down, tilted in the air and landed on his side, screaming with the pain of a broken arm. Solo did not wait. Others were already jumping down. He picked up his briefcase and ran toward the distant corner of the loading building.

He reached the corner and turned it, the mob of teenagers strung out now behind him, some limping but still coming on. As he reached the next corner he stopped, skidded to a halt.

A second howling mob was coming at him from the other direction. He turned and ran out toward the great open area of the airfield, running with the speed that had made him a track star in his younger days.

As he ran into the dark night, he pulled the transmitter-receiver from his pocket. He raised the thread-like antennae.

"Sonny to Bubba. Sonny to Bubba. Condition Red, condition Red." He pressed the receiving button.

"Bubba to Sonny. Instruct action. Am safely aboard."

Solo pressed his sending button, trying to speak clearly as he ran on across the dark field.

"Proceed. They are after me. I'll lead them off. Watch yourself."

"Can I help? Repeat, can I help?" the distant voice of Illya said from the tiny receiver.

Solo stopped and looked around. He could hear the howling mob still behind him, coming closer. He pressed his send button.

"Proceed on mission. Good luck."

Solo replaced the tiny set in his pocket. He listened. The mob seemed to be moving off, heading the wrong way. He smiled and began to trot, carrying his briefcase. He heard the sound of motors too late.

Glaring light pinned him in the night like a moth on a pin.

He dropped his briefcase and drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He aimed the Luger-like pistol at the lights. They were car headlights, one set on either side of him. He flicked the special button on his pistol to set it to fire bullets, not darts. He raised he pistol and aimed at the lights.

Something touched his neck. A faint, stinging prick.

He knew nothing more...

In his seat at the window of the Paris-bound jet, the old man with the beard muttered to himself. But it was neither French nor German he muttered. It was Russian—and his bright blue eyes were not old.

Illya replaced the tiny radio set in his pocket. He sat back in his seat. The disguise had worked for him. NO one had chased the old man who spoke such bad French. His head turned and he seemed to sleep facing the window of the jet.

But Illya was not asleep. His eyes peered out into the night. He saw the faint lights of headlights far off in the center of the

airfield. He had a sinking sensation as he looked at those strange lights and thought of Napoleon Solo. But there was work to do.

Soon, the jet took off. He had reported to headquarters the Condition Red call of Napoleon. There was nothing more he could do now, but get on with his task.

As the field passed below, all was dark.

ACT II: THRUSH and COUNTER-THRUSH

Napoleon Solo did not open his eyes. Awake, alert again, with no ill effects beyond a blinding headache and a pain in his neck where the dart had struck, he remained motionless. He was surprised to be still alive.

His hands, he knew, were bound behind him; his feet were encased in something soft yet strong. He probably did no have long to live, but the training of years never deserted him. He listened to the voices to remember them for future reference. Two men and a woman. He could not hear what they said, but he would never forget the timbre of their voices.

Cautiously, Solo opened his eyes. And saw nothing. He blinked, opened his eyes again—all was black, yet moving, fluttering with faint light.

As if his eyes were not open at all.

Yet he knew he was opening them; he knew the muscles were opening his eyes.

But his eyes were not open.

"Look, his eyes are moving," the woman's voice said. The voice of Maxine Trent.

"Fix the eyes," a man's deep voice said.