He gulped in a deep breath and thrust his feet on.

Another two steps and another encounter. This was something low, like an ottoman, and this time the blade only cut his trouser leg, missing his skin. He walked on.

Solo tried to ignore the feel of blood dripping unseen on his arm and his leg, holding a new thought in his mind. If be could find a knife that was located high enough… He groped forward with his manacled hands, praying for such a knife.

Four steps more and he had one. It protruded from a bookcase, he could figure that much. And it was sharp on both edges. Carefully, slowly, he turned himself around, letting the blade run from his hands to his arm and then along his back so he wouldn't misplace it. With his back to it, he positioned himself, felt the blade tug the rope between his elbows, and began the painstaking sawing movement that would cut through the rope and give him the use of his eyes and hands. The motion choked off his air, but he coughed only once, then held his breath.

Out of the black dark around him came a lunatic shout, "Turn him! Turn him!" Adams screamed. "Don't let him free himself!"

There was noise in the room, feet and jumping bodies and the blast of a gun. A bullet whined beside Solo's head and wood splintered on him. Startled by the commotion, he jumped from the bullet impact, losing the knife blade, the rope still whole and tight about him. Another bullet whizzed in, and despite his determination not to panic he recoiled in the dark, taking two running steps away from the bookcase.

His leg smashed against the ottoman he had side stepped moments before and he fell to his knees, a double sharpness stabbing his right thigh. He stayed where he was, impaled, gasping for air and control of himself. He jerked free of the double blades, held very still to test his balance, and lurched to his feet.

He said into the darkness, "So you're still here after all, Adams. Enjoying the show?"

"Immensely," Adams answered from his left. "But you have yet to draw enough blood to suit me."

Solo smiled, and it was real this time. "Thank you for that information. I couldn't tell how much I was bleeding."

"And you had visions of arteries pulsing?" Adams laughed. "I shouldn't have told you, should I? Ready to give me those names?"

Solo stood still, letting the silence return, attempting to reconstruct his flight in his darkened mind. He swiveled slightly one way and then the other. Which way was toward the front of the house? He bit his lip, cocking his head to listen for sounds or creakings that would orient him. At last he turned full around. He had retreated in his panic. He had to go forward.

His legs didn't want to carry him. It was a tremendous effort of sheer will to make his feet move, especially now that he knew he had an audience to his agony. Yet the fact that they were watching pushed him on. He was fully aware of the reserves he had in his physical body. All he had to fight was the darkness and the terror.

He crept on as he had been doing, letting it form a pattern. Feel ahead with a foot, grope with the fingers, take the step. Feel ahead with a foot, grope with the fingers, take a step. He counted out forty steps that way, two more cuts in his clothing, and one more knife slice in his left calf, but he was gaining ground.

His hands, angling before him, ran into something solid. He felt it with his fingertips. This wasn't a piece of furniture. This was a wall. The front wall? Hope welled inside him. Adams had said the door was to the right. He groped along the wallpapered plaster and ran into no more sharpnesses. His hands felt wood and a quick motion up and down told him it was a door! He grabbed quickly for the knob and found it, turning it frantically.

It was locked.

Adams laughed from far behind him. "I forgot to mention that part, Mr. Solo. I have the key. You'll have to come and take it from me."

Solo leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, choked on the rope at his throat, and straightened up again. There was a commotion inside his chest that he recognized with utter humiliation. His breath was threatening to come out in a sob. He couldn't walk back the way he had come. It had taken everything in him to get to the door. He couldn't search in this black death trap for Adams.

Adams' voice came again, "Robard! Get him away from that door!"

More noise, and as he expected, another bullet slammed in close to his head. Solo stayed where he was. He would outlast them. He wouldn't budge.

But the sound of the bullets triggered the reflexes he had struggled so hard to acquire and he turned instinctively to take shelter. He stumbled away from the door, bumping wildly into things, bruising his legs and thighs, cutting himself once more.

He fell. He righted himself enough to stay on his knees, but made no effort to rise. He didn't have any idea of where he was in the room. Not even of which way he was facing.

"On your feet, Solo. Never say die. Isn't that our credo?"

"I'm fine where I am, Adams, thank you," he shouted back into the dark.

"Julius! Get him on his feet!"

Robard's voice came through. "Let him be, Professor. Kill him and get it over with. You've proved your point. You can beat U.N.C.L.E. any time you want."

Solo waited for the decision and the bullet that would arrow for his head if Robard had his way. But Adams answered, "Get him on his feet, Julius. You must keep on with this, Mr. Solo. You haven't even begun to explore the possibilities of this room. We can continue here for hours. Unless you're ready to give me the names."

Heavy feet clumped toward Solo and Julius' big hands hefted him under the armpits, setting him on his feet.

There was no possible way out of this, he knew that. He had few choices. He could struggle on until he died; he could stand still until he died. And they wouldn't let him stand still.

Despair weighted him down and he was afraid of it. Despair was one emotion he'd never felt during all of his years with U.N.C.L.E. Now it clutched him tight and made him want little more than to end this weird business by finding a blade at the proper height and ramming it home through his chest. He began to stumble about the room, being less careful. He couldn't fight everybody, himself least of all.

---

Illya Kuryakin, his wounded arm still numb from the anesthetic, slithered out of the U.N.C.L.E. wagon and took to the field beside the road. He was dressed in black from head to foot, his face smeared with charcoal to cut down the highlights of his fair skin, and his blond hair tucked under a black cap. His gun was in his hand, converted from the pistol to the U.N.C.L.E. automatic rifle.

He ran carefully, ducking down, jumping up to run again. The house was one hundred yards ahead yet, but he took no chances. Around him he could hear the faint twig-crackings as the men under his command - eight of them - moved parallel to him or streaked ahead to come up from the other side.

As the miles had slipped by under the wheels of the wagon, Mada had progressively fainted against Mr. Waverly, each mile making her disbelieve more and more that her Uncle Abel could be ruthless enough to kill Napoleon Solo. But Waverly, insisting on coming with the assault team, had held her up, quieted her tears, and gruffly forced her to show them .the way. After many false turns and dead ends, she had found the house.

Illya paused behind a tree. The rest of the space to the house was open lawn, but the grass was tall and would give some cover. His left shoulder rested against the tree trunk and it was a queer sensation not being able to feel it through the numbness. He checked his gun once more, unnecessarily. He was too eager for this attack and the pause was to force himself to calm down and follow proper procedure. His men were watching for his signal. It had to be right.