Whether or not he had ever gathered more information was unknown. Taylor was dead. And Waverly was up in arms. The implications behind such a Thrush plot were disastrous. If Thrush could treat the soil of the world and kill the vegetation, it could starve the earth into submission, promising the antidote only if the governments knuckled under. And they had an ace. By keeping certain lands clean and productive for them selves, Thrush could wait until starvation and riots set in, turning the knife for them in the stomachs of the world's hungry.

The order for the mission had been simple. Get the formula for, or a sample of, the counter-chemical. Then destroy the operation. The counter-chemical was top priority because once it was in the hands of the U.N. C.L.E. lab Thrush could sprinkle poison anywhere they wanted and it would do them no good. Finding chemicals meant finding the laboratory where they were produced, and no one believed that would be in Michigan. Michigan was simply the first lead.

Looking out of the car at the green that stretched for miles, Solo couldn't quite believe any of it. He saw the backs of farms that had been cut through for the roadway and everything was lush in the late July sun, soaking up light and water.

"That sign said, RIVERVIEW, NEXT EXIT," Illya said. "We're nearly there."

"The scene of Taylor's murder," Solo muttered.

"So? We'll be careful."

"Here, now," Solo chided his friend. "Quit reading something deep, and brooding into everything I say."

Illya wouldn't be riled. "Only checking. The psychological effects of what you went through might pop up at any time. The staff psychiatrist warned me."

"Is that so?" Solo was angry, in spite of himself. "And who gave you permission to talk to the psychiatrist about me?"

"The psychiatrist, of course." Illya smiled at Solo's consternation. "Seriously, Napoleon, it had to be done. I had to be briefed on you. But I don't want to keep the fact secret from you, either."

"And the psychiatrist told you?"

"What he told you, I presume. He said Adams ganged up on you psychologically, playing hard on every human fear in the book - fear of falling, fear of total darkness, of helplessness, of abandonment, of having the body punctured - plus an overwhelming certainty that you were going to die."

"He pronounced me capable of staying active," Solo challenged.

"Yes. With the foreknowledge that odd symptom might pop up here and there, and to expect them.'

"And not freeze up over them. I know," Solo sighed. "The battery of subjective tests I took showed the possibility. But it won't happen, Illya, so don't worry."

"I believe it, I believe it!" Illya said. "Just remember, if you ever need an extra ear -"

"Illya's here. Thanks. Now, don't miss the turn-off."

Illya swung off the highway at the exit and curved up the ramp. As the car came onto a narrow highway, a sign loomed up pointing out Riverview as five miles to the right.

Solo braced against the turn and changed the subject. Illya had guessed and had brought him nicely out of what might have become one of the moods he'd been having. Gloom and doom, Solo called them. "I thought Michigan Julys were hot," he complained. "I brought lightweight suits."

"Maybe we're lucky," Illya said. "I've never cared for heat, raised as I was in -"

Illya broke off as they rounded a curve on the narrow road. Solo leaned forward, an exclamation coming through his lips. Because the greenery stopped. Just stopped. Fifty feet ahead, the fields turned to brown desolation. The breeze stirred no crops and the fields looked as though a plague had descended upon them. It was a shocking sight. The only break in the brown sameness was an occasional tree.

"Why the trees?" Solo asked aloud.

"They send their roots deeper, I guess, so they aren't damaged - yet."

Solo bobbed his head to his partner's strange bit of knowledge and continued to stare at the farms. The houses were neat and carefully kept; the buildings were painted in the traditional barn-red, the houses white, and the machinery stashed about was shiny and clean. But the grass was brown and wilted. The flower beds were tangled masses of dead stems and withered blossoms.

"It looks like the devil himself walked by here and blew fire on it," Solo said.

"Pity the people who planted the crops and watched this happen overnight. This settles it, Napoleon. We've got to help them."

Solo laughed out loud. "How grand of you to decide to go along with Mr. Waverly. When I make our first report, I'll tell him and make his day happy.

They were coming upon signs of an approaching town. The farmhouses gave way to ranch homes; the fields withdrew to the backs of the properties, leaving dead lawns around forlorn-looking houses.

They had been ordered to stay at the Flower Hotel, the only one in Riverview. Solo guessed it wouldn't be hard to find. Riverview was a town of four thousand people. As Illya swung the car onto the main street, Solo sat back, satisfied. It was just as he had pictured it. One street full of stores that ran for four blocks, crossed a bridge over a narrow river, and resumed being a highway. The Flower Hotel loomed by the bridge, old and brick, rising four stories to make it the tallest building in town. Three church steeples poked their spires up between the trees.

But modern America hadn't passed Riverview by, as it hadn't passed anyplace by. The street was garish with neon signs, and parking meters were lined up and down the curbs of the wide pavement.

Illya drove the car behind the hotel where the sign read, FREE PARKING FOR GUESTS and braked to a stop in one of the yellow-marked parking spaces of the tiny lot. There were a few cars already there. As Solo got stiffly out, unknotting his muscles from the long drive, he checked the lot out of habit. No one was sitting in the cars so there was no danger, but a good percentage of them sported stickers on their rear windows. He sauntered over to a green Ford and checked the sticker. U.S.D.A.

"The Department of Agriculture beat us to it, Illya. I guess we're just an afterthought."

Illya was hefting two suitcases out of the trunk of the car. He plunked them down. "We'll be able to use any help we can get. Here's your suitcase. What did you bring, anyway? You said your suits were lightweight."

"Shirts, my friend. Lots of clean, white shirts. Ever hear of those?" Solo smirked at Illya's ever-present black turtleneck.

"I've brought a couple of my own." Illya's blue eyes smoldered with as much humor as Solo was going to get out of him. "Also a tuxedo, a full dress monkey suit, and a top hat for courting the local beauties on Main Street."

"Ouch." Solo grunted, and bent to pick up his case.

They went into the old-leather smell of the lobby. It was complete with the red-patterned carpet of another era, black leather furniture, and potted palms. The palms were plastic, stuck into real dirt, Solo noticed as he passed one and the pungent scent of soil hit his nostrils.

There was no trouble getting their room. It had freshly-cleaned wallpaper done in a floral pattern, a small rug, and twin beds. A tiny bathroom opened off it, and the windows opposite the beds showed a view of the river and the cement-block factory that squatted there, ugly and sprawling. Solo tipped the bellboy, surprised to find one in the Flower Hotel.

Illya was already checking the room for "bugs" and Solo moved dutifully to help, although he couldn't see the necessity of it. They were unexpected, after all. The room turned up clean.