Solo took her arm and guided her into the shade on the other side of the barn. Her answers had run true. Even through the mention of Thrush. His work was obviously finished here for the moment. He was standing just opposite the place where the inside door led underground, and there was nothing to be seen from outside. The cellar, or whatever, was entirely under the barn hill and had no windows. He checked his watch. He'd better give Illya another hour for his prowling with the balloon. He sat down on the brown grass and pulled the woman down beside him.

"You've decided to pay me some attention, after all?" She smiled. "I really think you prefer big blondes."

"Not at all. It's hot and I'm tired and this is a peculiar setting. If you want my avid attention, why not do a little dance for me, love?"

"All right, Napoleon, but I'm warning you - what I start, no one else can finish."

Solo leaned against the barn and watched her begin the swaying and undulating that had first led him into the dismal little nightclub to see her perform. It was a perfect picture. The sun, the heat, the dark beauty of a dancer - he could squint and imagine the dead fields to be Arabian sand. He forced himself to relax and enjoy it, beating a rhythm for her. Illya was somewhere be hind that grove of walnut trees about five acres away, chasing balloons. And Illya had to have his time.

Chapter 11

"Illya Draws the Short Straw"

ILLYA SPED AWAY from the Flower Hotel, beating Solo and Gloryanna. When he reached the gateway to the big estate, he went on by, hunting for a place to hide the car. If the estate was crawling with Thrush agents, he wanted to remain anonymous as long as possible.

A quarter of a mile down the road he found a sign that read CATTLE CROSSING. By it was a little lane. He turned off there and made a sharp left to stop the car behind a high stand of sumac. He got out, already overly hot from being on the sunbaked road. He longed to abandon his jacket but didn't dare. He needed his pistol and the coat to cover it.

Following the cattle lane, he went onto the brown land. It was bare of trees. He had nowhere to hide if he needed it so he walked nonchalantly, hands swinging, his mouth pursed, ready to whistle an innocent tune. But he didn't whistle. He listened.

There was little to hear. Not even the sounds of birds. They had all left the fields and taken to the woods. He didn't blame them. Birds weren't meant for dead brown stalks lying on the ground.

He came to a fence, went through the ramshackle gate, closing it dutifully behind him, and headed for the barn roof he could barely make out and the grove of walnut trees. If the balloon was there, it was low and well hidden.

He strode along, forcing his legs to be fluid although his stomach was tensing wickedly. There was danger here somewhere. He felt it on his skin, on the nape of his neck.

He reached the walnut trees and buried himself in them, drawing some relaxed breaths as he was no longer an open target. The grove was two hundred feet deep and he traversed it quickly, liking the shade. He inevitably came to the end and in front of him was another field, barren and unearthly. Settled in the center was the balloon.

It was a giant, striped red, black, and gold, with a golden basket slung beneath. Tethered securely by two heavy ropes, it swayed as the breeze pushed it one way and then another. It was alone. That was his main concern.

He started across the withered grass and the balloon seemed peculiarly alive swaying before him. No one tended it, which was a bad sign. If it wasn't worth tending, then it probably wasn't worth investigating. But the golden stardust had to be the method of spreading the chemical. It made sense, and so little in this affair did make sense. First there had been Dundee, then Adams on his own terrible tangent, then these ruined farmlands. If everything led to the Cosmic Theater balloon, it was worthy of Thrush.

He approached the balloon, still walking easily in case there were unseen eyes on him. It hovered three feet off the ground, and when he touched the carriage, it tugged away from him. He scanned the ground for traces of stardust and found nothing.

"Anything you want, mister?" The voice came from behind him.

Illya turned quickly, knowing it was too quick for the part he was playing, but he was startled. A man was coming from the walnut grove - a big, battered man with the look of countless other Thrush apes he had dealt with before.

"That's rather up to you," Illya answered, settling composure on his face. "Are you giving rides?"

"Nope. Nobody's interested anymore but the kids. You like balloons?"

The man was beside him and Illya measured his own slight weight and height against the barrel chest of the other. He had to keep on with the charade. "Childish or not, I've always wanted to ride one. I never have. There aren't many around."

"How right you are. Had to have this baby made up on special order. I tell you, it's a great ride. Not like your airplane, where you're surrounded by metal. You just float around up there with the birds and clouds."

Illya caught hold of the basket carriage and pulled it to him, craning to peer inside, "That's how I've pictured it in my mind's eye." He was uneasy with his back to the big man, and held himself alert. There was no trace of stardust on the ground. Perhaps inside the basket - if he could manage to get inside, "I saw your ads in town when I was passing through, and decided, here's toy chance. I'm disappointed. Could you be persuaded for - say ten dollars?"

"Sorry," the man answered. He was at ease, and Illya gave himself an "A" for acting ability. "But get into the carriage and see how it feels, if you want. It sways a little bit." He opened a lock on the carriage and pulled the door wide.

Illya took the big step up, catching his balance against the sway. The carriage door closed and locked behind him. The basket itself was four feet deep, so he was only chest and shoulders above the top of it. He again scanned the floor for stardust, and it was again clean.

"Now," the man laughed, "I suppose you want to see the glitter. No" - he waved Illya's protest down - "don't be embarrassed about it. I've worked with carnivals too long not to know that expression - like when an adult is itching to ride the merry-go-round but hasn't got a kid with him for an excuse. So - see the glitter. It's stored in that metal box on the floor. Open it and pick up a handful."

Illya laughed and went to one knee in the swaying basket to get his prize. As he dropped, there was a sudden lurch of the basket, throwing him forward. He toppled on his face and scrambled to stand up, yelling, "Hey, out there! Take it easy!"

By the time he had regained his feet, he saw that there was no taking it easy anymore. The man had detached one mooring rope and was fast doling out the other. The balloon was rising. It sailed off the brown grass, the black, red, and gold bag taking the air like a bubble.

Illya walked gingerly to the edge of the carriage and peered down. He was already up thirty feet. He put a smile on his face, keeping up the pretense. "Did you change your mind, mister? Because if you did someone had better come with me. I don't know how to operate one of these things."

The balloon kept rising. Forty feet. Fifty. It jerked to a halt as the man pulled on the tether. He jumped nimbly out of Illya's sight under the basket and shouted up, "Throw your glitter, U.N.C.L.E. agent. Throw yourself out if you want. But you'll drop fifty feet and I won't pick up the pieces!"