Illya ducked into the shelter of the basket and drew his pistol. It had been a two-way game, then, with both of them playing innocent. He sneaked his head and gun up over the edge of the carriage, but immediately knew it was useless. The man was directly under the basket. He couldn't find him for a target. And worse - he heard the Thrush calling someone on a communicator. Pieces of the words reached him: "Got one of them… here fast... no sweat."

"We'll see about the no sweat," Illya muttered. He wasn't going to be trapped like a puppy in a Christmas stocking for very long. If his target wouldn't come to him, he'd go to his target.

He stared at the belly of the balloon, estimating what might happen if he shot a hole in it. As though in response, the shout came from below. "Don't bother trying to shoot the thing down, U.N.C.L.E. man. It's armored. A new process. Do you think we're stupid, or something?"

Illya didn't answer, thinking his own thoughts. Reinforcements were coming from Thrush, so he didn't have much time. He'd take the man's word that the balloon was invincible. There was another way.

He heaved himself onto the narrow edge of the carriage, setting up a terrible sway. He dangled one leg over the side, waiting for the balloon to balance again. If he could find a handhold and lower his body upside-down on the length of the carriage, he could get off a shot at his target underneath. If that failed, perhaps he could catch the tether and forcibly pull the great bag to the ground. He'd try the shot first and use the tether for his escape.

Grasping the rim of the basket with his left hand, he lifted his other leg and lay along the curved edge. He had to go head first or get a leg blasted through. There were loops imbedded halfway down the basket, holding the balloon onto it, and he could grab for one of those.

Using his knees to hold himself, he dropped his left hand down to one of the loops, and caught it, and grasped it hard, damning the heat-sweat that broke out all over him and threatened to reduce his grip to nothing. He slithered groundward, changing his hold from his knees to his feet, keeping firm with the left hand on the loop. It was working, but using all of his breath. If he could get down to a toe-hold on the basket rim, he'd have one chance at a shot. He slid his feet cautiously, catching with the laces of his shoes, ready to slither the rest of the way.

The man below him, like some devil out of a nightmare, tugged on the tether rope, flailing it back and forth. The basket lurched and Illya lurched with it, his feet slipping, his left hand and arm twisted and burning with pain, holding him up, but barely.

A movement started in his left breast pocket and his communicator slipped out, falling like a silver dart to the brown grass. He couldn't even grab for it. Fighting to keep himself from the same fall, he floundered about with his legs, holding his body stiffly upside-down in a one-hand-stand on the rope loop. His ankles caught the basket rim and he grabbed it. He tried desperately to get his gun back into the holster but it was useless, and without two hands, he was going down head first. With a terrible sigh, he let the gun fall. The man below would know he had victory for sure.

The drop of the gun was the signal for the man to stop shaking the tether and the balloon quieted. Illya took advantage of every second of equilibrium and heaved himself back up, using his right hand as a grappling hook. He was on the rim with his stomach, and then his chest. He dropped his feet inside the carriage and fell bodily, panting on the floor.

As he lay there, relieved to be alive, he reached over and flicked up the lid of the stardust box. It was empty. All this, and it was empty.

He sat up but didn't stand, wanting the protecting basket around him. The victors would come soon enough.

He wondered where Napoleon was. Probably, with his jaunty friend's good luck, he was basking in Gloryanna's smile and eating a homecooked meal while convincing her father that he was a sincere and harmless man who never noticed the tight fit of her red slacks.

Illya swallowed hard, searching for some moisture in his body against the terrible heat. He stared at the underside of the balloon and muttered, "I might at least have brought a box lunch."

---

Fifteen minutes later a little parade came from the direction of the road. Illya watched it with mixed emotions. It would be Thrush reinforcements, but it would also mean he could get down out of this baking basket. It consisted of a station wagon and a pickup truck, both fire-red and white, and it bounced across the dried fields.

He peeked over the edge of the carriage as the parade stopped and people emerged from the vehicles. The first man out was a cartoon character, tall and thin like something dragged out of a casket, dressed in blue trousers and a loud printed shirt that no corpse would tolerate.

The balloon man came out from under and said, "He's up in the balloon, Mr. Saturn. The neatest capture I ever made. He's unarmed, helpless, and hot as a piece of butter in the sun."

Mr. Saturn clasped his hands with a flourish. "Wonderful, Charles. Now we can play a bit."

Another, broader man emerged from the truck and came to Saturn. "Not long, actor-boy. The shipment has to go out tonight and there's a lot to be done, so we cant fool around." He was immediately backed by four more men, all recognizable as low-on-the-totem-pole Thrush muscles. Illya wondered at it. Why such an important operation as this crop killing affair was left in amateur hands, he couldn't understand. If Mr. Saturn was in charge, then Thrush hadn't planned well.

"I realize all of that, Barber," Saturn said, "and the shipment will go on schedule. But we can spare a few minutes to eliminate an U.N.C.L.E. agent, can we not? A few imaginative minutes?"

"Imagine away," Barber said. "I'll give you half an hour."

Saturn spurred himself into action. "Pull the U.N. C.L.E. man down and let's see what we've caught."

The balloon was yanked down, going in glides and spurts, and Illya stood up, making himself visible, noting the sudden appearance of guns in the hands of the six gorillas. The basket jolted against the ground, then was allowed to slide back to hover three feet high. Charles, the balloonman, opened the door, and Illya jumped out among his captors, returning their stares with his own noncommittal one.

Saturn towered over him. "Well, U.N.C.L.E. man, how does it feel to be in the firm hands of Thrush?"

"The same as it has felt a hundred times before," Illya said. He kept his hands quiet, away from his body, not wishing to call down a storm of lead.

"I must think of something appropriate for you." Saturn drew a thin hand across his hot forehead. "It may take a while. Can you wait?"

Illya focused his eyes on the guns for an answer.

Barber hurried Saturn. "You don't have time, actor-boy. Whatever you're going to do, do it. Dundee will be here before you know it, and if you're not ready -"

Saturn went slightly pale. "I detest that man, Dundee, wholeheartedly. He is vulgar and insensitive. But - tell me, Barber, what do you usually do with U.N.C.L.E. men?"

"Kill them," Charles said. "That's all they're good for."

"By hand?" Saturn was repulsed.

"By bullet," Barber said.

"Too plebian." Saturn peered down his long, long nose. "That's why you fail to be promoted. Thrush is noted for its evil imagination, and if I'm to keep rising, I must do something worthy of Thrush." He came close to Illya, studying him. "I had your cohort right in the palm of my hand this afternoon, young man. Right in the palm of my hand."