The pilot who had assumed the identity of Hart fell in the suggestion instantly and had risen and was just starting to turn when the other took a risk that could easily have proved suicidal.

Instead of rising he lurched violently sideways and then let his entire body sag. He was below the seat, and pivoting about on his knees when Solo's gun went off. As the gun roared Solo was thrown off balance by the tight grip which the insanely reckless THRUSH pilot instantly clamped on his knees. But only for an instant. Before the smoke of the blast cleared Solo had not only succeeded in regaining his balance but was smashing down with the barrel of his gun on the kneeling pilot's skull.

As the man collapsed with a groan he heard Illya Kuryakin cry out sharply. "Don't try what he did! Stop turning. Stand perfectly still. Don't force me to put a bullet through your head."

Solo stood for a moment utterly rigid, his eyes sweeping the pilot compartment in concern. Then Ovenden was at his side, staring down at the slumped pilot at the base of the seat. The pilot in Illya's charge was still on his feet, staring into the barrel of Kuryakin's short-muzzled weapon.

"Look around you quickly," Solo breathed, gripping Ovenden's arm. "Did that shot do any damage, do you think? If it shattered one of the instruments—"

Ovenden shook his head. "No, I'm sure it didn't. The panel's okay."

Minutes later both pilots were sitting securely bound in the two front seats of the passenger cabin.

Obviously, THRUSH had indeed moved fast, in the space of six or seven short hours, to put a personnel computer to work and send a car speeding down the road to the airfield containing two operatives who bore the closest possible resemblance to Ovenden and Hart, right down to Ovenden's British accent. It must, Napoleon Solo told himself, have involved a miracle of almost lightning swift planning.

The disguise itself had presented no great problem, for the physical characteristics of Ovenden and Hart were not difficult to simulate with the help of judiciously applied makeup. They were frequently encountered types in a flattering sense, for they were robustly built with clean-cut, handsome features. There were many Harts and Ovendens, and although Ovenden's British accent may have presented more of a problem it had apparently not proved insurmountable, since THRUSH had available for instant assignment not a few operatives with British accents.

Just how a THRUSH car had succeeded in getting past the gate of the privately owned airfield without arousing suspicion was anybody's guess, and had now became of comparatively minor importance, though Solo made a mental note that Harris must eventually be informed that U.N.C.L.E.'S undercover influence might be on the wane at that particular airfield.

Solo had no longer any doubt that, whether Waverly was right or wrong about the inscrutable instrument of science which THRUSH had at its command, it had functioned twice in Tokyo with absolute accuracy. Twice THRUSH ears had listened in on a conversation in a soundproof room in which no listening device could possibly have been concealed—had spied on plans discussed with absolute secrecy, and taken instant measures to bring about his and Illya's destruction.

More than their destruction, perhaps, for if the two THRUSH pilots had succeeded they would not have been taken to Inner Mongolia, but in all likelihood to a THRUSH cell.

But important as knowing all that was, it paled into temporary insignificance before a single question that Solo felt he should perhaps not have waited quite so long to ask Ovenden. He asked it now.

"Can you fly this jet alone to Inner Mongolia? If you can't, we'll have to turn back. But returning to Tokyo now would jeopardize our entire mission. THRUSH is on the alert with a vengeance now."

Ovenden stared at Solo steadily for a moment before he said: "I can try. That is all that I can promise."

"With a reasonable chance of succeeding? Be completely honest."

"An eighty percent chance, I think," Ovenden said. "Not higher."

"Good enough," Solo said. "If we returned to Tokyo the odds would be just as high."

Solo turned to Illya. "I don't think we'll be making a mistake if we stay right on course. How do you feel about it?"

"Precisely as you do," Illya said.

"Both of the pilot seats have been vacant for fifteen or twenty minutes," Solo said. "I wouldn't enjoy flying on set controls all the way to China. It's time for one of those chairs to be occupied by someone in whom I have complete trust. We'll be over the Sea of Japan in another ten minutes."

"I'll do my best," Ovenden said. He gestured toward the bound THRUSH pilots. "What will we do with them?"

"They'll have to live on goat's milk for awhile in Inner Mongolia," Solo said. "We'll just set them out to pasture." Solo's expression changed, became more somber. "There will have to be a burial at sea, I'm afraid," he said. "Unless—"

He paused an instant, then shook his head. "No, a grave in a desert waste, so remote from civilization, would be very much the same thing, and a burial at sea—"

"I think Hart would have preferred that," Ovenden said, nodding.

SEVEN

IN THE LAND OF AN ANGRY SUN

HAD IT NOT been for the sound of human voices around him, the Gobi would have seemed unreal to Napoleon Solo.

The hot, bright sunlight, the endless miles of trackless desert and the scoured, brightly gleaming bowl of the sky had combined to make Solo feel that he had been set down by a long departed helicopter in some larger-than-life wasteland that had come spiraling straight out of the unknown. But in another way it was as real as the glistening lake of perspiration on his brow.

"We certainly can't complain about the timing of that 'copter pickup," Solo said. "But Harris seems to have arranged this stage even better. Practically to perfection so far, and we've no reason to believe there's going to be any change. Sun Lin is a first-rate guide, the best. He never raises his voice. But have you noticed how expeditiously he gets things done?"

"I've noticed," Illya Kuryakin said, nodding. "I've an idea he'll appreciate the compliment. He has pretty sharp hearing."

As the two agents turned back toward their camels and the motionless figure of the head guide Solo had no doubt at all that Illya was correct in his surmise. Precisely what did the Gobi, he wondered, symbolize to the oriental mind? Probably just the harnessing and unharnessing of camels, the pitching of camp at nightfall and the rushing in the dawn that preceded another long day's journey across endless miles of sand.

He was equally sure that Sun Lin was no fool and a better than average desert tracker and guide.

"How long will it be?" he asked. "Two more hours—three?"

"We are very close to where the American you seek was last seen," Sun Lin said. "Two hours, yes. But it will be dark when we get there."

"I was afraid of that," Illya said. "It's getting dark already. We'll probably have to postpone our search until tomorrow."

"The time factor isn't that important," Solo said. "Blakeley vanished three weeks ago, so what difference will a few extra hours make? Starting from where he was last seen and searching the surrounding desert is probably our best bet, but we can't be sure of anything. He may have wandered on for miles, may even have reached Inner Mongolia—"

Solo gestured toward a rise in the sand a hundred feet to the east of them. "He could be sitting right over there, behind that big dune, down to his last drop of water."