"There's something I want you to see," he said. "We can talk afterwards. Sit down over there and make yourselves comfortable. You won't stay relaxed for long, I can promise you."

He gestured toward a row of five metal-backed chairs facing a large unlighted screen, a few feet in front of a massive projection instrument, which was connected with a wall socket by ten feet of cable-like wiring as thick as a man's wrist.

Solo walked to the five chairs and sat down on the one nearest the door. Illya hesitated an instant, as if were about to ask Mr. Waverly a question.

"Just be seated please, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, putting an end to Illya's indecision. He chose the chair next to Solo, crossed his legs and waited, a puzzled frown on his face.

Waverly was seldom quite so abrupt, and it suggested to both men that the strain under which he appeared to be laboring was indeed unusual.

He dug a pipe with a bulldog bowl from his pocket, and took his time in filling it with tobacco and lighting it. Then he strode to the projector and fussed with the instrument for a moment, as if just turning it on was proving more of an ordeal than he had anticipated and he wished to postpone it as long as possible.

"The light switch, Mr. Solo," he said. "Take care of it, please. The room must be in darkness."

Solo nodded and without getting up he leaned sideways and pressed a button that plunged the room in total darkness. There was a faint click, and the screen lighted up be fore the darkness could become oppressive.

"What you are about to see," Waverly said, "is a re-run of an audio-visual telecast picked up from God knows what freakish source by one of our range-finding transmission circuits. A code-breaking circuit, although this particular telecast is not in code, visually or otherwise. Apparently THRUSH did not think it could be picked up. If they had, you can be sure it would have come through scrambled."

"But why should THRUSH think that?" Solo asked. "Was it different from an ordinary telecast?"

"In some respects it was," Waverly said. "The frequencies are unusual, although not beyond the range of our highly specialized pickup circuit. Also—and this is most important—we've determined, from painstaking angle-analysis, that it could not have been made by a recording instrument in the immediate vicinity of what you are about to see taking place on the screen. It could only have been made from a very great distance."

"You mean—by a telescopic lens and sound apparatus?"

"Perhaps. But even that seems to be ruled out, in a way, by other peculiarities revealed by the analysis. It is a most baffling telecast. It may not have even been transmitted by THRUSH from the site of the recording to the Newfoundland project for purposes of documentation. It's as if some invisible recording source, such as a photo-sensitized cloud high in the sky had audio-visually picked up and transmitted what was taking place on the beach far below."

"The Newfoundland Project!"

Solo said. "I might have guessed it. The long silence of Huntley and Rivers—"

"Huntley's body was found by a trawler two days ago, floating in the sea some thirty miles south of the headland which is the nearest point of land on the map which I've been consulting," said Waverly. "The headland is about eight miles east of the THRUSH project. You ate now going to see exactly what took place on that headland. It is a scene of absolute horror."

TWO

THE EAVESDROPPER

The click which ensued––it was followed by a low humming––seemed to convey more to the two seated U.N.C.L.E. operatives than the fact that Waverly had turned on the projector, for they stiffened to instant alertness. It was as if that small, sharp sound possessed the miraculous power of bringing the gulf between the New York brownstone and the Newfoundland Banks.

There was no flickering, no slightest trace of distortion. The headland and the beach at its base stood out with a startling clarity and seemed to come right into the room, wrapped in what was unmistakably a gray overcast, but an overcast that wasn't pronounced enough to diminish visibility.

Standing rigid by the projector, Waverly paused for an instant to brush lint from his immaculate tweed jacket. His voice, when it came again, was raised half an octave higher.

"As you can see, it's a close view of about eighty feet of beach, with a towering cliff wall in the back ground. You can see the boulders fringing the shoreline so distinctly you can trace the veins where erosion has produced a kind of splitting. You can also see that Huntley and Rivers are aware of their peril, because the veins on their forehead stand out just as distinctly.

"One of the THRUSH officers will speak in a moment. Listen carefully to what he is saying."

Napoleon Solo leaned more sharply forward in his chair, but Kuryakin remained absolutely motionless, his posture as rigid as that of Waverly.

The officer had seemingly been speaking previously, for his face had the harsh, accusing look of a man who had been working himself into a rage.

His voice rang out in sudden sharpness, rising above the other sounds from the screen. "You committed a serious blunder. You talked about the precautions you'd taken to avoid exposure. I can quote your exact words, spoken less than twenty minutes ago."

For a full minute the voice droned on, accusation following accusation and making Solo and Illya exchange incredulous glances in stunned, tight-lipped silence. Waverly said not a word.

"I know," the THRUSH officer was saying. "It seems unbelievable, doesn't it? We were under the sea and you were standing on the cliff overhead, seven miles from the Project. No possibility of being overheard, eh? But—you were. And not by human ears—until we picked up the warning."

The THRUSH officer's voice became choked with rage and he spoke a few more words, even more startling in what they seemed to imply. Then he made an abrupt gesture and the three other officers drew long-barreled pistols. One of the pistols roared.

Huntley went spinning backwards to collide with the cliff wall and collapse in a heap at its base.

Rivers threw himself flat, recoiled backwards and whipped a tiny, gleaming object from under his greatcoat. Neither Solo or Illya had any doubt as to what the object was.

Rivers hurled the midget grenade at the four THRUSH officers and the screen became a roaring inferno of smoke and flame. When the smoke cleared the accusing officer was lying on the sand with his head blown off, the rest of him a gleaming, scarlet horror. And Rivers had regained his feet and was racing for the cliff wall, with an officer who had survived the blast in furious pursuit.

What followed brought a groan of anguish from a man who had seen more than one U.N.C.L.E. agent fall to his death.

The screen went blank and he said, "Something seems to have interrupted the telecast at this point. There's just one more brief pickup, lasting for less than thirty seconds. Watch not only the boat putting out to sea, but the left hand corner of the screen."

Again the screen filled with light and sound and color. A small boat was moving slowly away from the beach, with one officer at the oars, another lying slumped across the rail. And in the left hand corner of the screen a long gray undersea craft was riding the choppy waves, its decks agleam with spray.

"A THRUSH submarine, beyond any possibility of doubt," Illya said. "I can just make out the insignia on the conning tower."

All three men remained silent for a full minute after the screen went blank.