"Thanks," Solo said, returning the other's grin. "Luck should be at a premium in the Gobi. But maybe we can scrape up enough to see us through."

Solo and Illya descended from the car, and crossed to the jet with out looking back. The aluminum ladder had twenty-five or thirty rungs, but they ascended so swiftly that they were inside the plane be fore the usual transition from sun light to artificial light could be adjusted to gradually.

For a moment their vision remained hazy and they could barely make out two tall figures standing just outside the pilot compartment where the double row of seats terminated. They could hear the ladder being drawn up as one of them advanced toward them, his features a blurred oval.

His hand was extended in greeting and before he spoke Solo's vision became much clearer, and he recognized the man from the description which Harris had given him.

"You got here in good time," the tall pilot said. "Mr. Harris instructed us to take off immediately. That we can do. Unless, of course, there's something he may have neglected to tell us you'd like to talk about first. We're in no immediate danger and a few extra minutes—"

Solo shook his head. "The sooner we're in the air the better I'll feel," he said. "I'm not sure just how detailed Mr. Harris' instructions were. But we have reason to believe that what we're saying now could set off an alert that could prove dangerous at the end of— well, say fifteen or twenty minutes. It would all depend on how quickly a THRUSH plane or armored car could get here."

The pilot's equally tall companion had joined him in time to catch what Solo .was saying. "Yes, of course, we realize that," he said, replying without waiting for the other to nod in agreement. "I'm Thomas Ovenden. This is Mr. Hart. Our instructions were very detailed. Your briefing took place under unusual precautions, in a soundproof room. And you were rushed here immediately, with the time and destination not revealed to you until you were ready to leave—solely as an added precaution."

He paused an instant, then went on quickly: "We had no knowledge as to precisely when you would arrive. We were just warned to remain on the alert, that your actual arrival would take the place of a transmitted message. Now that you're here I agree that we should take off immediately."

"We can risk perhaps another minute—against my better judgment," Solo said. "Just how were your instructions conveyed to you—remaining on the alert and all that? Surely not in short wave, scrambled or otherwise."

The pilot who had identified himself as Ovenden and whose hawklike features and British accent matched the description Harris had supplied shook his head. "No range finding risk, if that's what you're thinking. We've never sent Harris a message or received one on this airfield. This plane has been here for a week, and all arrangements concerning it were made before your arrival in Tokyo. Previous to your arrival it was used by our Tokyo unit for other purposes. We received our instructions in the same soundproof room where you were briefed, before Mr. Harris met you at the airport. Then we drove straight here. A three-hour drive, as you know."

"We're wasting precious seconds," Illya Kuryakin said. "Pilots are seldom briefed that extensively. But I guess it was necessary in this case. Since you know so much we can have an enjoyable time discussing it. But not now."

There was a harsh impatience in Illya's voice, but neither of the two pilots appeared to resent it. They nodded, turned and strode swiftly back along the aisle to the pilot compartment. The dividing panel opened and closed and Solo remained standing very still for a moment, staring at Illya in surprise.

"That came close to a reprimand," Solo said. "It wasn't their fault they were told so much. Harris must have had a reason—"

"There's something about this I don't like," Illya said. "I can't pin it down, exactly. But when you said, 'We can risk another minute' they seemed to leap at the opportunity of spelling everything out. At least, Ovenden did, as if he was afraid you wouldn't believe him."

"He just answered my question," Solo pointed out. "Fairly concisely, I'd say. He could see I was concerned. If that's all that's bugging you—"

"If THRUSH could pick human voices right out of the air on a Newfoundland headland and send that pickup instantly racing along undersea to a THRUSH submarine in a matter of minutes anything is possible," Illya said.

"You're suggesting, then—" Solo paused, to stare at Illya intently. It was a thought which, unknown to Illya, had flashed for the barest instant across his own mind. But he had dismissed as too incredible, in view of the fact that the two pilots conformed to the descriptions which Harris had given them, even to Ovenden's British accent. But the fact that Illya appeared to take it seriously gave him pause, for he had the highest respect for the younger agent's judgment.

"I'm not sure," Illya said. He hesitated, a look of deepening concern in his eyes. He was returning Napoleon Solo's stare.

"They seemed to know more than Harris could have told them," he said, clearly unaware of how much progress he had made in that respect. "One or two small details almost on the—well, the all-seeing level. All-seeing as far as this particular operation goes, if you know what I mean. That may sound a little far-out, but—"

"It doesn't," Solo said quickly. "It fits, in a way, and I don't like it either. But there are—"

They both saw it at the same instant, a thin ribbon of blood snaking across the passenger cabin between the double row of seats close to where they were standing.

SOLO DREW in his breath sharply, and gripped the arm of the last seat on the left side of the aisle as he stared down at it. Kuryakin gripped Solo's arm just as tightly, and pointed in silence at the scarlet trickle. He seemed not to realize that there was no need for him to draw Solo's attention to it.

Though Solo's voice, when it came, was perfectly controlled its very calmness had a forced quality.

"Now we are sure," he said. "Stay right where you are, and watch the pilot compartment while I look. They've been dragged out of sight somewhere behind us—no room under the seats. If the panel opens shoot to kill."

"Right," Illya said. "But make it quick. If the plane takes off—"

"We've got to risk that," Solo said. "If they're still alive, we'll need them. If they've been killed we'll have at least a fighting chance of forcing those THRUSH pilots to set us down in Inner Mongolia. The odds against us will be heavier if we don't know what the score is."

Illya nodded and worked a special pistol with a five-inch barrel loose from its holder beneath his coat. He trained it on the pilot compartment, his lips set in tight lines.

"Go ahead," he said. "We could be making a mistake by not blasting that pair right out of their seats first. But it's almost a toss-up. They'd be no good to us dead, as you say."

Solo gripped Illya firmly by the shoulder for an instant, his voice reassuring. "It will only take a minute to find out. Then we'll know exactly where we stand."

Solo swung about and moved swiftly into the shadowy rear section of the passenger cabin where the seats terminated. He glanced just as swiftly around him, his eyes sweeping over the entire section. He saw nothing at first but a gray expanse of metal hemming him in on four sides. Then he looked down and saw that the ribbon of blood— it had widened slightly—led from the last of the seats to a point mid way between the seats and a paneled doorway which matched the one which opened on the pilot compartment at the opposite end of the passenger cabin.