Part of the wooden ties supporting the tracks had long since dropped away. One of the rails hung loosely there, about to give way. The other, on the side Solo stood, still seemed to be solid. It was the only passage, and a hazardous one, through the trestle. It would take careful footwork to get past the yawning hole.

Solo closed his eyes, his breathing returning to normal. There was nothing he could do now but steel himself for the rush he would have to make on the open tracks down the other canyon wall.

He was aware of the sound of the helicopter outside. But the noise of its rotos did not seem to be overhead; it was opposite the shed wall across from him. It seemed to be dropping. Why would they...

He saw the tip of one of the helicopter blades through the hole in the tracks, and he knew in that instant what they were doing. He felt the chill of fear move up his spine. They were going to come after him from beneath the trestle.

They rust have known about the hole, known that there was no place Solo could hide from them. If he went back the way he had come, they would climb and pick him off. And there was not enough time for him to work his way across that single rail to the other side of the hole.

There was no escape.

The helicopter hove into view below him, and Solo saw the evil, grinning face of the man with the machine gun as he leaned out, raising the weapon up towards him. Solo hugged the wooden wall behind him in helpless panic, waiting for the bullets to tear into his body.

ACT V: ONE-WAY DEATH STREET

Come in and sit down," Estrellita Valdone said. "There will be a short wait before we depart."

"I'll stand, thank you," Illya said. He was still looking at the gun clenched in her hand.

The man standing behind Illya Kuryakin jammed the gun muzzle into his back and shoved him inside the warehouse office. "The lady said sit down, friend," the man said. "You do like she tells you."

There was a single, straight-backed chair next to the desk. Illya sat down. The man came inside the office and stood near the door. He was tall and angular, with a bloodless slash for a mouth, and dressed in khakis similar to Estrellita's.

Illya leaned back in the chair, resting one hand on the corner of the desk in a position of apparent relaxation. But inside, his muscles were taut, wound like a steel spring, ready to explode if the slightest opportunity for escape were to present itself.

"Well," Illya said. "Nice little THRUSH trap you've baited here. Too bad you're going to be caught up in it yourself."

Estrellita Valdone smiled her cold smile. "Really?" "There are ten U.N.C.L.E. agents waiting outside," Illya told her. "I should think they'll be battering down the doors any second now."

The angular man gave a short, barking laugh. "Won't work, friend. We were watching when you came up. You were alone, all right."

"When I came, yes," Illya said smiling. "But were you watching the front when I knocked on the rear door?"

The man frowned, looking at Estrellita. She said, "You don't really expect us to believe that, do you?"

Illya Kuryakin shrugged.

The angular man seemed uncertain. "What if he's telling the truth?"

"He's not telling the truth, Benson," Estrellita said. "It's an old trick. He wants to make us believe there are U.N.C.L.E. agents outside so I will have you go out to look. Then he'll be alone here with me. It would be much easier for him to overpower one person, and a woman at that. Isn't that correct, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya shrugged again, his face impassive. Estrellita Valdone had guessed that he was lying, and had guessed his purpose behind the lie.

Now he had to contend with both Estrellita and the man named Benson. And they were well trained, standing apart from one another, watching him carefully. When he made his move, as he knew he must, it had to be quick and sure, with no margin for error. Perhaps if he could get them talking, distract them somehow-

He said, "What are we waiting for, if you don't mind telling me?"

"A telephone call," Estrellita said. "When we receive it, five minutes from now, we shall take you to where Mr. Solo is."

"And just where the devil might that be?"

The cold smile flashed again. "You will learn that, Mr. Kuryakin, when you arrive there."

At the end of that five-minute period,- as Estrellita had said, the telephone rang. She took a single step to where the phone was perched on the opposite side of the desk from where Illya sat. She caught up the receiver.

Illya's eyes followed her. It was then that he became aware of the paperweight.

It was a large, oblong piece of black onyx, highly-polished, and it sat on top of a sheaf of bills of lading on the half of the desk nearest Illya. His hand, resting on the desk where he had placed it when he sat down in the chair, was only inches away from the paperweight.

Illya looked at it, took his eyes away, and stared straight ahead. That piece of polished onyx represented a possible opening. He tensed the muscles in his legs, planting the toes of his shoes solidly on the floor.

Estrellita seemed to be listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the wire. Then she said, "Yes," just that single word and nothing else, and hung up the receiver. She started to move away from the phone.

Eyes still staring straight ahead, Illya said a silent prayer that he would remember the exact position of the piece of onyx. Then his arm lifted, darting sideways, and he felt his fingers close over the glossy surface. His eyes flicked right.

Well, he thought, this is no time to be a gentleman. And he threw the paperweight at Estrellita Valdone.

In the same motion, he came up off the chair, toes digging for leverage against the floor, and hurtled his crouched body at Benson. He heard Estrellita's sharp cry of pain, and the thud of the automatic as it flew from her hand and bounced on the floor, and he knew his hurried aim had been accurate. Then his shoulder slammed with jarring force into a surprised, off-guard Benson's midsection.

The force of Illya's charge pushed Benson backwards, and the crack of his head against the door jamb resounded dully, music to Illya's ears. Benson squeezed the trigger of his own gun as he hit the jamb, a reflex action, but his arm had been pushed to one side by the contact and the bullet thudded harmlessly into the wall.

The angular man slid unconscious to the floor, Illya on top of him. Illya Kuryakin tore at the gun in Benson's fingers, pulled it free, and then rolled over the prone form, coming up on one knee with the gun up and ready in his hand.

Estrellita was sitting on the floor in front of the desk, holding her right arm. Her eyes were squeezed shut in silent pain.

Illya Kuryakin leaned back against the desk, passing his left hand through his blonde hair. "Now, Miss Valdone, suppose we play twenty questions."

Estrellita's black eyes were open now, filled with pain and hatred. "I won't tell you anything," she said defiantly. "Not a thing."

"We'll see about that." Illya took his U.N.C.L.E. communicator from the pocket of his suit and thumbed out the antenna. "Open Channel D, please," he said.

TWO

Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Waverly and two other U.N.C.L.E. agents, specialists in the art of interrogation, spent two hours questioning Estrellita Valdone at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

They questioned her individually and collectively, using every known verbal trick of extracting information. They flung questions with rapid-fire quickness, trying to confuse her. They made seemingly irrelevant queries, carefully phrased, hoping she would let slip the slightest bit of useful knowledge.