He remembered then that he had not had time to contact Mr. Waverly with this latest development. He caught up the microphone to the radio band there, flicking the send button, and yelled rapidly into it, making himself heard above the whir of the rotor blades overhead.

The wave length was cleared for direct communication with U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York. Illya cut his speed, hanging back now, out of range of the tail guns on the THRUSH helicopter, but still keeping it in plain sight. Waverly's voice came through the microphone, asking the nature of the urgent call.

Rapidly, Illya Kuryakin explained what had happened.

"Are you able to identify the occupants of the THRUSH helicopter?" Waverly's voice asked him.

"Negative," Illya said. "But I could venture a guess."

"Dr. Sagine?"

"Dr. Sagine."

"What is your position, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya glanced below him. He could see the flat, white surface of Lake Mead directly beneath, frozen white in the this morning sunlight. His compass heading was due west. He reported this to Waverly.

"Your instructions are to keep the THRUSH helicopter under surveillance," Waverly said. "Remain at a safe distance. Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir."

"There are U.N.C.L.E. jets in the area. I will radio for them to converge on Lake Mead immediately."

"Yes, sir," Illya said again. He asked then how the attack on the THRUSH fortress had gone.

"Satisfactorily," Waverly told him. "It is now in our hands, along with the salt chemical and the antidote

"Napoleon?"

Waverly said that Solo was as well as could be expected under the circumstances, and that one of the U.N.C.L.E. jets had picked him up in Granite River more than an hour ago to join in the search for Dr. Sagine. Then he said, "I will keep this wave length open. Report any changes in direction if they occur.

"All right," Illya said. "I'll..." He broke off, staring out through the glass at the THRUSH helicopter ahead of him. A slight chill nudged his spine.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice said over the radio. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Illya said. "They've stopped moving forward. Just hovering, now."

But as he said that, the THRUSH machine, hovering, turned in midair, reversing itself to face him. It sat there like that for an instant, and then the pilot leaned forward on the throttle and it began to move at full speed, right at him.

Illya Kuryakin recognized what they were going to attempt to do. They had realized that trying to outrun the faster U.N.C.L.E. helicopter was useless. The only recourse left open to them, if they hoped to escape, was to eliminate the single obstacle that stood in the way of their freedom.

They were attacking.

It was too late to run, even if he wanted to The swiftness of their action had allowed them enough time to narrow the distance between the two helicopters, putting Illya within range of the THRUSH guns. By the time he turned around, they would be on top of him. There was only one thing he could do.

Stand and fight.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice crackled over the radio. "Come in, please."

"Stand by," Illya said, and dropped the microphone. His hand caught the firing mechanism for the U.N.C.L.E. gun mounts, finger poised on the button. He clenched his teeth, waiting.

The THRUSH helicopter opened fire.

Illya shoved hard right on the throttle, pitching him sideways. The first volley of bullets riddled the air where he had been. He hunched over the controls, jamming down on the button, and felt his own guns chattering beneath him. The THRUSH copter veered, dodging as he had done. He knew he had missed.

Dog-fight, he thought. A dog-fight with helicopters. Now if that wasn't...

"What's going on there? Mr. Kuryakin, I hear gunfire. What..."

Slashes of red flame from the fore guns on the THRUSH: chopper drowned out Waverly's words. Illya fought the throttle again, left this time in sidelong bank.

He was too late. The glass in front of him shattered.

Illya threw his left arm across his face, an instinctive motion. He felt a burning pain along his elbow as one of the machine gun slugs furrowed through his skin there, and tiny pinpricks on his forehead and face as the flying glass peppered his vision.

He shook his head, pawing to clear his sight. His hand came away red with blood from the glass cuts. Dimly he saw the THRUSH helicopter moving towards him, coming in for the kill.

Teeth bared in anger and pain, Illya found the firing mechanism he had dropped when the dome splintered. The U.N.C.L.E. copter had lost altitude, the throttle jarred loose from his hand with the impact.

Illya clutched the throttle now, straightening the machine, and then drew back on it, raising his front end and the mounted guns there to the approaching THRUSH aircraft.

He jammed his finger down on the firing button and held it there. The first stream of bullets sheered one of the rotary blades on the THRUSH helicopter. He saw it sputtering, airborne on only a single blade. More slugs smashed into the body, through the glass on the pilot's side. Crippled, it began to descend.

Illya released the pressure on the firing button then. He tested the controls, found that none of the THRUSH bullets had hit vital parts, and went down after them.

The THRUSH helicopter was not crash-falling. The pilot, apparently still alive, was able to maneuver the craft, even with one blade. He could keep it in the air, but not for long. It would have to land.

Illya, hovering above the crippled machine, following it down, resisted the urge to fire on it again.

As they descended, the crystal floor of what had been Lake Mead loomed large and white below. Illya, mouth pulled into a tight line, fumbled for the microphone on the floor. Angry crackling sounds still emerged from the radio, giving indication that it was still operational.

He flicked the send button. "Kuryakin here," he said.

"What happened?" Waverly's voice said through heavy static. "Are you all right? It sounded as if..."

"All right," Illya said shortly. "A shaky moment or two, but everything's under control now."

The THRUSH helicopter landed on the salt surface of the lake.

Illya went directly above them, vacillating there, a hundred feet overhead. He could see the two men in the shattered cockpit. Neither of them moved. The pilot had slumped over the controls.

Illya reported to Waverly. He finished with, "I'm going down for a look."

"Stay where you are," Waverly said sharply. "There are planes..."

"Wait a minute," Illya said. He saw that the second man in the THRUSH helicopter, the man he suspected to be Dr. Sagine, had begun moving. The long yellow hair shone in the sunlight as he clambered his way out of the crippled aircraft, onto the surface on the lake.

The man stood motionless for a moment, peering up into the air. Then he began to run.

"Dr. Sagine!" Illya said into the microphone. "He's alive! Out and running."

He took the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter in the direction the man was running, Dr. Sagine, stopped finally, digging into his pocket. He came up with something that glinted shafts of light in the sun.

A gun, Illya thought. Hand gun. Not much range. But if he can keep me far enough overhead, and if he can reach he shore, the rocks there .

"I'm going down after him," Illya said into the microphone.

"No!" Waverly snapped. "I want you to—"