In its silence and anonymous efficiency, the complex of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, as impregnable as a fortress, could have been anywhere on earth or a thousand miles underground. Here there was no evidence of the city outside, or of the innocent seeming brownstones on the street. There was no evidence from inside of the four known entrances, nor of the tunnels out to the East River, one of which Illya Kuryakin had used to make his seemingly miraculous appearance in the street through an ordinary manhole.
There is a fifth entrance to U.N.C.L.E. in New York, but that is known only to the man Illya and Solo were hurrying to meet now. The last door in the corridor opened automatically, the two agents having been thoroughly scanned and identified electronically, and they passed through into the office of Alexander Waverly, the only Western Hemisphere member of Section-I, Policy and Operations, and their chief.
Waverly, one of only five Section-I members in the world-wide operations of U.N.C.L.E., was not a man who stood on formality. An aristocratic, tweedy, unsmiling and slow-speaking man with iron-grey hair, Waverly was matter-of-fact and given to absent-mindedness on small matters.
"Mr.—uh—Solo, Kuryakin,"
Waverly said, blinking as he remembered the names of his two best agents. "Sit down. I trust you have examined Diaz?"
Solo and Illya sat down at the circular revolving table and faced their superior. Waverly began to look for a match to light the pipe in his mouth. As the bushy-browed chief searched his pockets for the matches, he continued to speak in his unruffled manner.
"The three men you quieted with your sleep darts have revealed nothing, I fear. Typical Thrush agents, of course—no fingerprints, no identification."
"How about using our super-pentathol on them," Solo said.
Waverly nodded, finding his matches. "We'll try it, of course, but I think with little result. They appear to be the usual Thrush assassins. No knowledge of any operations, and with no reasons given to them for their particular job. These three are so low they did not even have the remote-destruct charge under their skins."
"But they killed Diaz," Illya said grimly.
"Yes," Waverly said, "they killed Diaz. Most unfortunate. Did you find anything on his body that would help us learn why?" Waverly was not callous or inhuman. Diaz had been a good agent and a good man, but the work of U.N.C.L.E. in battling the cruelty and evil of the world did not allow its leaders the luxury of sentiment or even compassion. All U.N.C.L.E. agents knew the risk, and took that risk in full knowledge. They did not expect tears, only the continuance of the work they died for.
"Nothing," Solo said. "And they had no time to search him, so he had to be bringing a verbal message."
Waverly nodded, lighted his pipe now, and puffed slowly. Illya and Solo looked at each other. They had come to the important point. Waverly opened the subject that was now on all of their minds.
"He could neither speak nor write?" Waverly said.
"Not a sound, and not a letter on paper," Illya said. "He tried. It was almost frightening to watch him."
"He couldn't make a sound with his voice, but he could hold the pencil," Solo said. "He just couldn't write words."
"I simply don't understand it," Illya said. "He seemed to be in perfect possession of all his other faculties. There must be an explanation."
Waverly said, "What does the laboratory show?"
Solo shrugged. "A blank. No discoverable reason for it at all. The bullets were perfectly normal. No trace of a drug."
Illya leaned forward across the circular table. "There was no reason they could find, not in a complete autopsy. But Diaz could neither speak nor write."
Waverly nodded. A thoughtful expression crossed his craggy, bloodhoundlike face. The Section-I leader puffed on his pipe, allowing the smoke to rise slowly to the ceiling of the sunny room that could have been the office of any slightly over-age college professor, except for the banks of electronic equipment that kept Waverly in instant touch with his own headquarters, and with the world.
"Therefore, we must look elsewhere, I should say," Waverly
said simply. "I expect we will find our reason for this, shall we say, 'unspeakable' affair, when we learn what Diaz knew."
"And just how do we do that?" Solo asked.
Waverly looked unsmiling at his chief agent. "That I believe will be up to you, Mr.—Solo. Yes, I think this is a task for your particular talents. You will take over Diaz's work immediately."
"Someday I'll learn not to ask questions," Solo said.
"Perhaps there will be a beautiful lady to compensate for the apparently short life span, Napoleon," Illya said, and smiled.
"One lives in hope, my fine Russian friend," Solo retorted.
Waverly coughed. "I don't imagine there will be much opportunity for your well-known hobby, Mr. Solo. Beautiful women are notoriously scarce on rocket bases, I hear. Especially on secret bases."
"Montana?" Solo and Illya said together.
"Yes, Montana. The Elk River Project. Diaz was going there from New Mexico ten days ago. We had a report to that effect from him. Apparently he arrived, checked into the nearest motel, and then vanished. His appearance on our street was a complete surprise to me."
"Why did he go to Elk River?" Solo asked.
Waverly puffed on his pipe. "It seems there are two rocket pilots here, test pilots for United States experimental rocket aircraft, who have fallen ill of a strange malady. A secret report went to Washington, and Washington saw fit to call in. Wisely, I think."
"A malady?" Solo said.
"Apparently," Waverly said.
Illya leaned forward. The Slavic face of the small Russian was intense with excitement.
"They can neither speak nor write," Illya said. "Is that the malady?"
Waverly sighed. "I'm afraid it is. Diaz is the third case of unspeaking, not the first."
THREE
NAPOLEON SOLO whistled soundlessly, his boyish face showing neither fear nor caution, but only a certain surprise. Illya hunched forward and watched Waverly.
"Washington was disturbed, naturally," Waverly said. "They will be a bit more disturbed when they learn that their malady appears to involve our old adversary Thrush."
"And Diaz was working on the malady of unspeaking?" Illya said.
"No, not precisely," Waverly said..
"But you said—" Solo began to protest.
Waverly blew smoke. "I said, Mr. Solo, that Diaz had gone to
Elk River from New Mexico. His actual assignment was something quite different. You have heard of UFOs, of course? Unidentified flying objects?"
"Who hasn't?" Solo said. "Half the crackpots in the world have seen them, and the other half have ridden in them to Venus."
"Only a very small percentage are actually unidentified after investigation," Illya said.
"Approximately one percent, to be precise," Waverly said.
"Small enough to be explained by simple chance, lack of accurate information," Illya said.
Waverly nodded. "I quite agree. But what would you say to ten percent?"
"Ten percent?" Illya said, his eyes narrowing.
"Exactly," Waverly said. "The percentage has suddenly risen in the last six months. Of all reported sightings, some ten percent have not yet been explained."
"That's statistically impossible," Illya cried, "unless—"
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly said, unsmiling.