"Just what do you know about them?" Illya said, his eyes hard beneath his lowered brow.
"A harmless cult of fanatics, we thought," Taylor said. "A bit crazier than some others, but without any potential danger to anyone. Or so we thought. They were small enough, just a small group of poor, half-demented, physically handicapped people. Then, about a year ago, they seemed to begin growing.
"They started chapters all over the world. The main chapter is still here in England, however. They are all unknown little people, all crippled in some way. They go around wearing their hair in great, shaggy mops, almost in their eyes. Some of them seem to bleach it or dye it white! We started to check them not long ago, and while we haven't found a single one with a criminal record, at least a third seem to have been in mental institutions of some kind at one time."
"A third?" Solo said. "Insane?"
Taylor shook his head. "No, not insane. At least not that we can prove. Merely disturbed, neurotics. There's no law against being mentally sick. If there were, ninety percent of the fanatics and cultists would be behind bars. It's not unusual for cult members to have a history of mental trouble. They are almost always poor misfits who join the cult in search for some hope."
"And just what is the hope of The Things To Come Brotherhood?" Illya asked.
Taylor laughed. "To survive. Yes, that's right. They appear to believe that when all the rest of us have blown ourselves to oblivion, they will survive and live happily ever after!"
"Just survive?" Solo said. "On what do they base this, if I'm not asking too much logic?"
"We don't really know," Taylor said. "Cults are like that. They usually have some sort of God-figure—idol, if you prefer—who they think will treat them specially. It seems that our morlocks simply believe that they are ordained to survive. Sort of a prophecy, I think."
Illya sat alert, his sharp eyes narrowed beneath the shock of blond hair. "Morlocks?"
"That is what they call themselves," Taylor said. "That was how we first got onto the fact that Morlock The Great had something to do with them. Now we think he may be the leader."
"But you can't prove it?" Solo said.
Taylor sighed. "My dear chap, we can't prove anything. These shaggy little people just go around saying they will inherit The Things To Come. That's how they get their name. They hold open meetings, talk and talk about how they must prepare for their time, and keep rather quietly to themselves."
"On the surface," Solo said drily. "The one we ran into in California wasn't keeping quietly to himself."
"And the message said the Cult has something to do with all these peculiar attacks that aren't attacks," Illya said.
"And Alec Morgan is dead." Solo said. "He was working on the Cult."
Illya rubbed his chin. "End of the world, and Red at low moon," he mused. "It has to mean something. Morgan was trying to tell us something. A message of some kind, Napoleon."
There was a silence in the office of Chief Inspector Taylor. Both Solo and Illya were hearing those word again screamed across the miles of ocean from London to the New York office of Waverly. Chief Inspector Taylor seemed to have something else on his mind. The CID man hesitated, and then spoke carefully.
"It's just a thought, mind you," Taylor said, "but if those words are intended as a message, it's not likely that Morgan was referring to the actual end of the world?"
"Maybe trying to tell us how important it all was?" Solo said.
Illya disagreed. "I don't think he would be wasting his last words on a warning, Napoleon. I think the Inspector may be right. Morgan wasn't talking about the actual end of the world. No, it was a message of some kind. Something that would help us."
"Then," Taylor said, "Perhaps my little hunch may help. If I was surrounded by enemies, the first thing I'd want to tell you is something that would lead you to the right place for the job."
"It sounds logical," Solo said.
"A place?" Illya said.
Taylor nodded slowly. "The End of the World is a pub, a public house. A tavern to you. And it's in the area where Morgan was found."
"A pub!" Solo cried. "Why not?"
"And 'Red At Low Noon' sounds like a password!" Illya said.
Taylor nodded. "It has that sound to me."
The two agents looked at each other. Solo shrugged. He stood up and stretched in the silent office. Then he checked his U.N.C.L.E. Special.
"Well, it's worth a try. We don't have anything else to go on right now, and I hate sitting around," Solo said.
"At least we can have a beer," Illya said.
Taylor said. "Do you want some help?"
Solo shook his head. "Not just yet. If they are up to some big trouble, they probably know your men."
"This will most likely be nothing," Illya said. "I think what you can do is check our Morlock The Great. Find out where he is. If this turns out to be nothing, he's our last lead."
"All right," Taylor agreed.
Solo stowed away his U.N.C.L.E. Special and smiled. "Well, shall we go to The End Of The World?"
"It might be interesting," Illya grinned. "I always wanted to be an explorer."
TWO
THE AREA was a vast complex of shabby old buildings, warehouses, and the ruins of war still standing like scars on the city. In many places the ruins had been cleared, and small, new houses put up for the poorer citizens of London. But it was an old and shabby area, the home of men who lived on the edge of life—petty criminals, the poor, the ragged hangers-on of the city.
The End of the World was a large pub, ablaze with light in the center of vast black buildings. There were ruins around the public house, and warehouses, and the dark buildings where both men and rats lived in uneasy peace. In such a world liquor is a way of life, and a stream of people went in and out of the pub.
Barely noticed by the patrons of The End of the World, two men limped down the street. One was small and dark, his dark hair thick and shaggy. He limped on his left leg and wore shabby old clothes that had not been cleaned for months. There was a black patch over his left eye, and a thick, black mustache on his upper lip.
"I'll go inside," the disguised Illya said. "I'm somewhat better at acting and fake accents, if I do say so."
The second man nodded. The second man was, of course, Napoleon Solo, but no one would have known that. He was hidden under a thick beard and old, shabby clothes. He limped also, as if his right leg was twisted. He was also, to anyone who might be watching, quite drunk.
"Check," Solo said. "I'll lean on that lamppost over there, where I can watch the door and the street. Keep your radio-ring open. If there's any danger, I can warn you."
Illya set his new transmitter-receiver ring, checked the rest of his hidden equipment and his U.N.C.L.E. Special, and left Solo leaning, apparently drunk, against the lamppost. The disguised Russian limped across the dark London street and into the glare and noise of The End of the World.
Through the smoke and noise Illya limped up to the bar and ordered a whisky. His eyes, under his lowered brow, searched the room and the faces at the tables and lined up at the bar.