He had won the battle, and now he slept. When he awoke again, there was full clarity.
He was instantly aware of his surroundings, and even though his head pounded with an intenseness he had seldom experienced, he was able to recall everything that had happened before he had been exposed to the nerve gas. He had only vague recollection of its effects on his mind; it was as if he had just wakened from a nightmare.
He lay looking around him. A cell, he thought. That would explain the absence of a door and of windows. Entrance was probably gained through an electronically operated panel in one of the walls. Yes, a cell. But where? Mexico? Or where else?
That didn't seem likely. THRUSH had been there merely for the purpose of conducting tests. Then—THRUSH'S base of operations. Of course. They had to have a secret, well-hidden complex, one unknown and unsuspected by U.N.C.L.E. a place where the salt chemical could be developed.
But where?
Solo lay motionless on the cot. Why had he been brought here, wherever he was? A wedge, he thought. Yes, that must be it. An added bit of precaution by THRUSH, in case they needed bargaining power for negotiations with U.N.C.L.E. And such negotiations, Solo knew, would only come about if THRUSH gained the upper hand in the battle between the two powerful forces. Consequently, the obvious assumption was that THRUSH was on the verge of launching whatever insidious plot its council had devised.
But what that was, he still had no way of knowing. And locked in this doorless, windowless cell, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Escape seemed impossible. But there had to be a way. And he had to be ready, not lying helpless on the cot. Solo gritted his teeth and swung his legs out and down to the floor, pushing himself into a sitting position with his hands. He sat for a full minute.
He tried to stand. His legs would not support his weight and he fell. His body felt drained, fever-weak, and every fiber of his being ached. Nerve ends like open sores set him trembling.
He spent almost an hour learning to walk again. It was almost as if he were a child, a baby taking his first experimental steps. He managed, with great effort, to stand finally, after falling several times.
Equilibrium returned as slowly as had his ability for rational thought. But, irrevocably, it did return. He took a step on his right foot, swayed, arms flailing, and this time he did not fall. Elation rushed through him. He took another step, with his left foot and fell again. But now the sense of defeat had left him, and he got up immediately.
He walked. He walked from front to back of the green-walled room, from side to side. Some of the weakness had begun to leave him. He flexed his arms, his fingers, working his muscles. He held his hands in front of his eyes and willed them to stop shaking.
He had to keep moving. If he gave in to the raw jangling of his tortured nerves, his mind could still snap. He forced blankness of his brain, continuing to walk. A whirring sound came from behind him. His heart began to pound wildly and he spun around, crouching catlike.
A small, square opening had appeared in the flat surface of the floor near the cot. Solo closed his eyes, clenching his fists, concentrating every ounce of his will on quieting the raging forces in his body. When he felt calm returning, he opened his eyes.
The opening was gone. But on the floor where it had been was a small bowl, wooden, containing some kind of greenish liquid.
Solo went there and bent, looking at the bowl. He was ravenously hungry. He did not know how long he had been without food. He wet his lips and lifted the bowl to his mouth.
Warning lights touched his brain. Drugs, he thought. It might be loaded with drugs. Maybe they think I know something, and they put some kind of narcotic in here, like a truth serum.
Solo flung the bowl from him, across the room, and it hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, spattering the greenish liquid on the green walls.
* * *
Solo had lost all track of time. At first, he refused to sleep. He paced the room continually, stopping only to rest for short periods. His nerves had begun to function normally, as had the remainder of his body. But he was afraid to close his eyes, afraid enough of the gas remained in his system to have harmful effects while he slept.
Finally, the fatigue became too great, and he knew it was impossible for him to remain awake. He lay down on the cot, and sleep covered him like a blanket the instant he shut his eyes. When he awoke, the surging pain in his head was gone. He felt stiff, but otherwise the adverse bodily conditions had disappeared completely. He was greatly relieved. The danger point had been passed, now.
There was another bowl of the greenish liquid on the floor, but he ignored it, feeling the pangs of hunger in his stomach. He lay on the cot for a while, thinking about Illya and, bitterly, about the girl named Estrellita Valdone. Then he stood and began pacing. There was still the possibility, he knew, of claustrophobia setting in, and of morose melancholia. He had to keep busy, keep doing something, keep his mind from dwelling on his imprisonment.
He walked. He thought, though for short periods. He exercised his body. He slept, fitfully, for an hour or two. And he fought the growing hunger in his stomach each time a fresh bowl of the greenish liquid came up through the opening in the floor.
He had been in that single room for three days, though he had no idea it had been that long, when the two men came for him. He was sitting on the cot, resting his legs after walking, when a loud whirring sound came from one of the walls on his right. The sound did not frighten him, as had the one that first day. He looked up.
The wall had slid open. Outside was a hallway. Two men stood there, each armed with a sub-machine gun and an Army-type automatic at their belts. They were dressed in brown khaki uniforms and black-billed caps. Solo recognized their attire as that worn by THRUSH guards.
One of the men made a motion with the gun he held in his hands. Solo stood, wetting his lips. They were taking him out of here. Now, he thought, maybe I'll find out where I am. Maybe I'll find out what T.H.R.U.S.H....
A sudden thought struck him, What if it were too late? What if THRUSH had already launched their offensive? And what if it had succeeded? What if... He forced the questions out of his mind. He couldn't afford to think like that. It wasn't too late. It couldn't be. There was still time. There had to be.
Solo went out into the hallway. One of the guards prodded him to the left, and they walked in that direction. The guards flanked him. At the end of the hallway was a blank wall that opened to reveal an elevator as they neared.
They moved inside. Machinery buzzed, and the panel slid shut. They began to rise. Napoleon Solo had the odd feeling that he was in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, ascending to see Mr. Waverly; the electronic panels, the concrete and steel construction, was very similar. There was no doubt about it, Solo thought. This was a major THRUSH fortress.
The elevator stopped abruptly. The panel slid back, and they stepped out. Solo was not prepared for what he saw. It was a laboratory.
Not a laboratory by any normal standards, however, it was huge, the size of an auditorium, high-ceilinged. Banks of equipment, huge caldrons, like wine vats, long rows of benches laden with jars, bottles, test tubes and other chemical paraphernalia covered every available inch of space. Overhead, a maze of intricately spiraling glass tubing linked the vats with each other and with various oddly-shaped machines...each with a series of dials, gauges, and round glass bowls at the base...scattered throughout the room. A colorless liquid bubbled, apparently under great heat, inside the tubing and the glass bowls under the machines. To his right, Napoleon Solo saw a large, straight piece of tubing, much larger than the ones overhead, that led from the largest of the vats to a conveyor belt of sorts. It was circular, revolving slowly.