"Simply because," Waverly said, his voice tinged with impatience, "if Mr. Kuryakin does not get off the surface of Lake Mead within the next few minutes, he is going to be trapped on a rushing torrent of fresh water instead of solid rock salt."
Solo got it then, touching his mind like an electric shock.
"Good Lord!" he said slowly. "The antidote!"
"Precisely," Waverly said. "It was introduced into the Colorado some time ago at the THRUSH site in Pardee. I have had planes watching its progress. Even in controlled amounts, it decrystallizes the water at a fantastic rate of speed. Most of the Colorado has already been returned to its original state. When the water carrying the antidote reaches Lake Mead..." He paused. "I am sure I needn't explain further."
"No," Solo said. "How much time have we got?"
"Approximately fifteen minutes, maximum, according to the present rate of change. We have to make contact with Mr. Kuryakin before he gets too far away from his helicopter."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I am afraid his fate will be in your hands."
"But it's going to take ten minutes to reach Lake Mead," Solo said. "That only leaves us five minutes to launch a rescue operation. That's not much time."
"I am well aware of the time factor," Waverly said. "We can only hope that Mr. Kuryakin can be raised on his communicator before that necessity arises. Keep your own communicator open to Channel D. If he answers too late to escape by helicopter, then you will have to take over with rescue instructions."
"Yes, sir," he said. "Solo out."
He replaced the microphone, rising. As he did, he saw they had lost altitude. Through the windshield, he could see the Colorado River below, no longer white, now cold and surging through the rock canyons toward Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. He wet his lips, turning to McDuffee.
The U.N.C.L.E. pilot was barking orders to his crew on the jet's communication system. He had set the throttle wide open.
When McDuffee finished, Solo said, "I'm going to supervise the operation if it's needed. See if you can set a new speed record, will you, Mac?"
"As good as done," McDuffee said, but his mouth was tight.
Solo left the cockpit and hurried through the plane to the tail section. He took his communicator from his pocket as he went, thumbing out the antenna. He reported to Waverly on Channel D that he was waiting on stand-by.
Illya Kuryakin still had not acknowledged.
Solo reached the tail section. The crewmen there were already setting up the newly-developed U.N.C.L.E.. aeronautical rescue devices carried in that section. He stood watching them, feeling a tightness in his chest as he listened to the silence from the communicator in his hand.
TWO
Ahead of Illya as he ran, the THRUSH scientist was following a straight course toward the rock-covered shore to the right. Illya Kuryakin had narrowed the distance between them to a hundred feet, and was gaining rapidly. He was younger, more agile, than Dr. Sagine, and he knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before he overtook him.
And that made him careless. He forgot about the gun Dr. Sagine was carrying. In his pursuing dash across the shining salt floor of the lake, Illya's mind was focused on only a single objective, and that was catching the man in front of him before he reached the cover of the shore. He had pushed the existence of the gun completely from his mind.
When Dr. Sagine suddenly halted his flight, turning abruptly, Illya did not immediately understand why he had done so. He slowed himself, a natural reaction, and then he saw the THRUSH scientist's arm stretch out in front of him, and the transitory view of metal, and he knew, almost too late, what the reason was.
He flung himself to the side, his left shoulder connecting solidly with the grainy, unyielding surface, jarring him. The bark of the gun in Dr. Sagine's hand split the morning stillness, and a bullet furrowed salt near Illya's face, spewing brackish chips at his eyes. He rolled twice and came up on to his knees, trying to see where his assailant was, his special held up in his hand. The gun roared again, directly in front of him.
Sagine's second shot took Illya high in the left side of the chest. The force of the impact stunned him, driving him over onto his back. His chest went numb. He lay there, looking up into the pale yellow ball of the sun, and he thought dazedly, He shot me. I'm hurt bad.
There was another crack from the gun. The shot missed. Illya was aware of that, and aware at the same time that he was completely at the mercy of Dr. Sagine. The initial shock wore off, and his mind was alert again.
He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, couldn't with the lack of feeling in his chest, and leaned onto his side with a lunging effort. He saw the THRUSH scientist approaching him, shouting unintelligible words that were lost in the breath of wind blowing across the surface of the lake. He steadied his right arm and squeezed off two wild shots, unable to aim properly from the huddled position he lay in.
But the fact that he had managed to fire at all accomplished a purpose. Dr. Sagine stopped, uncertain. He realized Illya Kuryakin was not dead, and realized as well the foolishness of walking into the muzzle of the special held in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's right hand. He turned and began to run again.
Illya Kuryakin emptied the special after the running man, but at the widening range none of the shots were remotely close. The figure of Dr. Sagine began to grow smaller as he raced toward the rocky shore in the distance.
Illya reached under him, fingers clawing at his pocket. The communicator had gone dead, but maybe it was from Waverly's end. If his own was...The first sharp pain slashed across his chest then, squeezing tears from his eyes. He clamped his teeth down tightly together, pulling the communicator free. Maybe there was still time. If an U.N.C.L.E. jet or helicopter were in the area, it was possible they might be able to spot Dr. Sagine before he could lose himself in the rocks.
Illya nipped out the antenna, pulling the communicator to his lips. "Kuryakin here," he said, and his voice mirrored the rising pain in his chest.
THREE
Solo was pacing nervously up and down the tail section of the U.N.C.L.E. jet when he heard Illya's voice come over Channel D.
His heart jumped. He started to speak into his communicator, but Waverly was already acknowledging. "Mr. Kuryakin, this is Waverly. Listen carefully. Return to your helicopter at once. Do you understand? Return to your helicopter and lift off at once."
"Negative," Illya said. "Sagine's getting away. He shot me. He's..."
"Shot you?" Waverly cut in. "Are you badly hurt? Are you able to return to your helicopter?"
"Negative," Illya said again. He began to cough, and the rest of his words were flecked with the rasps. "Shot in the chest. Don't think I can move. But I'll be all right until you can send someone down for me. Sagine is..."
"Sagine is unimportant," Waverly said tersely. "He won't get far. You are of primary concern at the moment."
"Told you, I'm all right," Illya said.
"You are not all right, Mr. Kuryakin. The chemical antidote has been introduced into the Colorado River. I was attempting to tell you that when my mike went out of order. In another six to eight minutes, the antidote will reach Lake Mead, decrystallizing the salt."
"What?" Illya said.
Solo couldn't wait any longer. "Illya, this is Solo," he said into the communicator.