Andy scuffed his bare foot against cement. “She took me by the shoulders and said, T love you,’ and kissed my eyes.” He spat in the street.
Charlie turned and lit a cigarette, muttering about preferring to be murdered.
Then a taxi came, and Malista had time for just one more thing. “I adopted them,” she said through the car window, “and there’s lots more room on the beach. Get yourself some clothes and a bouquet, and I’ll adopt you, too.” She leaned in, kissed him on both eyes, and then all three kids were lost in the night.
“What was that?” asked the cabbie.
“I was a guest of honor,” said Napoleon. “Ah-at a fraternity party. That was the send-off committee. How soon can we get to Manhattan?” He leaned back in the worn seat, thankful for the cab’s heater, and mumbled short answers to the drivers stream of helpful conversation about college rowdies, race problems and cops, until warmth and exhaustion pulled sleep down around him like a falling cloud.
As Mai and her pair of foster-children moved through the city back to her beach, they kept on the bounce, watching for roving groups of men in black, knowing that it would be as hard to get back through Thrush as it had been to get out. But, moving quickly, they went right past the Thrush named Arnold, who saw them coming and stepped into hiding.
“You’re outa your gourd,” said Andy softly as they passed Arnold, “picking up a guy out of the wet and risking all our necks to get him away.” Arnold’s ears perked up, and he decided he didn’t need to hear any more. Rather than follow, he turned aside and found two of his men patrolling another street.
“Solo has gotten away,” he said, and told them what he’d heard the boy say. “They must have gotten him safely off somehow, or he’d still be with them. You know those three; let’s catch up on them, and find out what we can about their connection with U.N.C.L.E.”
The Thrushes found their quarry at the beach, crouching on the boardwalk and whispering to each other. Across the strip of sand a figure moved toward the fun house, and Charlie spoke.
“It isn’t one of them; you can see he’s wearing a sweater or something light-colored, and they’re always in
black. Besides, the way he came up from our fire and is looking around, you can see he doesn’t belong here. What say he’s a friend of Napoleon’s?”
“If he is,” answered Mai worriedly, “we’ve got to tell him he’s in the middle of a search party from the pier. They might not object to picking up two for the price of one, even if they don’t know Napoleon got away.”
They stood upright and began to clamber over the railing, when suddenly Arnold and his men sprang. There was no warning this time, and all three kids were smothered in strong grips. Mai twisted, pummeling Arnold, using every trick she knew to get free. But with an almost equal balance of dirty in-fighting ability, age and weight told. In a trice, each Thrush was sitting on one flower-child, handkerchiefs smothering their yells, while all six watched the amusement pier and Porpoise’s men chuckled.
Illya Kuryakin, unaware of his audience, decided once more on a direct assault and walked boldly through the fun house’s main entrance. The beach wind died behind him as he stepped into the lighted foyer of ‘The Future’s Hall of Fame,” wondering how far he could get invading a house of glass, lights and mirrors.
Behind him, Arnold and his men picked up their prisoners and began the long trek to the Space House. Mai, Charlie and Andy refused to go quietly, and couldn’t be held still enough to be sapped safely. Three grown men found it harder work than they wished, dragging three struggling youngsters across the beach toward an unattractive interview with Porpoise.
Chapter 10
“I’m not Sanforized!”
A throbbing pain in the back of his head brought Illya awake and forced his eyes open. In one sour moment of sight he took in a ghastly picture. Water filled his nose and mouth, and his choking reaction closed his eyes tight.
Mentally he played back the vision of a violet chair, upside down, encasing the nude underparts of a ridiculously fat man. Two legs, plump and wiggling, attached to a bloated trunk by thighs as disgustingly soft white as they were huge. Coughing and spitting, he finally managed to clear the water from his nose, only to breathe in another mouthful, half air, half water.
I seem to be underwater; he thought, as reflex emptied his mouth again. He bucked and struggled to bring his head up into the air. His feet seemed to be locked in some sort of vise, and his hands, as usual under this type of circumstance, were tied at his back. Some unknown agency raised him into the air, coughing and spewing water as he came. His first pure breath met a lusty belch coming in the other direction, and he almost strangled again.
He tilted his head forward and opened his eyes. He was being held like a prize fish, his ankles gripped by the biggest man he’d ever seen. In a back-wrenching half twist, Illya looked from pool deck to ceiling, following upwards the frame of the Thrush named Apis. Before he could fully assimilate that worthy’s size, he was swung back head down, and brought face to upside-down face with the top portion of his underwater hallucination.
“Good evening, Mr. Kuryaldn,” said the hallucination, and Illya instantly recognized the voice as that of his guide through the death maze. He opened his mouth to reply, and Apis lowered him swiftly into the water. Illya choked and strangled on another mouthful of warm chlorinated water.
“Hey!” he yelled, spouting water like an Italian fountain, “don’t do that without warning me!”
“Mr. Kuryakin, you will please conduct your share of our little dialogue with a bit more control. I abhor noise, and if you do not lower your voice, Apis will. About two feet and for about ten minutes. Do we understand one another?”
“Excuse me. I don’t seem to be completely in control of my etiquette when the blood is pounding down into my head like this. I wouldn’t want to cause you any discomfort,
not when you’ve gone to so much trouble to make me feel at home here.”
Porpoise raised one finger, and Illya sucked in sufficient air to hold him for another brief dunking. Apis held him under until the blobbish underparts of Porpoise started to waver before his eyes. Coughing and spitting seemed to be the signal the giant was waiting for, so Illya exhaled underwater and prayed that he had guessed right. Apis brought him up for another mouthful of air, and then gave him another short bath, just to let him know who was boss.
“Too loud, still?” he asked in a much subdued voice.
“Excellent, Mr. Kuryakin. Now let us get one thing straight. I have all the information I want or need about U.N.C.L.E. from Solo, except for some small details. Those details are only a nuisance; you can enlighten me, and live, or you can refuse, and drown. I’d be slightly disappointed if you chose the latter, but let me assure you you are of no value to me, dead or alive. If you guide your answers to my questions with this in mind, I’m sure we will get along famously.”
Illya managed to smile through the water running down his face, and answered softly, “I’d love to help, really I would, but I’m more an idea man. Napoleon handles all the details.” The speech was finished underwater, and Illya immediately began to buck and kick as if he were drowning again. Apis pulled him to the surface before he even really began to feel uncomfortable. He sprayed out the mouthful of water he’d been saving, and was pleased to see Porpoise back off out of range.
“Once more, Apis; I feel Mr. Kuryakin is not yet convinced.” After a repeated series of dunkings, Illya was beginning to doubt that he was going to live long enough to refuse to answer anything.