Since Joan was still restricted in San Francisco, Napoleon was accompanied by Linda Brunelle, a healthy blonde from the Los Angeles office; Illya had been assigned a lean brunette named Terri Travener. Mr. Gold had brought Miss Klingstein with him, as well as a satchel stuffed with data sheets which held the keys to the Ultimate Computer itself, scrawled in illegible pencil. Between them they expected to be able to operate at least as much of the hardware as necessary.
Illya carried a photographer's gadget bag, containing his electronic sensors, assorted cables, and two candy bars. Brandy slung a leather tote bag which held three cannisters of Paralane-Alpha.
"It struck me," said Napoleon as they wandered with the citizenry through the park past their target, "that one of our problems in dealing with Thrush was that they always took the initiative, and they knew how to apply that minimum of force in just the right place before you knew it and be finished before you could quite react. And it occurred to me -"
"That we were doing the same thing to them only more so and first?" said Illiya. "I'm sorry Napoleon. If I'd thought you'd missed that I would have pointed it out to you days ago."
"You didn't know days ago," said Napoleon reasonably. "Smart-alec Russian. I'll bet you didn't think of it until just now."
"I'm insulted."
"Good. Anyway, I just thought I'd mention the point. Isn't this our corner?"
Gold and Miss Klingstein stopped to admire the view west towards the bay while Napoleon and Illya, with their aides, walked idly around the end of the building onto a gravel path. They found a wood-and-stucco utility locker on the back wall behind a clump of eucalyptus; Illya's key fit the padlock and a quick look verified a network of wires, all tagged with numbers. Then as he consulted a list and Terri commenced unpacking the kit, Napoleon worked his way along the wall, Brandy behind him, feet crunching quietly on the fragrant leaves.
There was his air intake, louvered and screened, eight feet above the ground. He could just barely reach it, he found, and it would be simple to hang the cannisters to the screen. He left Brandy there arming the gas cylinders, and padded back to Illya.
"How are we doing?" he asked.
"As well as can reasonably be expected," said his partner. "My jumpers are ready to cut in and we have about four minutes to go."
"About? Have you checked with Darjeeling?"
"I was just about to. Would you?"
Napoleon's communicator was assembled in his hand, and he asked, "Open Channel S, please."
A guarded voice answered interrogatively, and Napoleon said, "It's us. We seem to have about three and a half minutes to zero. How's by you?"
"Much the same. Is all well where you are?"
"So far. We'll launch the first phase exactly one minute before the hour."
"The hour? Oh, sorry. We're in a half-hour difference zone. It's just coming up on 0:27."
"Okay, that matches our 14:57, Coming up on the minute – four, three, two, one, mark!"
"Two seconds error; not enough to worry about. Five seconds would be close enough provided you went first. I will initiate my phase, then, fifteen seconds after you release your gas."
"Make it thirty seconds," said Illya. "It'll take the gas most of a minute to move through the system into their quarters. That gives your target a minute or so to notice you're coming and push the panic button, so the dump should come just about the time everyone here is dozing off."
"Check," said Castora. "Standing by,"
"Two minutes," said Illya as Napoleon returned to where Brandy had prepared and armed all three charges.
With thirty seconds to go he started all three timers and stretched to hang the cylinders, one at a time, on the grating over the mouth of the air intake. Then he looked up at them expectantly as the final seconds ticked away.
They burst with a rush, and Illya dropped the microswitches of his jumper unit.
Faintly through his communicator he heard the cry of "GO!" from ten thousand miles away. The warm California breeze rustled in undisturbed tranquility as three cannisters poured pale vapor into the drawing vent.
"Well," said Illya after a few seconds, "that should do it."
It did.
SECTION IV. "Oh, What A Fall Was There!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Breakfast was quieter than usual in the tall old house on Alamo Square that Sunday. Ward Baldwin finished his oatmeal, his eggs and his kippers without a word, addressed a knife load of marmalade to his toast and sipped his Earl Grey tea before speaking. His voice was harsh and level.
"In view of the continued silence from Central, which has now lasted nearly twenty four hours, I fear we have no choice but to assume that the Hierarchy has become at least temporarily, leaderless at the very highest level."
"What can have happened?" Irene pondered.
"I'm sure Alexander Waverly would know," Robin volunteered. "In fact, I'll bet if I called U.N.C.L.E. and asked him, he'd even tell me. D'you think I should?"
"I dare say he'd relish the opportunity to tell me it was his doing. It may be a matter of a month – perhaps as much as three months – before Central can be replaced and restaffed, and. changes made in security systems. That electronic box in my study sits there with one sheet hanging out of its printer: 'Due to circumstances beyond our control, all communication with Central and UlComp has been interrupted. Please stand by. This unit will be reactivated as soon, as possible.' Not very encouraging." He cleared his throat and sipped his tea.
"It may mean that the floating electronic crap-game will take a few days to assemble itself somewhere and resume operations on the old frequency, but in such a case The Island should be able to keep all their balls in the air during the interim. From here it is impossible to tell to what extent the top levels of the Hierarchy may have been damaged. I may call Victor after midnight by transatlantic telephone- I'm sure he still has his scrambler from that dreadful Guardian business in '61 and the old Krivan key should be as good as it ever was."
"What do you suppose The Island is doing?" Robin asked. "You could check through Vince and Fang."
"The Men From Central took their leave quite late last night," Irene said. "When I went into the library to announce breakfast, I found the sofa neatly made up and everything put away as though they'd never been here."
"I was still up when they left, my dear. They were in rather a hurry, apparently having received an urgent summons from The Island, but they paused to invite me to join them in the incipient action. They gave me the impression it was being fortified to be held as a last redoubt in hope of evading U.N.C.L.E.'s all-probing eyes – the picture they sketched reminded me strongly of Remington's study of The Fall Of The Alamo. Lacking the dedication of Colonel Bowie and the stamina of Congressman Crockett, I quoted my Selective Service classification of 7-J: to be mobilised only in case of an actual enemy invasion, and assembled in Union Square to pile sandbags around Huntley and Brinkley."
"You'll have to change that one, dear," said Irene. "Huntley has retired."
"What? At his age? This younger generation is soft. I've said it again and again."
"You don't suppose poor Mr. Stevens might have had something to do with all this," Robin asked.
"I can't see, how… One day I may ask Waverly about it. He must know – no natural disaster could have been so devastating."
"Well, we aren't in any trouble with U.N.C.L.E., are we?"
"Of course not, dear," said Irene. "Not legally. Though I suppose they can't help but be suspicious of us. Besides, if they knocked over Central, any evidence they had seized in the course of an illegal entry would be inadmissible in court."