In the meantime, Napoleon had attached the shoulder stock and telescopic sight to the U.N.C.L.E. Special, converting it into a carbine. "If he's going to use the rockets, he'll have to raise the door. Maybe..." The laser flickered again, and a second hole appeared, lower down this time. Napoleon glanced up. "But I don't think we can wait." He sighted carefully and began firing. Illya followed suit, first with the riot shotgun, then with the pistol. The car body was plastic, strong but not impregnable. With high explosives, it could have been stopped, but the chances were slim with conventional ammunition. But they had to try.
They were both firing and reloading as rapidly as they could, but the sweeping contours of the car presented no surface for a solid hit. The bullets struck glancing blows and whined off into the distance. The bullet-proof glass in the windshield protected Whateley completely.
The car crept closer. Then the door opened, just a crack. Napoleon quickly sighted and fired. The bullet ricocheted off harmlessly and before he could fire a second time, there was a whoosh of fire. Both agents dived back down the steps and flattened themselves at the bottom. A moment later, about a yard from where they had been at the top of the steps, an explosion rocked the vault.
The two agents had been protected by the steps, but next time... "How many of those does he have?" Napoleon asked.
"Enough to get our range," Illya said. "At least half a dozen. We're just lucky that the heat seeking system isn't sensitive enough to respond to body heat."
At that instant, Rita and Sascha came bursting through the vault door. Each had an U.N.C.L.E. Special.
Napoleon stared at them unbelievingly for a second. "Where did you get those?" he snapped.
"We couldn't find a passage," Rita said. "But there was a little compartment in the coffin. And it's more useful than that tear gas gun, so -"
Napoleon wasn't waiting for the complete story. He leaped up and dashed inside the vault. "Everyone inside!" he shouted as he disappeared through the door.
Puzzled, Illya and the others followed. "Shove the door shut!" Napoleon said over his shoulder as he moved around the dais until he found the coffin's compartment and began rummaging furiously.
As he pulled something out, another rocket hit the vault; the entire structure shook. One of the empty recesses crumbled and dust flew in the door, which Illya and Curtis were trying to force shut.
Illya glanced back and saw that Napoleon had an U.N.C.L.E. communicator in his hand. "It's a little late to call Mr. Waverly," he said.
But Napoleon was making quick adjustments on the communicator, then speaking into it rapidly.
Suddenly, there was silence. The deep throated rumble of the U.N.C.L.E. car's engine was gone.
Napoleon pocketed the communicator and breathed a huge sigh of relief, and started toward the vault door. "Let's go take possession of the car and Whateley. I don't think we'll have any trouble from the rest of the Thrushes once we've done that."
Comprehension suddenly came to Illya. "The anti- theft program in the computer..."
"Exactly," Napoleon said. "When it receives the code I just sent, it shuts off all power, locks the brakes, and looses a fast-acting anesthetic gas into the driver's compartment."
The two agents hurried out to the car. In the east, the first light of dawn was beginning to show.
Professor Curtis produced a quart jar from his refrigerator and held it up proudly. "Midford, '59," he explained. "A very good year for rose hip extract."
Lem Thompson looked decidedly uneasy until Curtis pulled several glasses from a cabinet and began filling them from the jar. "Oh, it's for drinking," he said, relief showing in his voice. "Looked like more medicine, there for a minute. I got enough of that for a month of Sundays." He glanced at his arm, swathed in bandages and supported in a sling.
Napoleon, even though he had tasted Curtis' concoctions before, managed a polite smile as Curtis handed him a g1ass. Illya merely looked glum. Rita Berman thought of her grades and put on a cheerful face.
"Did you and that little man in your fountain pen get everything worked out last night?" Rita asked as she sipped cautiously.
Napoleon ignored Illya's startled glance as he replied. "Yes, everything's under control. Mr. Waverly got some men from the Chicago branch to take the Thrushes off our hands. They're probably in New York by now."
"Jabez, too?" she wanted to know. "In spite of everything - well, I just can't believe he would have followed through on his threats."
"Hah!" Lem said, touching his bandaged arm. "I suppose this ain't following through enough for you?"
"I'm afraid Lem is right," Napoleon said, "but we have hopes for Jabez. U.N.C.L.E. has some pretty good men on its psychiatric staff, you know."
"In other words," Lem snorted, "you're gonna do to him what he was gonna do to us."
"You can't say that curing an unbalanced mind is the same as drugging an entire community!" Rita exclaimed.
"All depends on who's in charge of the balance, I guess," Lem said philosophically. "Besides, I didn't say I was against it. Letting him off too easy, if you ask me. None of my business, though. Just so I get my truck fixed, and get all the farm work done." He looked meaning fully at his injured arm.
"It's all been taken care of," Napoleon assured him. "Mr. Waverly said he'd have a check in the mail for you today. And one of the Chicago agents will be down to help you out until your arm is better."
"What about Flavia?" Rita asked. "I haven't seen her since last night."
"She s coming back to New York," Napoleon said. "She decided that a sink-or-swim effort at her sculpting would be the best thing for her."
"You aren't planning on giving her a lift, are you?" Illya asked, a note of incipient claustrophobia in his voice.
Napoleon considered for a moment. "You must admit, it wouldn't be quite the same as it was with Dr. Armden," he said, then hurried on as he noted Illya's dour look. "No, she's coming later. It will be a few days before she can close up the mansion. And then she has to get her tools and all the rest shipped ahead."
Before Rita had a chance to comment, Napoleon's communicator sounded.
"Solo here."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Solo," came Waverly's voice. "I've been in contact with Whateley, through the agents bringing him in. He mentioned some rather unusual volumes in his library. I was hoping that, before you left -"
"Considering the nature of his, ah, delusions," Napoleon interrupted "do you think it wise to let him have access to his books?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Solo, not for Whateley. There are a few I would be interested in seeing myself, if you could arrange to pick them up before you leave."
"They might give you an insight into the workings of his mind," Illya offered helpfully.
"Quite right, Mr. Kuryakin; they could be invaluable to our psychiatric staff in their treatment of Whateley. Though I must admit a certain personal curiosity myself. The world of the occult and the like, you know."
"Certainly, sir," Napoleon said. "You had some particular volumes in mind?"
Illya listened as Napoleon copied down a dozen or more titles. "You don't suppose," he said dubiously, once Napoleon had signed off, that Mr. Waverly would ever really try to dispatch agents by broomstick?"