DESIGN ENGINEERING was on five or six doors, each with different numbers and far enough apart to imply fairly large rooms behind them—probably equally as large as the drafting room they had landed in.
VEHICLE SYSTEMS was on the door to the room where Illya was busily taking pictures, and continued on other doors out of sight down the hall.
Across the corridor, sets of double doors led to an area called MATERIALS TESTING, and Napoleon followed his hunch.
Each door had a small panel of glass set about eye-level, and through this went a cautious look before the door was gently tried. It opened without complaint.
A huge barn-like room lay within, filled with all the massive and delicate impedimenta of a test area. He recognized strain gauges capable of pulling a steel bar in half, and others that would measure the stretch of a hair; shake-tables and vacuum chambers, ovens and cryogenic chambers sat about the floor—a torture chamber for the entire range of physical matter. Farther away other doors showed the CHEMICAL and ELECTRONIC divisions.
But time was short. Napoleon Solo returned to those traditional methods which have served spies well for centuries—he started going through the wastebaskets.
Wads of paper containing scribbled calculations went into his pack, as did memos in various languages, mimeographed bulletins and a letterpress instruction sheet, neatly imprinted with the Thrush letterhead. Then he moved on to a waste bin beside one of the testing devices.
It was empty. Odd, he thought, that they should leave the wastebaskets full and clean out the remains of tested gear. Oh well, economy begins at home. He moved on to the next bin—and the next. In the fourth he found something.
It was stuck to the side of the bin, and would have escaped a hurried inspection. Only the fact that it was dull in the soft light of the humming fluorescents caught his eye, and he started to reach for it when a bell chimed softly in the distance.
He straightened up suddenly as he heard footsteps in the corridor, and looked around for cover. As the steps stopped outside his door, he made his decision and jumped for the bin he had been examining. The box was quite large enough to hold him, and he peeled the thing off the side as he crouched there.
It was a scrap of plastic fabric, silvered on one side, and flexible. The shiny side had adhered to the side of the wastebin, and somehow been missed by the cleaning crew. But he didn't have time to look closely at it now—the door opened.
Quickly and quietly he pulled out his little transceiver and thumbed the transmission button. "Illya," he whispered, lips touching the microphone. "Chiggers, the cops!" A moment later there was a single, soft click, a wordless acknowledgment of receipt.
He tucked the little radio back in his inner pocket, and as an afterthought added the scrap of fabric. There were footsteps in the room now, and the hesitant sounds of a search. Then a voice broke the silence, harsh and metallic.
"This one is hiding in number twelve trash bin. The other one is behind the door in Vehicle Systems Drafting Room Four. Get those intruders. They've seen enough. But be careful—they're armed."
A fusillade of shots echoed from somewhere else—probably across the corridor. Illya would give a good account of himself. Not wanting to be left out or forgotten inadvertently, Napoleon selected his U.N.C.L.E. Special, since circumstances called for accuracy rather than circumspection, and stood up in his bin and began shooting, as coolly and accurately as on the target range. He dropped four rifle-equipped men before they had time to react to his presence, and then dropped himself back into the moderate protection of the sheet-steel box as their companions sent a hail of lead through the space where he had been standing. So much for that gag, he thought. Now what'll we do for an encore?"
"You, in the bin," said the voice. "There are a dozen men with rifles pointed at you. You cannot escape. If necessary, we can place a small grenade in there with you, but the concussion could damage delicate equipment. You may have protection against tear gas, but we will try it first. On the other hand, if you wish to surrender, stand up slowly."
He heard no more shots from across the hall, and regretfully decided that a few minutes more of life was better than less. He stood up slowly, hands in the air.
"Take the pack," said the voice. "He has papers that should have been destroyed."
One of the gray-uniformed guards stepped forward, covered by his half-dozen fellows, and relieved Napoleon of the burden he bore. Glancing over their numbers, the U.N.C.L.E. agent allowed himself a slight smile. "I thought you said there were a dozen."
"If we had said half a dozen, you might not have surrendered. You Americans will fight great odds, but you are not suicidal," the concealed speaker answered him. "Now climb out of that bin and accompany your guards. We have a number of questions to ask you."
Chapter 12: "Head For Home, James!"
Napoleon obeyed, handing his automatic over to the guard who extended a hand for it. "Take care of it," he said. "Every one of those I lose is paid for out of my salary."
With exaggerated care, the Thrush tucked the pistol into his belt and then beckoned to him. The rest of the group kept their rifles on point and maintained a distance of at least fifteen feet. Docilely Solo followed his guide to the door.
Outside he scanned the hall for a sign of Illya. If his partner was still free he could stage the usual daring last-minute rescue. And it began to look as if he would have to.
The door up the hall opened, and two guards came out, a limp figure with blacked face and a camouflage coverall slung between them. Napoleon sighed. So much for that approach to the situation. He began looking at the guards, sizing them up, and trying to figure the odds that Illya was bluffing and was actually ready to explode into action at the first hint of a fight. He looked critically at his partner, and decided it wasn't worth the risk. If he started something now, he might have to leave Illya behind—or carry him. Better to wait until he could carry himself.
He didn't have long to wait. One of the guards broke a capsule of something under the Russian's nose, and in a few seconds he was at least partly conscious. He was also under complete control.
Well, thought Solo, here we are. Ten armed guards, and two of us. And there I stood with my rocket pistol. At least they hadn't searched them thoroughly yet, and the Gyrojet still rested in the long holster in the small of his back. How could he get at it? Pretend to itch? And with only six rockets in the magazine, what about the other four guards? While he thought about it, Illya was pulled to his feet and shaken a few times until he looked able to stand and move about a little under direction. Then they were started off together.
After a minute or two of silence, Napoleon politely tried to start a conversation. "This is kind of awkward, isn't it?" he began. "I'll bet you don't have any really proper interrogation rooms set up here. You'll have to question us informally."