His knowledge of the abilities of their minisub made his decision for him. If they had scuba guards ready, Thrush must have reasoned that underwater would have been the only possible access to this island. Therefore, they would have a full-sized submarine which would probably be prowling the off-shore waters within minutes, whether their frogmen came back or not. And the U.N.C.L.E. sub could probably swim faster, diver deeper, stay down longer, and come up drier than anything Thrush could muster on such short notice. With his other hand he let the hammer-lever up gently.
He retrieved the dropped underwater light, and started back down the long slope into darkness.
It was less than a minute before the lights of the minisub began to be visible ahead of him. He extinguished the light he carried, and swam directly to the porthole and looked in.
There was Illya, lounging in the pilot's seat, feet up on the control panel, looking at his wristwatch. Napoleon tapped on the glass, and waved. Illya looked up and gestured over his shoulder towards the hatch. Napoleon nodded and swam up around the bulge of the hull to where the circle of white marked the entrance to the airlock.
Fifteen seconds later he was inside, and with practiced touch hit the buttons sealing the hatch and starting the electromagnetic pumps that replaced the sea water with air. He'd only been underwater some six or seven minutes—surface pressure would be safe for him.
Illya was still in the same position as Solo came out of the lock into the control sphere, but he spoke as the dripping suit slipped to the floor. "Steam is up, Captain. Fasten your seat belts and we'll be off."
"Excellent," said Napoleon, climbing into his contour couch and hooking the nylon straps about himself. "Head for home, James—it's been a long, tiring night!"
Section IV: "Is There No Way Of Stopping It?"
Chapter 13: "The Highest Con In The History Of The World."
Alexander Waverly leaned back in his chair and stared at the smoke rising from the other end of his pipe. He nodded slowly, as if considering something he didn't like. After some time he spoke, and his voice was tired.
"Of course it had to be Thrush. But none of our sources indicated they had any actual space potential beyond orbiting small single units. Something this large..."
A pneumatic tube coughed near his elbow and he reached for the message cylinder. A sheet of yellow paper was rolled up inside it. He unrolled it in silence and gave it a glance which committed every word to memory. He leaned forward and handed it across to Napoleon Solo.
"Report from Section Five," he said. "Complete analysis of that scrap of material you brought back with you."
Napoleon looked over the paper, and Illya read over his shoulder. "Hundred and fifty pounds per cubic foot, very high reflectivity, low tensile strength .. ."
"Seems kind of flimsy to build a spacesuit out of," said Illya.
"That's what Section Five thinks," said his partner. "Too thin, too light. No radiation protection at all. And the backing is not one that could be laminated onto a sturdier spacesuit—wouldn't be practical."
He stared at the report for a while, then set it resignedly on the table. Finally he looked up at Waverly. "So we can't do anything to the Monster Wheel anyway," he said. "We know where the base is. There were enough plans and other materials lying about to prove the Monster Wheel was launched from there. We could simply let the government know what we've found, and have a flight of bombers level the island."
Waverly shook his head slowly, and his face was worn. "They wouldn't be able to." He leaned forward and rested both hands on the table. "There is absolutely no reason to destroy that base. They have done nothing legally or morally wrong. The Monster Wheel has made no aggressive moves, and there is no law in the world against launching a space station without a license." He smiled slightly. "I seem to be repeating this statement twice a day."
"Are the voice broadcasts continuing?"
"Yes—regularly. Nothing new in the material, though. The view is always wonderful, the radiation level is quite acceptable, the life support systems are functioning perfectly, no trouble with micrometeorites. Nothing about observations of ground installations in any countries; nothing about solar fluctuations; nothing about any astrophysical observations. In short, nothing at all of value to us. And they still refuse to acknowledge any ground transmissions."
Napoleon Solo thought, and looked at his partner as he did so. A bell was ringing insistently somewhere in the back of his brain, reminding him of something he had seen but not noticed during those few busy hours inside the Thrush base on Dauringa Island. No—it was something he hadn't seen, and had not missed...until now.
And an idea began to grow in his mind—an idea so unbelievable, so completely unthinkable that it just might actually be true. Before it was fully formed he spoke to Illya. His voice was low and even, but it shook just slightly.
"Illya," he said, "you got a good look at a lot of material while you were taking pictures. Did you see anything there remotely relating to life support systems—water recycling, atmospheric maintenance, waste disposal, food supplies and preparation, or the like?" He paused briefly, then without waiting for an answer he continued, "For that matter, did you see anything in your travels resembling any interior plan of that space station?"
Illya's brows drew together and his eyes darkened slowly. He considered for several seconds before he answered. "I...don't think so. There were plans of all types for rocket vehicles, and a few sketches of the Wheel, and a number of circuit diagrams...and that's all I can remember."
Napoleon nodded, and his heart began to pound a little faster. He faced his superior squarely, and a slightly mad smile began to appear as he addressed him. "Mr. Waverly, does Rameses still insist that the Monster Wheel is actually Egyptian property?"
Waverly looked closely at his best agent, and said, "You have an idea, Mr. Solo." It was not a question, but an acknowledgment. "Yes, your Egyptian friend, under full interrogation, played back for us the directions he was given when he was sent after—ah—that navigator."
"Schneider," said Illya.
"Yes. Herr Schneider," said Waverly. "His commander told him that the matter of this particular rocket launching was of the utmost importance to both their national security and their rightful place among the nations of the world." He turned to his desk and began to rummage in some papers. "The transcript of the interrogation has apparently been filed somewhere. Does your idea require it?"
Napoleon shook his head slowly, and stopped smiling. "No, it doesn't. The only thing that remains to be known is the present state of Egypt's national treasury."
"Easily found. What are you looking for?"
"A very large recent withdrawal."
Illya made a slight sound, and Waverly turned back from his desk to face Napoleon. He turned very slowly and deliberately, and when he had completed the turn he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward on them. Then he said, "Yesterday afternoon the African section reported that, from analysis of a number of rumors, they estimated a probability of eighty percent that a ship carrying a large but unspecified sum of gold bullion sailed from Port Said three days ago, destination unknown. The 'large but unspecified' was figured to be on the order of possibly one or two billion dollars."