“The—the—” It was impossible. Solo could feel the tautness of his throat.
“Breathe deeply. Shout if you must. Hear yourself.”
“The—girl—same thing—”
Golgotha’s eyes glittered coldly.
“Of course. I will even spare her the amorous natures of my colleagues, Mr. Solo.”
“I’ll do it,” Napoleon Solo whispered. “But first—sleep. Must sleep—I’m out of my mind with pain—” The cage seemed to shiver with vibrations.
Golgotha stepped in closer, peering into the eyes of the man crouched before him. His voice was a menacing murmur now.
“Good. You will not be sorry. But please remember this—if you have agreed now only to say no later, you will be more sorry than I can possibly suggest. You may fool me now. But my wrath will make the gods cry out in pain.”
“I promise—damn you—the needle—I can’t stand this—”
Golgotha studied him intently for one second, he dug into the folds of his dark cloak and produced a flat, black medical case. Fanning it open expertly, he selected a long hypodermic needle from a velveteen bed of similar objects. Napoleon Solo’s eyes followed his every movement.
The bareness of the room was still unreal. It was as if there were no door, no window, no sound from anywhere else in the wide, wide universe.
Golgotha came closer, pointing the needle at Napoleon Solo’s bulging right bicep. His tongue clucked approvingly. His face, like a distended Halloween mask, was horribly near, bobbing through the metal bars of the cage.
“Your arm is like stone. I will loosen your bonds and open the door of your cage. You must flex your arm, Mr. Solo, to restore the blood circulation.”
Solo nodded quickly, his eyes almost pleading now. With grim speed, Golgotha stepped before the cage and unlatched a fitted section of bars. Magically a door swung outward, showing freedom. The skull-faced man began to unwind the leather wrappings which bound Solo’s right arm to a cross-work of bars. It took a mere ten seconds to loosen the cuffs. Like a dead fish, Solo’s right arm fell to his side. His fingers were as senseless as if they had never been alive. Golgotha stepped back as Solo’s body sagged through the narrow opening of the cage, half-in and half-out, his left arm still fastened by a thong to an iron bar.
“That’s it. Work your arm up and down till the sensation returns. Otherwise the needle will never penetrate your arm, I’m afraid. Your muscles are like rock, now.”
Solo nodded, gasping for air. Golgotha saw the giant tendons popping in his neck.
“—Better now—” Solo gasped. “The needle—now, please—”
Golgotha, eyes glittering, stepped forward.
And Napoleon Solo’s free right arm came down in a murderous swath of released fury, meeting him full across the neck where it joined his cloaked shoulder.
A karate blow that hammered Golgotha to the stone floor.
TERROR WALKS UNDERGROUND
NAPOLEON SOLO stared down at the crumpled, cloaked heap that formed the man who had introduced himself as Golgotha, member of the High Council of Thrush. Dimly, he fought against the agony in his body, even as his right hand worked loose the stiff, leather cuffs that bound his left arm to the cage bars. A dull haze of enormous weariness of body and spirit hung over him like a shroud. He only knew one pounding truth, one complete clarity. They had to get out—he and Jerry Terry.
Golgotha had underestimated him, as so many of the enemy had in the past. Golgotha had miscalculated the time. True, the pain would emerge when the drug anakalinine wore off, but Solo had triggered the error in Golgotha’s eyes by acting the part. He had bargained for one chance in a million and won.
He shook his head to clear it, his body damp and aching. His eyes explored the empty dungeon. The bare walls of stone and the faint suggestion of moisture mocked him. Shaking himself, he stumbled to where Jerry Terry knelt caged as a rag doll. It took him a great deal longer to ease her carefully from her cell. When he caught her in his arms, her weight nearly bore him to the floor. Her body was cold and stiff, nearly lifeless. He slapped her swiftly across the face—hard. The sound of short, sharp smacks echoed hollowly in the room.
Her eyes opened. She saw his face and sudden joy reflected in her eyes. Then she remembered and her mouth formed another scream. He slapped her again.
“Listen—no time to talk—pull yourself together—we’re okay for a while—”
“Solo—I’m so tired—”
“Try—please—try—or we’re done for—”
He left it at that, and moved back to the inert man on the floor. It took an age for him to pull the voluminous cloak away and examine the tall figure. Solo’s eyes saw the withered, burned flesh of the man but his brain made no comment. His fingers found the flat medical case and thumbed it open. He tried to think. The pain was beginning to build in earnest now.
He groped for the hypodermic needle lying on the stone floor. The gods were good: it was intact. He examined the contents of the case with painful slowness.
There was a tiny phial of amber fluid lying in cushioned safety in the case. He didn’t stop to think; he didn’t dare consider the possibilities. Grimly, he refilled the hypo and found the soft area of his arm below the bicep. He jabbed the needle home. He worked his arm up and down, wanting the pain-killer—if that was what it was—to work swiftly.
He moved slowly back to Jerry Terry. She was huddled on the stone floor, her arms closed across her naked breasts. Her entire attitude was defeated dull, lifeless. Solo smiled bitterly. Golgotha had been right about that, for all of his hideous theatricality.
Jerry never saw the needle or felt the thrust. He patted her gently on the shoulder now. Her head came up. Their eyes met in mutual sympathy.
“Terry—we’re going for broke—”
“I’m with you, Solo.”
“Good girl. Pull yourself together. I’ll get you out of this—”
“Promises, promises—”
Her plucky talk was infectious. It was talk he could always understand. He had never had much time for people who felt sorry for themselves. And magically, almost miraculously, he could feel the agony ebbing away from his limbs. Golgotha’s panacea was already working.
He went back to Golgotha and bent over him again. The karate blow was good for at least twenty minutes. Sometimes—depending on the man’s physical makeup—more. Solo raced through the cloak, turning it inside out. By the grace of those same gods, the man was a souvenir collector…not one to leave the spoils of war to the hirelings.
Golgotha wore a blue shirt and blue trousers under the cloak. A uniform of sorts, with a leather belt complete with assorted weapons—one of which was Solo’s own very special “S” automatic pistol. A quick survey of the pockets turned up Solo’s compass watch and the ball-point pen which, in addition to writing with ink, also spurted tear gas. The wallet was not in evidence, but that was meaningless anyway. With an almost intoxicating sense of elation, Solo relieved Golgotha of a compact Luger and three clips of extra ammunition. There was nothing on the man to indicate any connection with Thrush.
Solo turned to see how Jerry Terry was doing. He was pleased to find some color back in her face. And the sagging, defeated look had gone.
“Are you game for some more double plays?” he asked.
She nodded. “Anything to get out of this place.”
“Good girl. We can’t operate like September Morn. So the next best thing is Dream Man’s clothes. I’ll take the pants and shirt You for the cloak. Unless you’re squeamish. He’s as foul as they come and it’s twisted his mind, but we can’t walk out of here like nudists. We’d be a bit conspicuous.”