She set the reports on the desk and pulled a tape cartridge from her pocket. "Field Agent DeWeese explains at the beginning, sir," she said, as she slipped it into a slot in the side of the desk and pushed a button.
"I'm having this recorded for you, because I think it's something you'll want to study. Oh, this is Buck DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba. We've got something definite on that monster I heard about. There's a radar site near here, up towards Sherridon. It's one of a string, and they're all in touch by radio and the communications are routinely recorded. So here's the whole thing. The, first transmission was at 5:12 last night; the transmissions ended at 5:19:30. Uh, sorry about the sound quality; you know the kind of recording gear they use."
CLICK chink whrrrishhhhh…
"Coca Bravo this is Victor Lima—I got something at Echo Kilo Three Five Two Two. Looks like either a malfunction or a storm front. You got a scan."
"Negative, Victor Lima. Try manual procedures?"
"Yeah, and it's still there. Reads like a big ground clutter. If it was solid, it'd be a couple thousand feet high moving about eighty knots."
"Sounds like a mountain. Have you tried a visual?"
"Negative. I don't think there's enough daylight left. Hey, it's changing vector. Now bearing two-seven-five degrees—it's heading for Point Zero Local; ground speed… uh, looks like 95 knots! It'll hit here in a minute or two! Stand by, Coca Bravo, I'm gonna try a visual...
"Here we go—I'm at the south window. There's a little light left but I can't see any... Holy Mary! There's something—I think there's something down there… I can see something like a thunderhead coming up over the trees and coming fast!"
"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. What's going on out there!"
"There's something coming at the site, sir! It reads on my scope as big as a storm front, but here it comes and I think it's solid, sir. It's like a black cloud, but I can't quite see where it rests on the ground because there's too much dust. But it's knocking aside the trees, sir—even the big pines. It must be...two thousand feet tall! There's no—no feel to it, sir, no more texture than a big solid cloud. But there's something way up near the top—a couple red things, glowing, like eyes. It's coming this way, all right, straight up the hill. Dear God, I hope it doesn't mind radomes... It's changing a little—the red eyes are moving down—it's going slower, it's only maybe a couple hundred yards away— the top of it is swinging forward! The eyes are red as fire...they're getting bigger! The head of the thing's coming—"
riRRRRRIIIIIPPPPPPWWWOOOOOOOBAP!!...
"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. Come in please. Victor Lima, come in please…"
"Zebra, this is Coca Bravo. I think Victor Lima is off the air. I think he's been zapped. Request permission to send a recon party."
"Granted, Coca Bravo. We'll get a group ready to go from Winnipeg on the assumption he knew what he was talking about; they'll wait on your preliminary report"
CLICK clunk.
"This is DeWeese again. The preliminary report says the station was completely wrecked—walls shattered, steel plate equipment cases ripped like cardboard. The scope trace film magazine was undamaged; the film should be interesting. They found the operator sort of spread around the room, sir; they said as if he'd been… uh, shredded was the word they used. The team's coming up from Winnipeg tomorrow morning. Oh—for whatever it's worth, I knew the kid. Name was Lamont. Sensible, level-headed type; never panic. Whatever he said he saw there, you can depend on it that's what he did see.
"Anyway, now that the Air Force is in on it, I think I'd be able to use an extra pair of hands. I checked with Winnipeg and Montreal, and they don't have anybody with the technical knowledge I need who can take care of himself in these woods. Give me a call back when you've got a few minutes and let me know if you've got somebody I could use. DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba, ending transmission."
Napoleon Solo pounded his fist lightly on the table in silent frustration. Now, of all times, to be pinned to a desk! When mountains walked in Manitoba and tore buildings to bits, he and Illya had to be half a world apart and nailed in place. But what can't be cured must be endured, he reminded himself, and called for Section Two to recommend an agent to send DeWeese. Channel D called for his attention before he quite finished.
"John Tuber, Colorado Springs."
Sabotage in a missile complex, Solo remembered. "Have you seen General Anson?"
"The interview was inconclusive. He's under suspicion himself, as a matter of fact. This is going to be a ticklish one, I'm afraid—you may hear complaints about my being rude, but you'll just have to trust me."
"If I didn't you wouldn't be there. You and Miss Ewert are more than capable of soothing the most ruffled tempers as long as she keeps hers. I'll even let you know who complains."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Solo. Tuber out."
Miss Williamson had a tray of breakfast steaming on his desk as he swung the chair around again. He reached for a piece of toast and turned back to answer another call.
The Akhoond of Swat was shaking in his royal slippers as a result of a sporadic campaign of terrorism, and demanded additional men. The Field Agent there was sure he could handle the job alone, but couldn't convince the Akhoond.
"I'm almost certain it's not a political matter, sir. Things keep indicating that it's more personal—within the household."
"What sort of things?"
"Little things...you could almost call it a strong hunch. But I'm willing to bet it's something inside the harem."
"Sounds as if they're some strong-stomached women, slitting that dog's throat at the foot of the Royal Bed."
"They have more control over the eunuchs than the Akhoond does. And it wasn't the Akhoond's dog after all, by the way. Oops—gotta cut off."
His signal broke, and Napoleon made a face. Shaking down the harem was always a particularly favorite assignment of his. Half the problems that crossed his desk seemed designed to draw his attention. A mountain in Manitoba, a ticklish situation in Denver, a harem in Swat... Channel D flashed again.
"Solo here."
"Pat Gavin, Anchorage. The contact paid off. I'm about to get a chance to sit in on a meeting, and I want a tape put on my signal. I'll leave the transceiver on and you can get down everything that happens."
The dossier on the assignment was at the back, and it took Solo a good ten seconds to have it on the desk. Black market gold, mined deep in the mountains and smuggled out of the country unregistered. Gavin had been on the job nearly six months.
"Good work. Transfer to Channel M. We'll have you home for Thanksgiving."
"Hope so, sir."
The signal light flickered again as he cut off.
"Solo here."
"Fred Tibbon, Berlin. I've finally gotten in to interrogate Suetterlin. It looks as if there's a third ring, a sub-ring of some kind, that Runge didn't even suspect. Heinz stumbled into it, was working double."