Napoleon Solo dived for the wall, dragging the next two grenades from his sling and hurling them blindly. Slugs spattered near him, something snapped at his sleeve, and then the echoes died away. He lifted his head slowly and looked around.
Nothing stirred. Ten or eleven Thrush guards and a captain slept on the floor; the rest had fled. Footsteps tapped rapidly behind him, and several people were helping him up, unplugging him and looking the gear over anxiously. Simpson was among them.
Before Napoleon could speak to him he shrugged. "An unforeseeable accident. The Aleph generator tumbled. How did the goggles work?"
"Fine. The screen did well enough too; we won."
"Good. Now once we get the miniaturization problem licked we'll have that Tarnhelm Mr. Waverly has been after for so many years."
Back in his office again, forty-three minutes after he had left, Napoleon Solo surveyed his communications console. No signals coming in, only a thick stack of Operations Summaries to cover in the next few hours. Then he had to see if he could get the rest of Fred Tibbon's report. This business with Runge got more complex every time new data was added. He stretched, and flexed his fingers. That little bit of exercise had burned up his excess adrenalin for the time being and he felt better than he had for days. He was beginning to catch on to the job, and he felt ready for anything else Thrush could throw at him.
Two thousand miles due south, Dr. Theodore Pike looked up from his viewscreen. "The New York operation has withdrawn," he said. "They lost fifteen men, twelve to something indistinct which turned out to be our Mr. Solo in a clever invisible disguise."
He turned, leaned back against the table, and scratched idly at the side of his jaw. "Perhaps you were right, Roger. Putting it at the farthest level from his office might have been a little risky after all. But apparently the danger to Section Eight was enough to override the counter-motivation. Very well—Helena, you may tell Central that we are doing nicely, and are ready to start Phase Two. My expectations have been fully justified, and Mr. Solo is reacting precisely as predicted."
"You might also remind them that Phase One wasn't scheduled for termination until Saturday," Roger added. "Doc, I'll bet whatever Solo used to turn invisible is the newest trick Simpson's turned out. And I'll bet they stole it from that thing of Morthley's. Did you hear about it? Up in Wisconsin, a year or so ago."ª
Helena laughed. "Solo never could pass up a chance to play with a new gadget," she said. "When we get through with him he'll be cutting out paper dolls."
Dr. Pike nodded, and smiled a self-satisfied smile.
Section III "Death In Utopia."
Chapter 9
"After All, It Is War."
ALEXANDER WAVERLY and Silverthorne began to meet socially, as opponents in a game are likely to do when neither takes it seriously. From the first moves they had appeared evenly matched, and like two old cronies meeting daily over a chessboard their antagonisms were channeled into their game. Naturally much of their conversation centered around the theory and practice of winning battles, on the board, in the field, or in the conference room. Each fenced lightly about his own specific preferences and approaches lest he give away too much of his intentions for the Game, but each was carefully attentive for any slip the other might make.
Each day brought new challenges and decisions, flexible conditions to be considered and compensated for, plans to be hastily revised and battles to be joined. And within minutes the plump, smiling Gamesmaster would enter the command rooms where they worked with a sheet of print-out paper and the latest combat results. The Gamesmaster always smiled, regardless of the outcome of battles, though he showed a proper concern—the Game was his own invention and the program that analyzed it for human minds to comprehend was unique.
Alderson himself was probably unique, combining the knowledge of all aspects of warfare with the programming talents which had made the whole operation feasible. Waverly had made a mental note to contact this young man through private channels later on and inquire as to his interest in applying his abilities to something of more immediate value to U.N.C.L.E. and the rest of the civilized world.
Oddly enough, Waverly thought once, he hardly minded being away from his desk for so long. His mind occasionally wandered back to the priority file, but more with an air of unfulfilled curiosity than of urgent concern. He wasn't quite aware when he stopped thinking of Utopia as a plush-lined open-air prison, but it was easily within the first two weeks. The idea of an enforced vacation still irritated him, but the boredom he had half-feared was easily tolerated with the constant distraction and challenge the Game offered.
Illya was becoming increasingly exhausted. His cover job was designed to keep an average worker fully occupied and free of boredom. And when it had to share his waking hours with surveillance of four planted bugging devices and special personal alertness, it became something of a strain on a worker who was in fact far above average.
Although Illya had little time for social activities and little real interest in making friends among his coworkers, he found Curley Burke, the little mechanic, an easy companion to tolerate. After all, he told himself, in a situation like this any man who made no friends would be regarded with some suspicion. Curley was that rarest and most valuable of friends, a good talker who knows when to stop. He did not care to inquire too closely into Illya's supposed background as Klaus Rademeyer, which Illya minded not at all since his attention was generally occupied with more than keeping his cover straight.
In his few free moments, the Russian agent would wander over to the maintenance desk. Getting his hands dirty was good therapy for frustration and boredom, and Curley always had a stock of the latest rumors. Late one afternoon they knelt beside an engine block and fought with the valves.
"So the secretary tells him he'll have to come back tomorrow, but by this time he's about fed up. Gimme the number three head....Huh! These kids sure don't take very good care of their trucks. Look at them rings. Disgrace. And then the phone rings and it's him, and she's got to dodge around 'cause if Danny figures it out, he's just as like to grab the phone and let him have it. That'll do. Wanna get started pulling the loom?"
Illya rose from the floor and wiped his grease-grimed hands on a filthy rag. "And this runaround means Dan may be on his way out as head of Design? Who's likely to replace him?"
Curley knew everyone in the Park, employees and guests, and had almost as much data on them as the Client Files. Illya had checked, carefully, on Leon Dodgson and found that he was head of some big foundation in the States. Good enough. The opportunity had not yet arisen to check out the two counterfeit gardeners Thrush had sent, but Illya could wait.
"Aw, who'd know? Front Office could pull somebody in from outside. If I was running things, I'd put Howie Montforte in. But I ain't. They'll take somebody like Rahman Sikhiri—that fake. Nearest he ever was to Nepal was Tel-Aviv."
"?"
"He's no more a Hindu artist than I am. Almost everybody's fooled by him. I may not know everything, but I've been enough places to know when somebody's never been there. I'm gonna have to talk to the boys in Security one of these days. See if these ringers belong to them and tell 'em to give the workers here credit for a little more brains. Guy I know in the Greens Department was telling me about a couple eight-balls they got. Come in when the ragweed was so bad. To hear him tell it, they've got all the recommendations in the world and they don't hardly know which end of a shovel to hold. Like the kids on these trucks." He gestured.