21. "Kitten on the Keys"
ILLYA KURYAKIN had enjoyed a fine dinner with the amiable Craigs. Now he sat with Kenneth Craig, who was enjoying a fat after-dinner cigar, in the entrance room to the apartment, which was its living room. The big blond man was natty in a safari outfit, his guns in their holsters strapped about him. The room was gay with sunshine. Although it was almost six o'clock, it was still broad daylight; it was summer and, what with daylight saving time, there would not be darkness until after eight.
Illya pointed to Craig's pistols.
"Do you always wear those?"
"Always when I'm in uniform."
"Why?" inquired Illya.
"It's a part of my business."
Illya frowned. "I don't quite understand."
Craig laughed. "In a business like mine, Mr. Fairchild, you have to be devoted."
"I still don't understand," Illya said, smiling.
Craig's face took on a serious mien. "With the big cats, one must always be on the ready. When you're putting them through their paces, you never can tell. One of them might suddenly decide to act up, even playfully. But a playful lion, Mr. Fairchild, can be quite dangerous to a mortal man. A shot from a pistol—the very noise—will stop him dead in his tracks. Then I can take over again—order him, cajole him, even whisper to him— and he'll listen. The shot, of course, would be up in the air. I have never had to shoot directly at a lion in all of my career. But you must remember, of course, that the animals I work with have had a long period of training with me. There are certain people who have an empathy, a feel, for those majestic animals, kings of the jungle. Somehow the lions react quite docilely to people with that instinct. Candy, for instance. She handles them as though she were born to them, and they react to her with a softness, a kindness—with, some how, a form of love. I believe in love, Mr. Fairchild. I believe that even wild animals—if they're not frightened and are given love—will return love."
He believes in kindness and love. Can this man be a traitor?
Illya laughed. "But how does that explain wearing guns in the living room?"
"In my profession—at least for me—I believe in wearing them always, and while I'm in uniform at least they don't look too much out of place. What I mean, Mr. Fairchild, is that just as you must be accustomed to the clothes you're wearing, not feel that they're an impediment, so must I be accustomed to the guns, their hanging at my sides, their leverage, their weight. Nothing must be an interference when I'm working with my beasts in the big cage, and especially not the guns. They must be a part of me, like my clothes and like your clothes are to you, Mr. Fairchild. And so whenever possible I wear my guns."
"Yes, I see," said Illya.
Candy, from somewhere in the rear of the apartment, entered the living room.
"Ah, our lovely Candy," said Illya, "who makes the greatest tossed green salad in all this living world."
"Thank you," she said, but quite evidently Candy was perturbed. "I've been looking all over. Daddy, I simply can't find my keys."
"Keys?" said Craig. "Why do you need your keys?"
"I'm going out."
"Got a date?" Craig asked, smiling.
"I'm going to see that the kittens are fed, that the swing door's closed, and that the roustabouts are taking care of things."
"Kittens," laughed Craig, glancing toward Illya.
"Well, a cat when he's small is a kitten," Candy said logically.
"These cats, love, aren't small anymore."
Candy smiled a compassionate smile at the grown-ups.
"Well, to me they're still kittens."
"And with you, love, somehow they still act like kittens."
"But where are my keys?"
"Kitten on the keys," said Illya, making a joke.
"Don't worry your pretty head about keys, dear," said Craig. "Just push the button on the door so it won't lock. Mr. Fairchild and I will be right here till you come back. Won't we, sir?"
"Sure," said Illya.
"Right," said Candy.
"Don't be too long, love."
"All right, Daddy."
Candy went to the door, snapped the button, tried the outer knob to make sure the door was unlocked, waved, went out, and quietly closed the door behind her.
At the circus, she attended to the lions. Her handling of the huge cats was truly a wonder. She petted them, whispered cooingly, wrapped her arms around them, kissed them. Candy loved her lions. They had been fed; they were contented and happy. She went out again, making sure the huge doors of the yellow wagon were bolted. Then up front, through the cage, she inspected the swing door. Securely locked. Good. She had been critical of the roustabouts who had left the swing door unbolted this morning, and they had been duly penitent. She remembered poor Mr. Fairchild, standing there in the middle of the cage, frightened stiff. Now she laughed—but it could have been dangerous. She was happy she had come along in time. Well, she thought, all's well that ends well.
On her way to the roustabouts' quarters, where there were always fun and jokes and sparkling conversation, she met Mr. Parley. He was still wearing his official badge and his dart gun.
"Hi, Candy."
"Hi, Mr. Parley."
"Where you heading for?"
"The roustabouts' quarters."
"Your dad there?"
"No, sir. Why?"
"Is he on the grounds?"
"No, Mr. Parley."
"I want to talk to him. It's rather important."
"He's home."
"Oh. Good. I'll go right over."
"You won't even have to ring," Candy bubbled.
"Pardon?"
Candy laughed. "I've misplaced my keys, so I left the door unlocked. Would you take a message, please, Mr. Parley?"
"For whom?"
"Dad."
"Sure."
"Please tell him I've gone over to the roustabouts' quarters. I should be there for about—well—about an hour. I don't want him to worry. Would you please tell him?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you."
"Not at all."
"'Bye, Mr. Parley."
"'Bye."
22. Say "UNCLE"
NAPOLEON SOLO, hot and perspiring in the dark, fetid atmosphere of the sealed vault, was at first confused and distraught. His initial thought was the natural one—preservation. How long could he live in here? How long could he survive?
It was a high, wide vault. There was sufficient room for him to stand up, sufficient room for him to move about. In the closed-in darkness, hands outstretched, feeling with his fingers, he inspected. No vent, no opening, no place for air to come through. On his knees now, crawling, he repeated the inspection. No vent. No opening. No air.
He sat Indian fashion, ankles at his thighs. Hot air rises. He felt cooler, sitting down, but already he was bathed in perspiration and already the slow suffocation was beginning.
The first confusion was passing, the terror diminishing. He must think! He must think constructively! How long did he have to live? Perhaps an hour. In an hour the oxygen would be exhausted and he would die. A slow death. A choking, suffocating death. No. He comforted himself. He would not suffer. In time he would lapse into a coma; unconscious, he would not suffer; he would be unaware of the desperate, convulsive struggle of his body fighting against the suffocating death. It was small comfort, but it was a comfort.