Now. What to do? His hand crept to the pocket for the Communicator. Of course it was not there! There was no way to get through to the Old Man. And then, already gasping, in the heat, in the already foul air, he remembered!
He took the palate-plate from his mouth, clicked the switch, and put it back in his mouth. He spoke, and even in this horrible predicament, felt ridiculous. When he talked to the Communicator, he was talking to something! Now he was talking, just talking, to nothing—like an actor, alone, saying important lines but to no one, committing his lines to memory. But he was not an actor, and he was not committing lines to memory. He was talking into blackness, hoping against hope—to save his life! He spoke rapidly, fervently.
"Illya. I don't know exactly how far away you are. I don't know if you can hear me, if this darned thing works. I'm in trouble—bad trouble. You're going to have to get through to Waverly, but first I must know if I've gotten through to you. Illya, can you hear me? If so, come back to me. Give me the word. I'm waiting. I'll wait till I hear you. I'm waiting. Over."
In the comfortable living room Kenneth Craig saw the handsome young reporter from Scope magazine suddenly grow pale. Mr. Fairchild, taut, tense, stood up from his chair.
This was it, thought Illya. Suddenly the entire responsibility was right here upon him, and it had come to the point of climax. Solo's voice had been as tight as the skin of an African drum. Bad trouble, Solo had said, and had said that he, Illya, would have to reach Alexander Waverly. That meant that Solo, wherever he was, was under restraint, deprived of his Communicator, and compelled to use the newfangled mouthpiece in an effort to contact Illya. Can you hear me? Solo had asked. Give me the word, he had pleaded. I'm waiting.
And so Illya knew that their adventure was at final phase—it was down to the wire. There was no longer opportunity for the coddling of the suspect, no more time for gentle probing, no more room for further experiment. This was it! Now! Right now Kenneth Craig had to be put to the test!
Craig was on his feet, his head tilted, his eyes slitted, questioning, as he gazed uncomprehendingly at the obviously excited Mr. Evan Fairchild.
Illya positioned himself opposite Kenneth Craig. The man was armed with two heavy pistols, but now was the time of test! In his heart he believed Craig to be an honorable man, but, to paraphrase Waverly: What you feel in your heart is not enough, not evidence, not proof. One's heart can be deceiving. Hunch and intuition are not always dependable.
He stationed himself where, if necessary, he could frustrate an attack. If Craig drew a gun Illya would leap forward, and it would be a fight, possibly to the death. But that was his job and he had to face the possibilities, and the time was now! Kenneth Craig must be put to the test, but at the same time Solo must know that he had gotten through.
The tall, powerful man watched in amazement as the reporter from Scope took a palate-plate from his mouth, rubbed his thumb along its edge, then reinserted it in his mouth.
"Napoleon," Illya said, "I heard you clear. I have some preliminary remarks to make now. I'm alone with Kenneth Craig and the remarks are necessary. Hang on, my friend."
Napoleon!
Craig's eyes bulged from their sockets like blue- tinted golf balls. The man from Scope was talking into thin air—and he was talking to Napoleon. He had called Napoleon his friend! Protectively, Craig's right hand stole up to the gun holster. He might very well need protection against this mild-mannered slender man who, up to now apparently sane, was talking into thin air to Napoleon!
"Mr. Craig," Illya said, "I have some interesting information to impart to you, and it concerns U.N.C.L.E."
At that precise moment John Parley arrived at Kenneth Craig's door. He heard the word U.N.C.L.E. and recognized the voice as that of Fairchild from Scope. His hand poised on the knob, he waited, listening.
"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "my name is not Evan Fairchild. It is Illya Kuryakin. I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent—and so are you, unless you've decided to throw in your lot with T.H.RU.S.H. I'm in the middle of an emergency now, Mr. Craig, and I must act. Do you know what's been going on here?"
"No," breathed Craig, but the holster was open and his hand held the butt of the gun.
"Do you know about the gold from South America?"
"Gold? South America?"
"You don't know?"
"I don't know."
Illya smiled. It was a small smile, the beginning of a happy smile, but not yet a smile of full satisfaction.
"Mr. Craig, I must put you to the test—now! It's imperative that I communicate with Headquarters, and you, as an agent of U.N.C.L.E., know just how I intend to do that. If you're a double dealer—if you've gone over to T.H.R.U.S.H.—then you can stop me. At least you can try to stop me." Illya pointed. "You've got your hand on your pistol. So how will it be, Mr. Craig? Are you T.H.RU.S.H. or U.N.C.L.E.?"
Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. Intensity, like a current of electricity, fairly crackled between them. Then Craig's hand fell away from his pistol.
"U.N.C.L.E.," he said.
"Sir, I can't tell you how much this pleases me."
"Why?"
"I'll explain that later."
"What's this all about?"
"You're going to find out, Mr. Craig—right here and now."
But Craig did not find out right then and there, because John Parley, dart gun in hand, plunged in and shot them, first Craig, then Kuryakin, almost simultaneously.
Smiling grimly, the silver-haired man stood over them, shaking his head in grudging admiration. Leave it to U.N.C.L.E. Kenneth Craig, of all people, was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. And this seemingly harmless reporter from Scope was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Somehow U.N.C.L.E. had learned of the plot to transport the gold, but U.N.C.L.E. had not learned enough. That was quite evident—otherwise U.N.C.L.E. agents would have already taken over the Parley Circus.
No. U.N.C.L.E. had learned something, but not all. Why, the man from Scope had not even been certain about Kenneth Craig. There was time for T.H.R.U.S.H. to save the situation.
He put away the dart gun, securely bound the unconscious men with cords loosened from the Venetian blinds, and dragged them to a bedroom. From a pocket of the safari uniform he took Craig's keys, locked the men in the apartment, and hurried back to the circus grounds.
There was time. The reporter from Scope had not gotten through to his headquarters.
Craig had been necessary to the plan but not absolutely essential—because of Candy. Candy could handle the lions outside their wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while the false bottoms of the feeding troughs were loaded with the gold. He would spring it on Candy suddenly—a sudden swoop of health inspectors, no time to bring in Craig from the apartment. She was a young girl; she would be easy to handle. Raymond, Langston, and Tito were on their way; soon they would be here. The immediate problem was to keep the girl on the grounds so that she would be available when needed.
He found her in the roustabouts' quarters and asked her to accompany him back to his cabin.