[Magazine 1966-­07] - The Ghost Riders Affair - Whittington Harry. Страница 10

He gazed at the staring man a second, but did not stop. It was enough for the moment that he'd located Howell.

He found Illya crouched, vacant-eyed, against a wall.

Solo said, "Illya?"

Kuryakin remained unmoving, staring straight ahead.

Solo knelt before Illya.

From a small leather kit, Solo removed a syringe, yellow with nerve-gas antidote, and needle. He unbuttoned Illya's shirt, pushed it off his shoulder.

He plunged the needle into the soft flesh of Illya's upper arm.

Illya cried out, protesting. "That hurt!"

Illya stirred, pushing away from Solo and shrugging his shirt back into place.

Solo grinned, watching color return to Illya's cheeks.

"Illya," he said. "It's me, Solo. Can you hear me?"

Illya made an impatient gesture. "Why shouldn't I hear you? I see you. You're right in front of me. What's the matter with you anyhow, Napoleon?"

Suddenly Illya stopped talking as memory returned. He peered around them, his gaze touching at the slouched people in the huge, silent chamber.

Stunned, Illya shook his head. He looked ill. "How did we get in this place, Napoleon?"

Solo winced. He said, "Think, Illya. Try to clear your mind. Can't you remember?"

Illya scowled with the effort. But his eyes brightened and he nodded. "Yes, I remember now. The train. It went off the main line, Napoleon, to a spur-siding that led to an underground elevator. Unbelievable! Large enough to accommodate that huge streamliner. We plunged downward—I don't know how far. Then we stopped in this big, brilliantly lighted place. I think that's when the gas hit me. I remember trying to fight my way out, but I was helpless, paralyzed."

"Nerve gas," Solo said. "It's what they use on all their victims." He glanced about. "This place is probably under surveillance. For the time being, we better act like the rest of these people."

Illya shook his head.

"I've had enough of being a zombie," he said. "I've got a better idea. Let's get out of here."

Solo laughed suddenly, feeling better. He clapped Illya on the shoulder, nodding.

"I'll buy that, partner," he said.

Illya glanced around one more time, shuddering involuntarily.

"I've seen enough," he said. "Let's travel."

Solo nodded, leading the way between the rows of people crouched in staring silence.

"Here's a pretty big prize," he said across his shoulder to Illya. He paused beside the immobile philanthropist.

"Harrison Howell!" Illya said. "We better take him along."

Solo nodded, then bent closer, checked Howell's eyes, his pulse. "Better not try it. Not now. It's no good; he's under too deep, and I'm out of antidote."

Illya gazed into the unseeing eyes of the billionaire. "Sorry, fellow." He jerked his gaze up. "How do we get out of here? This is as depressing as a visit to my relatives."

Solo grinned. "Right. I've seen more animation at chess tourneys." He gestured across the wide cavern. "They brought me in through that door over there. Let's see if we can open it."

He ran ahead of Illya to the litter on which he'd been borne into this chamber. He drew up, frowning. Both litters were empty. Mabel Finnish was gone.

"What's wrong, Napoleon?" Illya said. "Lost something?"

Solo exhaled. "I hope so."

They drew up, staring helplessly at the single door in the chamber wall—it appeared to be solid rock in solid rock.

"Must be a button or lever somewhere," Solo said.

Illya was already running his hands along the door edges, the framing. He shook his head. "Nothing on our side, I'm afraid."

"But they did open this door from inside when they left me in here. Maybe a foot lever."

Illya stared about the stone floor, the rock wall. He shook his head. "I see nothing." He struck the door with the side of his fist in frustration.

Almost magically the door glided open. Illya's mouth parted in astonishment, but then closed again when he saw the three stout, dun-clad men and the guns in their arms.

Illya sighed, glance at Solo. "I wanted out, but this wasn't exactly the escape plan I had in mind."

FIVE

The armed men prodded Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo ahead of them along the narrow walkways that paralleled all the gleaming tracks through the labyrinth of tunnels.

Trains raced past, crowded with men and material. There was a furious sense of activity everywhere in the brilliantly illumined caverns.

One of the guards jabbed a gun into Illya's back. Illya and Solo paused. The guard did not speak but jerked his head along a smaller, white-tiled corridor.

The atmosphere cooled in this seemingly endless corridor. It was quieter; there was none of the fevered activity of the tunnels.

Finally, they reached a bright green door before which stood two green-clad guards.

The green door slid into the stone wall; the guards stepped back, standing at attention. The dun-clad soldiers ordered Solo and Illya through the door, but did not follow.

The green door closed behind them and they were alone in a green-hued grotto. They saw that this place, like all other chambers, tunnels, caverns and corridors, was lighted by the endless fluorescent tubing, but the softer hue came from the green walls.

Across the far wall was three-foot thick, green tinted glass. Without speaking, Solo and Illya walked toward it. Strong light filtered through the glass from beyond.

They paused, seeing that beyond the glass wall, a rushing river swirled, alive with odd mud-colored fish and marine life.

"Blind," Illya whispered. "They don't even have eyes. We must be miles below ground—"

"Interested in marine life, gentlemen?"

A subdued voice spoke from behind them. They wheeled around in time to see a ten-foot door in a third wall closing. For an instant they glimpsed suites of incomparable luxury, all done in restful hues of pale blue, violet, tan.

Then the doors closed and they concentrated upon their host, a most remarkable looking man.

He was unforgettable.

One saw first that he'd been many years underground, and that the life had altered him, almost faster than he could force himself to adapt.

Clearly, he was almost blind. His eyes appeared monstrous, magnified behind thick lenses in black-rimmed frames. He'd been a big man, but he seemed to have slumped inward and his body had become pear-shaped. His legs were round like watermelons and he moved languidly.

Any movement appeared to exert him beyond endurance, and he breathed loudly with every step, gasping for breath. He wore green coveralls, zippered tightly, and sheep-lined slippers upon feet far too small for his round form.

When he spoke it was with this same gasping effort, a few words, then a fight for breath. But he help himself as erect as possible. Clearly he was a man of consequence, and knew it.

"You must be our leader," Illya said.

The huge man rolled forward slowly, agonizingly, peering at them through near-sighted eyes which gave him the look of a mole.

"I am the master here," he said, voice rasping.

"We're flattered, I'm sure," Solo said. "But to what do we owe your august attention?"

The round man paused a few feet from them. He drew a deep breath, spoke slowly, gaspingly: "You were watched on television, gentlemen, in the chamber—and unless you get ideas which must prove fatal to you, you are being watched at this moment by my men.

"It never occurred to us we weren't," Solo said, bowing slightly.