Magazine 1967-­07] - The Electronic Frankenstein Affair - Davis Robert Hart. Страница 16

There was a sudden, blinding flash and the running pilot rose eight feet into the air and went spinning back toward the still flaming wreckage. He screamed just once, piercingly, his lips writhing back from his teeth.

Solo could not see what it was that was bearing him backwards. But his face, where the soot had not blackened it, was a livid mask of terror, and it was easy to see that he was experiencing as well an al most unendurable agony.

There was another sudden flash and the pilot's spinning body flew apart in the air, as if some invisible force had shattered it. Instantly, gruesomely, severing the arms from the trunk, the legs at the knees, and causing the head to split open like a coconut dropped from a tree.

What was 1eft the body thudded to the sand a short distance from the wreckage and was almost as instantly enveloped in a swirl of smoke that continued on past it over the sand until it was half way to where Solo was standing.

For an instant he had to fight against a threat he could not remember ever having experienced before—the danger of actually blacking out from shock alone. It did not surprise him too much. To witness so ghastly an execution at close range, with no warning, no chance at all to summon a danger-conditioned fortitude to one's aid held a degree of horror that made such a threat very real.

In the vicinity of the wreckage the desert was strewn with still flaming debris, and the heat could be felt from where Napoleon Solo stood. But it wasn't the heat that caused him to take a few steps backward and blink furiously. It was the towering figure that had come suddenly into view a half mile beyond the wreckage, its vast bulk silhouetted against the sky and half blotting out the blazing sunlight.

It was moving slowly toward the wreckage. It was ablaze with many-colored lights which even the downstreaming sunlight failed to dim. It had an unmistakably oriental look. The arms were bent sharply at the elbows and were held well out from a body that seemed divided into segments that overlapped.

What looked like a gigantic stone turban enveloped the upper part of a head which was sharply angular and gleamed with a metallic luster as it swayed slowly back and forth.

Clearly Illya Kuryakin had seen it too, for Solo was aware of the younger man's harsh breathing a little to the left of him, and could hear the swish of his sandals as he moved about on the sand.

Gradually, as he stared, the figure grew dimmer, as if the newly arisen sun resented its presence and was reaching out with long arms of radiance to blot it from sight. It seemed to merge and blend with the sunlight as it went walking into the east.

TEN

THREE DESERT MAIDENS

THE HEAT was intolerable and the sun was a blazing red eye that seemed to follow Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin as they dragged themselves over the sand. Not only had they lost their way in the desert—they had started out with no knowledge of what Sun Lin could have told them if he had been still alive. The Gobi was a man-killer.

Its monotony stripped it of all guideposts. Just as you felt you might be on the track of something—the recovered trail of a camel, perhaps—what you thought might be hoof-marks in parallel formation turned out to be wind- flurry indentations.

There were no big mirages to mislead them. Just little ones that were infinitely more misleading. They became illusion-tormented in slow stages. There would be moments when they seemed to be caressed by cool winds, encouraged by what they were quite sure were distant but encouraging voices, urging them not to abandon hope, promising them a reward for their efforts.

Illya was the first to collapse. He did it without complaining, without uttering a single word of protest. He simply stopped dragging himself forward, sank level with the sand and lay still. Solo blacked out a few minutes later.

* * *

THREE DESERT maidens, their faces veiled in morning mist, were tripping lightly over the Gobi sands. Three desert maidens, arm in arm, their long yellow robes flowing out over the sand.

Only—there was something wrong. All three of the maidens looked exactly alike. They had the same eyes, the same high cheek bones, the same facial pallor.

Solo had seen each of the three faces—or one face—before. But not in the Gobi. Somewhere far away in another world. But how could three Gobi maidens look so enchantingly beautiful, when behind them loomed gray buildings that had nothing whatever to do with the Gobi and should not have been there at all?

Tall gray buildings and hurrying New York faces tight with strain. A long gray limousine moving slowly through a canyon of stone. Against such a background, how could three lovely maidens maintain their poise and trip so gracefully over the sand? How could their faces fail to mirror something of that same strain?

"Wake up, Napoleon Solo," a voice that was all music seemed to whisper deep in Solo's mind. "This is Lhasa. We meet for the second time, under circumstances which have greatly changed. You have been delirious for hours. But it is important for you to know that many things have changed—so that you will not think that you are in the presence of an enemy."

The voice ceased for an instant, then went on again. "When a man has endured almost more than the human mind can bear, it would be cruel beyond belief to let him go on thinking that he is still in deadly danger. So long as you remain here you will be in danger. But it is not immediate; you are completely safe for the moment. Try to understand that. It will set your mind at rest, and make your awakening less of a torment."

The three desert maidens drew suddenly closer to one another, their linked arms tightening as they danced. And suddenly they seemed to merge and blend, to coalesce and run together until there remained just one enchantingly radiant maiden in a long yellow robe tripping gracefully over the Gobi sand.

Napoleon Solo opened his eyes.

Ebony black and immense was the first object that met his eyes. It towered in one corner of an enormous room in which many screens, set at oblique angles, glowed transparent in the light of a flickering fire. The ebony black object was a statue, and Solo gradually realized it was a somnolent Buddha, with features slightly smiling.

Upon the screens—there were eight of them in all—long red dragons writhed, with their tongues darting fire. There was a brazier directly opposite the Buddha and from its glowing coals a thin ribbon of smoke coiled.

There were rich oriental rugs on the floor and hanging lamps as well which shed a mellow amber radiance over their intricate designs.

"Napoleon Solo, look at me," the voice that was all music pleaded. "At me—not at this room, which pleases my father but gives me no pleasure."

She was kneeling at his side, and since he was on his side, staring straight across the room toward the opposite wall it was not strange that he had failed to be aware of her presence until her voice came to his ears.

Napoleon rolled over on his back and then sideway again until he was staring directly into her eyes. His head whirled for an instant, from weakness or dizziness perhaps, and he had to blink furiously to bring her features into sharp relief.

For an instant the tall gray buildings seemed to come sweeping back, but he knew now that they were solely an illusion and that he was not within walking distance of the United Nations. If he remained calm only the room and the woman at his side would remain.

"You have been out of your mind for hours, Napoleon Solo," she said. "You woke up once, but you did not recognize me. But you must have seen my face in your dreams, for you talked wildly about our meeting in New York.

"It was a tragic meeting and one that I now regret. I threatened you, warned you what would happen to U.N.C.L.E when your every move became known to us in advance."