The Monster Wheel Affair - McDaniel David. Страница 21

"You just noticed it?" asked Illya dryly. "We'll be grounding at the hundred-foot level in another twenty minutes. I thought we should have a bit of hot nourishing supper before we go ashore. Accommodations there are likely to be limited."

"A good thought. What have you whipped up in your modern all-electronic miracle kitchen?"

"I don't know. There's no name on the package—just a description of the contents in unappetizing technical terms. But it's well-balanced for a maximum of nutrition and a minimum of bulk, and it smells edible."

"That's all I ask. This salt air always gives me an appetite." Napoleon slipped out of his chair and accepted the tray Illya handed him.

They ate and drank, and filled their canteens from the fresh water supply. Then the depth alarm began to sound softly, and they returned to the control panels. In a few minutes a rocky bottom jagged with coral showed in their headlights, and the Squid settled gently to rest. A panel of switches were clicked over, and meters fell back against their stop pins as the electromagnetic fields collapsed and died.

A few fish swam idly past, attracted by the light. One or two paused to stare through the porthole at the strange exhibit within, then passed on like idle tourists at an aquarium.

Finally all was ready. The outside lights were doused; the cabin lights were set so a radio signal from above could turn them on to light the returning travelers home. Both agents slipped their packs on over their wet-suits. Napoleon crawled into the airlock and sealed the inner hatch behind him. In the yellow illumination of his underwater torch he adjusted his face-mask, and touched the button beside the hatch. With scarcely a sound, a cool pressure began rising about him. The black surface crept up and surrounded him as he hung in the three-foot cylindrical airlock.

When the lock was full, he swallowed several times as the weight of a hundred feet of sea water squeezed his eardrums and his chest. The pressure was high, but if they got to the surface with reasonable dispatch there would be insufficient time for nitrogen to dissolve in their bloodstreams necessitating gradual and tedious decompression. The inside of the sub was kept close to surface normal pressure for just this reason.

He let himself float to the top hatch, worked the dogs, and pushed it open. Then he was out, looking down at the dimly visible shape of the submarine. He waggled his fins, and swam around to the front.

Peering back in through the port, he could see Illya standing, masked and finned, next to the lock entrance, watching the indicator lights. The bottom one flashed green, and he followed Solo. Napoleon swam back to meet him.

It was almost a minute before the hatch opened and the Russian pulled himself out. His light swung around and joined his partner's, and side by side they swam along the bottom as it slanted upwards.

It was shortly after dusk when they broke the surface. The sub had been grounded at the opposite end of the island from the volcanic cone, and the U.N.C.L.E. agents surfaced quietly a hundred yards off-shore for cautious reconnaissance.

Their eyes, accustomed to the underwater darkness, could see the shore easily by the last of the sky glow. It looked deserted.

Treading water, they conferred in whispers. "No reason to think we might have been spotted. I'll go in first—signal you if it's all clear."

Illya nodded and submerged again. Napoleon replaced his scuba mouthpiece and began stroking steadily along, a few feet below the surface.

In a matter of minutes, he felt the tug of surf about him and rose again. The half-moon overhead showed him lines and curves of white froth against black sand. The surf was low, and except for the passage of the foam, his black wet-suit would be nearly invisible against the beach. He ducked under a wave and started his landing.

Water surged about him and spun him once while he fought to recover his balance, and then the sand scraped against his knees. He grabbed for it and pushed himself erect, then stumbled up the slope towards the trees some ten or fifteen feet before dropping flat.

He spat out the breathing valve and took his first lungful of natural air in several hours. Next he slipped the mask off his face and rubbed at his eyes. They itched from the pressure and a little sea water that had got in through the not-quite-perfect seal around his face. And he listened.

He listened while he continued removing his gear, and heard nothing. A few insects chattered, and a nightbird screeched, but the noises were natural and reassuring—the presence of alien intruders in the area would have damped the sounds.

After three minutes he pointed his flash out to sea and waved it in a circle. There was no answer. A minute later he repeated the signal. This time a spot of light flicked twice.

Two minutes later Illya was standing beside him in the shelter of the trees. In silence they shucked out of their wet-suits, slipped on the camouflage coveralls from their packs, and blacked their faces. A few more minutes' work concealed their scuba gear under a foot of soft earth at the base of a distinguishable tree, and they were ready to complete their invasion.

Three cautious hours later they lay on their bellies in the brush and looked up at the side of the volcano. It rose up from beds of old lava, where a few hardy bushes had already managed to take root, and stood black and jagged against the moon-blue sky.

They had seen no signs of human habitation—if this island had been the launching site of a space missile, it was kept quite secure. No tracks, no cigarette butts, not even a smell of anything but the highly pungent Kerguelen's Land cabbage which grew in profusion among the scattered trees.

"There we are," said Napoleon in a whisper. "And it looks as if nobody's home."

"It seems a shame to come all this way and then leave without seeing them," said his partner. "Let's look for a door."

"They may be trying to avoid us—what if they don't answer the bell?"

"We sneak around and go in the window?"

Napoleon nodded, and they began moving off around the mountain, scanning the rock walls for openings of any kind.

Eventually it was a spark of light against the shadowed rocks that showed the door they were after. Illya spotted it first, tapped Napoleon, and pointed silently. Solo nodded, and they turned up the slope towards it, rubber-soled shoes soundless on the lava sheet as they climbed.

Then they saw another light—a match that flared in the darkness ahead of them. They froze in their tracks and sank flat against the harsh surface of the bare rock. The match illuminated a man's face as it touched the end of his cigarette, and dimmed as he drew the flame into the tobacco. A moment later a voice was heard, softly, in English:

"God, but it's good to get out in the fresh air once in a while. I feel like a ruddy prisoner in there."

The match was blown out and the second smoker muttered agreement. "Sometimes I think they're a little crackers on security. There's nobody in a thousand miles that's not been checked and cross-checked by Thrush six ways from Sunday. But we're supposed to act like we're under siege every minute. Practically have to twist arms to get a blinkin' surface pass." He snorted. "In six months, what have we ever seen on radar? Three planes and one ship. And we sank the ship."

The two smoked in silence for a time, while the two U.N.C.L.E. agents huddled in their own shadows not fifty feet from them. Only a small portion of Napoleon's mind appreciated the irony—most of his attention was occupied in an attempt to make himself invisible.

After several minutes one of the glowing butts arched away into the darkness and burst in a shower of dying sparks. It was followed by a muttered curse. "Forgot again!" said the voice, and he started down the hill towards where the cigarette had fallen.