Floating at them, Ahab's laughter was maniacal. "Ah, gentlemen, but I am closer to the control board than you. And while it's true that you have found me, my nearness to the board dictates that I set Project Ahab in motion. A bit ahead of schedule, perhaps. But the effect will be the same.
"Come try to take me if you wish. I shall throw that large white toggle in the center of the board—I'm sure you can see it—before you reach me."
Now Solo's belly was churning. He glanced at Illya, bobbed his head toward the board at the aisle's end. Illya caught the signal. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents leaped up and started a wild headlong charge down the aisle to try and close the distance between themselves and the large white switch which loomed from the middle of the board.
Ahab's bearded face and torso popped up above the last lathe on the left. The machine-rifle cradled against his side bucked. Orange-yellow spurts of flame leaped from the muzzle. Illya cried out, spun on suddenly boneless legs, fell.
The slugs from Ahab's weapon blasted pits in the cement near Solo's feet as he shoved his friend out of the line of fire behind one of the tubing storage bins. He crouched over Illya, made a hasty examination. Illya had taken a bullet in his left rib cage, low and near the waist. He was breathing lightly.
"Where are you, my dear friends?" Commander Ahab boomed. "This is the most unseemly show of hesitation. Or have the odds been reduced? Is Mr. Kuryakin dead? Perhaps I'll wait a moment longer to throw the switch. After all, it's only a foot or so away. Perhaps I'll wait for you to try again, Mr. Solo. You are going to try, aren't you? It's your duty—"
Stung past reason by the mocking voice, Napoleon Solo leaped up and charged.
He fired to cover himself as he ran. Ahab had changed positions, was now hiding behind the last of the tube storage bins on the right side of the aisle. He popped into sight, hair disarrayed, face grotesque with laughter, the machine-rifle spitting. In mid-stride Solo felt a bullet slam into his left thigh.
He stumbled, hurled himself to the right. Off balance, he let his gun slip. It skittered and slid out of reach. Trying to right himself, he reached desperately for something to hang onto. His hands caught some of the metal tubes in the nearest bin. Then his weight carried him down, pulling over the entire bin.
With a monstrous clanging, the tubes clattered over on him, six- foot lengths that smacked his head with painful force. He sprawled behind the overturned storage bin which had fallen athwart the aisle. He could no longer see anything at the aisle's end.
His leg was bloody. He was growing dizzy. He moved slightly, rolled onto his side. His movements dislodged some of the tubing, which clanked and clanged. Commander Ahab's voice boomed in the hollowness:
"Both of you out of action, eh? Splendid! I—" Ahab coughed. Shaking his head to clear it, Solo realized his adversary sounded weaker. "I fear one of your bullets made the mark, Mr. Solo. Fatal, perhaps. I—" Another wracking spasm of coughs. "I don't know. Yet I remain closer to the board than you. I think the time has come for me to—stop taking unnecessary risks. Listen carefully, Mr. Solo. You will hear a slight hum—when the toggle makes—contact. That way you will know the undersea charges—have been detonated—"
Hurting, dizzy, Solo realized he had only seconds left. From far away came the scrape and shuffle of a wounded Commander Ahab dragging his bulk toward the control board. Solo's gun was lost in the darkness. The only weapons he had were his hands. But if he leaped over the storage bin, he would never close the distance between himself and Ahab in time.
As he scrambled around to brace himself so that he could stand up, Solo's palm slid across one of the light alloy tubes.
From the aisle's end came a stifled curse. Then the sound of a heavy body falling. Ahab had taken a tumble.
Napoleon Solo calculated his last thousand-to-one chance––and acted.
He took hold of the alloy tube and dragged himself swiftly across the aisle to the leg of the power lathe. Reaching up, he flicked the switch.
He shoved the end of the alloy tube up against the suddenly-revolving wheel nearest him. The tube whined and vibrated. Blue sparks spat and flew. The tube's metal heated in his hands.
Solo jerked the tube back, pulled himself to his feet. He saw Commander Ahab outlined against the control board. Ahab recognized what Solo had in his hands. An expression of comprehension blended with fear on his face. He dropped his machine rifle, turned to face the board. Solo saw the blackish stain low down near the base of Ahab's spine where the bullet had caught him.
With a faltering hand Commander Ahab reached for the white switch—
With all the strength he had left, Napoleon Solo hauled back his right arm and flung the alloy tube whose end had been ripped by the lathe into a javelin-jagged point. Ahab's fingers touched the switch. The sharpened tube drove full force into the center of his back.
Ahab shrieked. He clawed at the switch. Solo watched, horrorstruck. If Ahab managed to seize the vital toggle in his last death spasms—
The commander's fingers slid away, leaving the switch unthrown. He turned awkwardly, peering up the aisle toward his slayer. Then, with a last bellow of pain, he sank down like a harpooned whale.
Feebly Solo limped back to Illya, found his communicator and called Channel D.
FOUR
THE HUGE TRANS-OCEANIC jet for New York lifted from the London airfield. Napoleon Solo sat by the window, staring out.
The city was not a pleasant sight. Even forty-eight hours after the Prime Minister had called an end to the evacuation at 4:24 P.M. that fatal afternoon, fires still burned. Smoky pillars climbed into the bright afternoon sky. The streets were being patrolled by units of the British Army, plus additional NATO forces rushed in by airlift.
The casualty toll, while not nearly as high as it would have been if Project Ahab had been a success, was still unpleasant. Solo tried to shut it all out of his mind.
The only compensation in the whole affair was the recovery of Cleo St. Cloud. In return for a lightened sentence, she had offered to work for U.N.C.L.E. when she got out of the hospital. She could be valuable in training U.N.C.L.E. agents in advanced hypnotic techniques.
The jet continued its climb toward the setting sun. Solo glanced at Illya Kuryakin sitting next to him. To Solo's surprise, Illya had taken a book out of his attaché case and was engrossed. He still looked pale, and heavier than usual due to the layers of bandage beneath his shirt.
"What's that you're reading?" Solo asked.
"Oh, something I picked up at a book store before we left," Illya replied. He flipped to the title page, pointed. "The Psychomilitary Uses of Medical Hypnosis. As someone once remarked, if you can't beat them, join them."
Seated across the aisle, Mr. Alexander Waverly pinched the bridge of his nose and looked unhappy.
"Put it away, Mr. Kuryakin," he said. "Put it away."
"But sir, it contains valuable information which we could profitably—"
"Not now, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "In New York, all right. But not now. Can't you occupy yourself with something that doesn't call up distressing memories?"
Suddenly Napoleon Solo grinned. The trim and most attractive stewardess was moving along the cabin aisle, speaking to various passengers.
"I can," Solo said, and rang the bell to call her.