The strength of those lights had been intensified. He could not escape them. After a moment the chair seemed to tilt backwards, to tip, fall and then turn, following those flashing lights.
Illya Kuryakin gagged, sick at his stomach.
The lights whirled faster and faster. He screamed as he wheeled and skidded, spinning around and around in the immobile chair, the unmoving drum…
The lights flashed off. At least Illya Kuryakin thought they did. The sides of the drum lowered; the top pieces unlocked and folded down.
Though he was sick at his stomach, Illya's mind was clear enough to warn him to get out of that chair.
He lunged upward.
He was not quick enough. The lights flashed on, the magnetic power of the chair held him securely. The chair slid forward.
For a long time he could feel the lights still spinning inside his head. Buckets of hot water were thrown on him, followed by buckets of cold water.
A voice from somewhere told him to rest. He did not recognize the voice. There was an almost kindly timbre in it, and he thought wildly that the speaker might have human emotions, if only he could appeal to him.
But then the voice died away and he was left locked in the chair, a bright white island in the chocolate darkness.
Illya Kuryakin didn't know how long it was before he was returned to the light drum—perhaps hours, or days, or only minutes. His head ached and time had already lost meaning.
He closed his eyes against the whirling lights, but this did not help. The bright colors penetrated first his eyelids, then seemed to enter at his temples, throbbing behind his eyeballs, twanging at the taut nerves. He pressed his fists hard against his temples and then the steady beams of colored lights battered at his forehead, at the base of his skull, the crown of his head.
Illya's head ached excruciatingly now. Even when he came out of the drum, was doused with water, fed something which would not stay on his stomach, and told to rest, the headache persisted.
The human body might become accustomed to anything, even the throb of a headache if it remained constant. But the pressures, the intensity of the light was increased, lessened, speeded up.
And he spun in the drum, screaming against it, until he could not even hear his own screaming.
He could feel his nerves going.
He wanted to break down into tears, to cry over nothing.
The lights never stopped whirling for him now, even when he knew they were off and he was outside the drum. They whirled, jabbing like lances through his brain.
The kindly voice asked him what day it was, and Illya could not answer. And after a long time the gentle questioner inquired Illya's name, and Illya could not answer.
He no longer knew.
For a few brief moments when he was doused with the buckets of ice water, Illya had lucid thoughts. He knew his name. He knew why he had come to this place. He remembered the lights. He remembered the kindly voice, the way he strained, listening for it, how lost he was when it went away and left him in the darkness.
Then the hot water would strike him and the lights would whirl.
In his lucid moments he warned himself his mind was going, his nerves already frayed, his emotions damaged. He had to cling to some thought that had nothing to do with this place. As the cold water struck him, he remembered New York, the restaurants, the Village, the subways, the sun on the United Nations complex early in the morning.
He gritted his teeth, swearing to hold these thoughts, to shut out what was happening to him.
The hot water washed it away.
He'd long since lost count of how many times he had been placed inside the drum. He never escaped the lights except for the briefest moments. The ice water no longer felt cold. Now there was no difference between hot and cold.
He'd trap a thought of some distant place, but the first whirling of the lights fragmented the thoughts; he was unable to hold on to them.
The light intensified, and so did the pain.
As the drum parted and the chair slid forward his wrist watch scratched his cheek.
Frantically, he grabbed the watch band, jerked the watch from his wrist.
The motor hummed, the short slide was almost over, the immobilizing lights would flash on. Or maybe they no longer bothered to magnetize him to the chair. Illya didn't know.
His mind could contain only the thought of the watch. He smashed it in his palm on the arm of the chair.
Trembling, he shook the broken shards of glass into his mouth, and dropped the watch.
At this instant the water struck him. He chewed sharp pieces of glass, feeling it cut his gums, his tongue, the roof of his mouth. He chewed again. Blood oozed from his lips.
Kuryakin could feel the temperature of the water. It was cold.
FOUR
SOLO PROWLED the small room which adjoined one of the thickly grown hothouses.
Bikini slumped against one of the three solid walls. She cried for a long time, her dark head pressed into her arms.
Solo stood at the fourth wall. It was thick green glass and afforded a view of the lushly growing cannibal plants out there.
He shook his head. He had no way to break this glass, yet it was almost as if Nesbitt wished he would. It was as though they dared him and Bikini to attempt to escape across that tangled growth.
He drew his arm across his forehead, wiping away perspiration. The cell was as hot as the hothouse beyond the glass, and more breathless.
The door was thrust open and Solo looked in that direction.
A guard stood at the opened door with a light-gun in his arms. Another entered the small hot room. He walked slowly, like a spring-wound toy that has run down.
His face was set, his eyes vacant. He faltered slightly.
Solo caught his breath. The man's face was battered, his hands cut. This was the man who had fought him at the canyon ledge, the one he'd left dangling over the precipice. He had hit him in the face with his shoe until the pain somehow got through to his consciousness.
The guard looked at Napoleon Solo, shook his head in an almost imperceptible movement, then he turned and walked, still faltering, toward Bikini.
Solo set himself to jump the guard if he harmed Bikini. He closed the armed sentry at the door from his mind. It might be the last thing he ever did for Bikini.
But the guard merely drew a folded sheet of paper from his tunic.
He held it out toward Bikini in a quivering hand.
Solo caught his breath. He recognized the form, it was a 'a summons to death' like the one delivered to Bikini's father at the hotel in Big Belt.
Bikini took it. She didn't even glance at it. She recognized it, too.
The guard turned and stalked toward the door.
Bikini jumped up. She ran to Solo and pressed herself against him, tears in her eyes. Solo closed his arms about her, comforting the miserable, frightened girl.
The guard was barely at the door when Joe, Nesbitt's Indian assistant, brushed past the door sentry.
He caught the guard by the shirt front and pushed him against the wall, as if forgetting Solo and Bikini in a sudden savage fury.
Joe switched on a wall light, marched the guard to it, forced him to stare into its brilliance. The man gazed at the bulb, unblinking. His dry eyes did not even water.