He fell. He righted himself enough to stay on his knees, but made no effort to rise. He didn't have any idea of where he was in the room. Not even of which way he was facing.
"On your feet, Solo. Never say die. Isn't that our credo?"
"I'm fine where I am, Adams, thank you," he shouted back into the dark.
"Julius! Get him on his feet!"
Robard's voice came through. "Let him be, Professor. Kill him and get it over with. You've proved your point. You can beat U.N.C.L.E. any time you want."
Solo waited for the decision and the bullet that would arrow for his head if Robard had his way. But Adams answered, "Get him on his feet, Julius. You must keep on with this, Mr. Solo. You haven't even begun to explore the possibilities of this room. We can continue here for hours. Unless you're ready to give me the names."
Heavy feet clumped toward Solo and Julius' big hands hefted him under the armpits, setting him on his feet.
There was no possible way out of this, he knew that. He had few choices. He could struggle on until he died; he could stand still until he died. And they wouldn't let him stand still.
Despair weighted him down and he was afraid of it. Despair was one emotion he'd never felt during all of his years with U.N.C.L.E. Now it clutched him tight and made him want little more than to end this weird business by finding a blade at the proper height and ramming it home through his chest. He began to stumble about the room, being less careful. He couldn't fight everybody, himself least of all.
---
Illya Kuryakin, his wounded arm still numb from the anesthetic, slithered out of the U.N.C.L.E. wagon and took to the field beside the road. He was dressed in black from head to foot, his face smeared with charcoal to cut down the highlights of his fair skin, and his blond hair tucked under a black cap. His gun was in his hand, converted from the pistol to the U.N.C.L.E. automatic rifle.
He ran carefully, ducking down, jumping up to run again. The house was one hundred yards ahead yet, but he took no chances. Around him he could hear the faint twig-crackings as the men under his command - eight of them - moved parallel to him or streaked ahead to come up from the other side.
As the miles had slipped by under the wheels of the wagon, Mada had progressively fainted against Mr. Waverly, each mile making her disbelieve more and more that her Uncle Abel could be ruthless enough to kill Napoleon Solo. But Waverly, insisting on coming with the assault team, had held her up, quieted her tears, and gruffly forced her to show them .the way. After many false turns and dead ends, she had found the house.
Illya paused behind a tree. The rest of the space to the house was open lawn, but the grass was tall and would give some cover. His left shoulder rested against the tree trunk and it was a queer sensation not being able to feel it through the numbness. He checked his gun once more, unnecessarily. He was too eager for this attack and the pause was to force himself to calm down and follow proper procedure. His men were watching for his signal. It had to be right.
He scrambled away from the tree and sprinted for the house. It was old and tall, three stories high. Only the bottom floor was alight with lamps, and those were dim. Illya scuttled through the tall grass, then fell to his stomach to make the final approach. There didn't seem to be any guards outside. This Adams operation was certainly makeshift. Yet even with the amateurism, they had taken Napoleon. And killed him?
Illya crawled faster, angling for a side window. It promised the best light and he wouldn't need to g over the porch floorboards which were bound to creak. His breath came short and fast in the excitement and his hand clenched on the gun. He tried not to think ahead to what he might see when he peered through the window.
He stopped below it and inched upward until his eyes were above the sill and he could see inside. His throat tightened in astonishment. The room he saw was a shambles of furniture, and prickling from that shambles were icepicks, knives, hatchets - some of them stained a crimson color that made him shiver. There were no men visible.
He slipped to the other side of the window to get a longer view of the room. He saw them. The giant, Louie and Robard, and even Adams, crouching behind various pieces of furniture. Standing alone in the center of the floor, his arms tied in a strange pattern, was Napoleon. Blindfolded.
Illya's eyes took in the many rips and tears in Napoleon s gray suit, and the terrible stains of blood all over him. He was a pincushion!
Napoleon moved, and it was an unsteady, wobbly step he took. He was headed straight for an old piano that crouched at the side of the room, blades protruding from it at chest level. Illya envisioned him coming up against one of those blades, puncturing a lung, or his heart.
Dragging himself from the scene, Illya checked to the left and right for his men. He could see four of them in position. He raised his gun in signal, poising them for the first jump of attack.
"Now!" Illya screamed it loud enough to be heard at the back of the house, too, and brought down his gun in the signal to move in, smashing the window glass with the barrel in the same motion.
Glass jangled around him, most of it falling inside, and Illya opened fire, giving no warning. Julius was his first target. The giant was too dangerous to be left on his feet.
The men inside jumped up at the crashing glass, and Julius added to their confusion as he fell amid the furniture, dead.
Guns were raised inside the room but Illya struggled through the window. He was inside, and other men were coming through other windows.
Illya shouted, "Stand still, Napoleon! Just stand still!"
He watched Solo freeze, and turned, himself, to Adams. The room was alive with gunfire and whining bullets.
The other men could take Louie and Robard. Illya wanted Adams for his own. The old man faced him, deathly white, his hands empty. Illya started for him and Adams' hands dropped to a little end table in front of him. It came zooming forward on its castors, the knives speeding at Illya to impale him.
Illya propelled himself out of its way and bore down on the old man. But Adams wasn't giving up. He crouched behind a chair, liberally laced with icepicks, and shoved it ahead of him as he came to meet Illya.
Illya stood his ground, judging his moment. As the chair rushed at him, he tensed his thighs. As it came within inches, he leaped into the cushioned seat and over the back, coming down hard on the old man.
Adams sprawled and struggled, but one swift, slightly-pulled Karate chop to his carotid artery stopped the flailing and he settled down, groggy.
Illya scrambled up and whirled to help finish the room. Flashes of orange still came from the guns. Louie was bleeding on the floor. Robard fell. All down.
The violent noise halted as suddenly as it had begun. The U.N.C.L.E. team looked about for other targets. There were none. The only person in the room who was perfectly still was Napoleon Solo, slightly hunched, standing by the piano, not daring to move for fear of the knives and the bullets he couldn't dodge.
A great crash of glass cascaded from the wide front window and Mr. Waverly hopped over the sill, Mada in his wake. "Nobody opened the front door!" Waverly growled, hurrying straight for Solo.
Illya and Waverly reached Solo at the same time, and Waverly tore off the blindfold. Solo stood dazzled by the light, his forehead drenched with sweat, his body ready to collapse. He didn't say a word as Illya untied the rope and freed his arms.