"Let's get a closer look."
Gloryanna held him back. "We can't go inside. I told you."
"I can, Gloryanna. You wait for me out here. I've got to have a look around." He headed away but she kept up with him, her red sneakers hitting the ground stubbornly. "Whither I goest," he said to himself.
At the top of the hill, set inside the doors, was an area of big planks laid down to make a raised stage on the hard wood of the barn floor. Solo's heels clicked on the wood and at the sound he eased himself to Gloryanna's right so he would have his hand free for his gun if he needed it.
Deep in the barn - and it was a huge barn - the sun light shafted through dirty windows, producing small spotlights on the floor and lighting rusty farm tools. Straw matted the corners and old bales of hay were littered about. He went deeper, past the stage.
Nestled beside the central upright was a small mimeograph machine with big bottles of ink stacked beside it. The bottles were clean and white, opaque, and labeled Red and Black. What interested him most was the paper ready to be imprinted. It was very thin, tissue-like, and gold. He didn't touch it, but Gloryanna did, holding a piece of it high. He could almost see through it.
"They're going to print their programs on this," she said. "They chop it up to make their Stardust. I watched them once."
"Put it down!" Solo commanded. "Right now." If Illya's hunch was right, that paper could be impregnated with the deadly chemical and she was getting it all over her hands.
She obeyed quickly, uneasy at the edge in his voice.
Solo poked at the paper with a pencil he found by the mimeo machine. Its presence, seemingly innocent, could indicate that the entire Thrush operation was being carried on from this one barn. He picked up the piece Gloryanna had handled and stuffed it in his pocket to send to U.N.C.L.E. in Chicago. If the report came back that it was untreated, then it was sensible to sup pose that Thrush put the chemical on it right here and that could mean the main lab was present here, too.
"Is there an upstairs or a downstairs to a place like this?" Solo asked Gloryanna.
"Yes - this is a very fancy barn. There's an extra hay loft up that wooden ladder, and below us are the stables."
"Hark!" A voice echoed through the empty barn, coming from over their heads. "The sound of intruders touches my ears. Who goes there?"
Solo stared up the ladder in amazement. Gloryanna touched his arm. "That's only Mr. Saturn."
Solo winced. "Oh, no. Does he always talk that way?"
"He's a great actor, Napoleon. Very artistic. You'll see." Solo was afraid he would see, and waited for the sight, his right hand ready to slip out his gun. But the figure that appeared on the ladder relaxed him. First came ankle-high felt boots; next a pair of off-blue trousers; then a black, gold, and red striped dressing gown. The man's head came next, underlined by a silk ascot. Mr. Saturn leaped the last few rungs and landed grace fully beside Solo. His left hand flourished an eight inch cigarette holder with a dead king-size cigarette in the end of it.
Solo estimated Saturn's height at six-foot-six, and his weight barely one-seventy. The man was so thin that one good knotted fist to the stomach would go straight through and break his backbone. His head was long and his face lumpy with bones, his artificially silver hair dropping across his temple in dramatic style. He was a caricature, something dug up out of a theater trunk.
Saturn said, poutingly, "I called out but you failed to answer. I really must insist on knowing your business here. The theater is not open."
"Oh," Solo said, then lied, "I wasn't aware of that. But I can't say I'm sorry because I did manage to meet you. You can't be anyone but Mr. Saturn, himself." Solo firmly believed that with this type, flattery would open all doors.
"Saturn at your service." The thin man bowed. "But you, sir - who are you? The young lady, I already know."
Solo gave his name right out. If Saturn was a Thrush operative, he was low level. He was surely incapable of running a big project like Operation Breadbasket. There was only a self-satisfied gleam in his eye to mark him as easy prey for Thrush, an easy pawn. "I'm Napoleon Solo."
"An inspired name!" Saturn gushed. "An actor, naturally. I can tell by your stance."
"Mr. Solo isn't an actor at all," Gloryanna said. "He's -"
"A lover of the arts, only," Solo finished. "I was passing through Riverview, saw your signs, and hoped to see a performance. But you look a long way from opening night."
Saturn sighed. "Ah, yes. The tribulations. I came into town happily, balloons flying, banners streaming, and found only a morass of moroseness. It seems that the crops are failing or something. When doom sits upon the world, even drama must give way."
Solo's eyes still searched into the corners of the barn for anything that might be a lead. "You have a large company with you, judging by the trailers. It must be costing you a fortune to stay here inactive."
"True, Mr. Solo. I have a good-sized group of men. Most of them aren't performers, of course. They are stagehands, etcetera."
"It's a one-man show, then?"
"Not at all, dear sir. We have many, many acts. Tumblers, strong men, poetry readings, ballet, bits of classic drama, everything worthwhile. We use local talent where we can find it. I personally asked your delightful companion to read one of our roles, but she refused me."
Gloryanna blushed. "I'd be petrified."
"You'd be glorious, my sweet," Saturn said, and leered at her.
"Come now, Mr. Saturn," Solo said, "You can't travel a show like this without trained actresses. You must have a woman in your suitcase somewhere."
"They have a woman, all right." Gloryanna said it almost angrily. "Some kind of super woman. I think she really does come from the moon, the way she walks and the way she looks."
"Thank you, dear child," came a voice from the loft. "You just keep on thinking that."
Solo stared up the ladder again and this time the figure coming down was no caricature. It was all woman, her long legs swathed in the silk of full-legged lounging pajamas, her magnificent breasts barely contained by more of the silk, her wrists rattling with beads. She came down the ladder facing forward so each step was sensuous, snakelike, as she leaned back for balance. Black hair cascaded to her waist, and black eyes gleamed from behind long lashes. She was the first truly aware woman Solo had met since Rachel had run from him, and he turned his interested smile full on her.
Saturn stepped between them with one of his grand gestures and introduced them. "Napoleon Solo, this is Galaxy Talbot. A truly fine talent."
"Obviously," Solo said.
Saturn cleared his throat. "She is a fine ballet dancer." Solo grinned hard at the woman. "It seems to me that the last time I saw you it was pronounced belly dancer. And your name was something like Nasheba. I couldn't be mistaken."
Galaxy had moved away from the ladder, her head high, her body swaying, but now she stamped her foot. "You make me mad, Napoleon Solo! You actually saw me and remember me!"
"Why be mad at that?"
"My agent never told me I was so good I made a lasting impression. I would have stayed with my career."
"But this engagement paid more?"
"Pay! In this place?"
A hand tugged at Solo's sleeve. It was Gloryanna, her eyes fixed hatefully on Galaxy. "We'd better go now, Napoleon," she whispered urgently. "I have to get the car home."