He approached the balloon, still walking easily in case there were unseen eyes on him. It hovered three feet off the ground, and when he touched the carriage, it tugged away from him. He scanned the ground for traces of stardust and found nothing.
"Anything you want, mister?" The voice came from behind him.
Illya turned quickly, knowing it was too quick for the part he was playing, but he was startled. A man was coming from the walnut grove - a big, battered man with the look of countless other Thrush apes he had dealt with before.
"That's rather up to you," Illya answered, settling composure on his face. "Are you giving rides?"
"Nope. Nobody's interested anymore but the kids. You like balloons?"
The man was beside him and Illya measured his own slight weight and height against the barrel chest of the other. He had to keep on with the charade. "Childish or not, I've always wanted to ride one. I never have. There aren't many around."
"How right you are. Had to have this baby made up on special order. I tell you, it's a great ride. Not like your airplane, where you're surrounded by metal. You just float around up there with the birds and clouds."
Illya caught hold of the basket carriage and pulled it to him, craning to peer inside, "That's how I've pictured it in my mind's eye." He was uneasy with his back to the big man, and held himself alert. There was no trace of stardust on the ground. Perhaps inside the basket - if he could manage to get inside, "I saw your ads in town when I was passing through, and decided, here's toy chance. I'm disappointed. Could you be persuaded for - say ten dollars?"
"Sorry," the man answered. He was at ease, and Illya gave himself an "A" for acting ability. "But get into the carriage and see how it feels, if you want. It sways a little bit." He opened a lock on the carriage and pulled the door wide.
Illya took the big step up, catching his balance against the sway. The carriage door closed and locked behind him. The basket itself was four feet deep, so he was only chest and shoulders above the top of it. He again scanned the floor for stardust, and it was again clean.
"Now," the man laughed, "I suppose you want to see the glitter. No" - he waved Illya's protest down - "don't be embarrassed about it. I've worked with carnivals too long not to know that expression - like when an adult is itching to ride the merry-go-round but hasn't got a kid with him for an excuse. So - see the glitter. It's stored in that metal box on the floor. Open it and pick up a handful."
Illya laughed and went to one knee in the swaying basket to get his prize. As he dropped, there was a sudden lurch of the basket, throwing him forward. He toppled on his face and scrambled to stand up, yelling, "Hey, out there! Take it easy!"
By the time he had regained his feet, he saw that there was no taking it easy anymore. The man had detached one mooring rope and was fast doling out the other. The balloon was rising. It sailed off the brown grass, the black, red, and gold bag taking the air like a bubble.
Illya walked gingerly to the edge of the carriage and peered down. He was already up thirty feet. He put a smile on his face, keeping up the pretense. "Did you change your mind, mister? Because if you did someone had better come with me. I don't know how to operate one of these things."
The balloon kept rising. Forty feet. Fifty. It jerked to a halt as the man pulled on the tether. He jumped nimbly out of Illya's sight under the basket and shouted up, "Throw your glitter, U.N.C.L.E. agent. Throw yourself out if you want. But you'll drop fifty feet and I won't pick up the pieces!"
Illya ducked into the shelter of the basket and drew his pistol. It had been a two-way game, then, with both of them playing innocent. He sneaked his head and gun up over the edge of the carriage, but immediately knew it was useless. The man was directly under the basket. He couldn't find him for a target. And worse - he heard the Thrush calling someone on a communicator. Pieces of the words reached him: "Got one of them… here fast... no sweat."
"We'll see about the no sweat," Illya muttered. He wasn't going to be trapped like a puppy in a Christmas stocking for very long. If his target wouldn't come to him, he'd go to his target.
He stared at the belly of the balloon, estimating what might happen if he shot a hole in it. As though in response, the shout came from below. "Don't bother trying to shoot the thing down, U.N.C.L.E. man. It's armored. A new process. Do you think we're stupid, or something?"
Illya didn't answer, thinking his own thoughts. Reinforcements were coming from Thrush, so he didn't have much time. He'd take the man's word that the balloon was invincible. There was another way.
He heaved himself onto the narrow edge of the carriage, setting up a terrible sway. He dangled one leg over the side, waiting for the balloon to balance again. If he could find a handhold and lower his body upside-down on the length of the carriage, he could get off a shot at his target underneath. If that failed, perhaps he could catch the tether and forcibly pull the great bag to the ground. He'd try the shot first and use the tether for his escape.
Grasping the rim of the basket with his left hand, he lifted his other leg and lay along the curved edge. He had to go head first or get a leg blasted through. There were loops imbedded halfway down the basket, holding the balloon onto it, and he could grab for one of those.
Using his knees to hold himself, he dropped his left hand down to one of the loops, and caught it, and grasped it hard, damning the heat-sweat that broke out all over him and threatened to reduce his grip to nothing. He slithered groundward, changing his hold from his knees to his feet, keeping firm with the left hand on the loop. It was working, but using all of his breath. If he could get down to a toe-hold on the basket rim, he'd have one chance at a shot. He slid his feet cautiously, catching with the laces of his shoes, ready to slither the rest of the way.
The man below him, like some devil out of a nightmare, tugged on the tether rope, flailing it back and forth. The basket lurched and Illya lurched with it, his feet slipping, his left hand and arm twisted and burning with pain, holding him up, but barely.
A movement started in his left breast pocket and his communicator slipped out, falling like a silver dart to the brown grass. He couldn't even grab for it. Fighting to keep himself from the same fall, he floundered about with his legs, holding his body stiffly upside-down in a one-hand-stand on the rope loop. His ankles caught the basket rim and he grabbed it. He tried desperately to get his gun back into the holster but it was useless, and without two hands, he was going down head first. With a terrible sigh, he let the gun fall. The man below would know he had victory for sure.
The drop of the gun was the signal for the man to stop shaking the tether and the balloon quieted. Illya took advantage of every second of equilibrium and heaved himself back up, using his right hand as a grappling hook. He was on the rim with his stomach, and then his chest. He dropped his feet inside the carriage and fell bodily, panting on the floor.