As he lay there, relieved to be alive, he reached over and flicked up the lid of the stardust box. It was empty. All this, and it was empty.
He sat up but didn't stand, wanting the protecting basket around him. The victors would come soon enough.
He wondered where Napoleon was. Probably, with his jaunty friend's good luck, he was basking in Gloryanna's smile and eating a homecooked meal while convincing her father that he was a sincere and harmless man who never noticed the tight fit of her red slacks.
Illya swallowed hard, searching for some moisture in his body against the terrible heat. He stared at the underside of the balloon and muttered, "I might at least have brought a box lunch."
---
Fifteen minutes later a little parade came from the direction of the road. Illya watched it with mixed emotions. It would be Thrush reinforcements, but it would also mean he could get down out of this baking basket. It consisted of a station wagon and a pickup truck, both fire-red and white, and it bounced across the dried fields.
He peeked over the edge of the carriage as the parade stopped and people emerged from the vehicles. The first man out was a cartoon character, tall and thin like something dragged out of a casket, dressed in blue trousers and a loud printed shirt that no corpse would tolerate.
The balloon man came out from under and said, "He's up in the balloon, Mr. Saturn. The neatest capture I ever made. He's unarmed, helpless, and hot as a piece of butter in the sun."
Mr. Saturn clasped his hands with a flourish. "Wonderful, Charles. Now we can play a bit."
Another, broader man emerged from the truck and came to Saturn. "Not long, actor-boy. The shipment has to go out tonight and there's a lot to be done, so we cant fool around." He was immediately backed by four more men, all recognizable as low-on-the-totem-pole Thrush muscles. Illya wondered at it. Why such an important operation as this crop killing affair was left in amateur hands, he couldn't understand. If Mr. Saturn was in charge, then Thrush hadn't planned well.
"I realize all of that, Barber," Saturn said, "and the shipment will go on schedule. But we can spare a few minutes to eliminate an U.N.C.L.E. agent, can we not? A few imaginative minutes?"
"Imagine away," Barber said. "I'll give you half an hour."
Saturn spurred himself into action. "Pull the U.N. C.L.E. man down and let's see what we've caught."
The balloon was yanked down, going in glides and spurts, and Illya stood up, making himself visible, noting the sudden appearance of guns in the hands of the six gorillas. The basket jolted against the ground, then was allowed to slide back to hover three feet high. Charles, the balloonman, opened the door, and Illya jumped out among his captors, returning their stares with his own noncommittal one.
Saturn towered over him. "Well, U.N.C.L.E. man, how does it feel to be in the firm hands of Thrush?"
"The same as it has felt a hundred times before," Illya said. He kept his hands quiet, away from his body, not wishing to call down a storm of lead.
"I must think of something appropriate for you." Saturn drew a thin hand across his hot forehead. "It may take a while. Can you wait?"
Illya focused his eyes on the guns for an answer.
Barber hurried Saturn. "You don't have time, actor-boy. Whatever you're going to do, do it. Dundee will be here before you know it, and if you're not ready -"
Saturn went slightly pale. "I detest that man, Dundee, wholeheartedly. He is vulgar and insensitive. But - tell me, Barber, what do you usually do with U.N.C.L.E. men?"
"Kill them," Charles said. "That's all they're good for."
"By hand?" Saturn was repulsed.
"By bullet," Barber said.
"Too plebian." Saturn peered down his long, long nose. "That's why you fail to be promoted. Thrush is noted for its evil imagination, and if I'm to keep rising, I must do something worthy of Thrush." He came close to Illya, studying him. "I had your cohort right in the palm of my hand this afternoon, young man. Right in the palm of my hand."
"I'll bet you did," Illya said, noticing and liking the use of the past tense. Obviously Napoleon hadn't been taken, and where there was a loose Solo there was always hope.
"Now, what is it you remind me of?" Saturn thought aloud, taking his time, pacing. He scanned the landscape. "We have here the elements of a climatic scene, if we can only piece them together. The backdrop - farmland. The leading character - a smallish man with a straw-colored mop of hair. Yes!" He stopped pacing and pointed a narrow finger at Illya. "You turned out to be a strawman despite your high-sounding U.N.C.L.E. position, didn't you? We'll let you play your role right out to the end."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Barber asked.
Saturn strode for his station wagon. "Bring him along. I want more seclusion than we have here. The back pasture, I think. It's sheltered by woods on three sides and - yes, bring him along."
Saturn was already in the station wagon when Illya reached it, surrounded by the ugly Thrush guns. He was pushed into the back and crowded by two burly men whose deodorant protection had already run out on them in the heat. The wagon bounced forward, took to a lane, and sped to the rear of the estate.
Illya spied the selected site before they entered it. It was a broad field, full in the sun, with forest rising on three sides and big rocks scattered in its dried grass. It had never been cultivated. He wondered what this frustrated Macbeth could have in mind?
The station wagon braked abruptly and Saturn had center stage again. "Bring him out into the field, right to the middle. Someone fetch two of those old fence posts" - he pointed to the place where the fence had fallen – "some strong wire, and some straw out of the truck."
Illya stumbled between the gorillas who poked at him with their guns. He saw a man coming with straw filling his arms. Three guards stood by him while the others gathered the posts and the wire. Illya had a queasy feeling that he could see into the future and knew what was coming.
"Okay," Barber said to Saturn. "You've got everything you ordered. Now what? And you don't have much time."
"Just a bit of work, Barber. Set the largest post up here - in the ground - and make a crosspiece of the other one. Wire it so it will support weight. Move this big rock and you'll have the posthole already started. It will save time."
"What the -?" Barber demanded.
"Use your mind, Barber! I said this U.N.C.L.E. agent was a straw man. Now we're going to let him become one - literally. A scarecrow!"
Barber's big face was smothered in confusion, then it split into a grin. "Scarecrow! Beautiful! I hand it to you, Saturn. It's beautiful. He can't scare Thrush, but maybe crows, huh? Get busy, boys. Make the rig for him."
"Yes, the rig." Saturn smiled, eating up the praise. "And the goodly hot sun will do the rest."
Illya moaned to himself. He had thought of dying many times, and of many ways of dying, but this - as a scarecrow in a dead field under the blaze of July sun? It wasn't worthy.
He had no time to pursue the pessimism because Saturn pulled his jacket off him, ordering the sleeves stuffed with straw. It was done, they dressed him again, and Saturn walked around pulling at bits of straw to make them stick out of his sleeves authentically. He bent and stuffed some into the legs of Illya's trousers.