"Hm. This must be costing someone a pretty penny."
"Value for value, sir. Now if you will allow me—" His guide touched a panel of buttons. "Your videoscreen serves many purposes. You may dial a two-way communication with any other guest, or any facility of the Park."
"How do I get an outside line?"
"You reserve one. You are allowed one hour a month; two minutes a day or fifteen minutes a week. We maintain only one link to the outside world. No radio communication can penetrate the jamming signal that covers the entire park. Most of our guests are here to get away from their work, and most of them would prefer to continue their usual load. There are five channels of music and three of entertainment available on your videoscreen; the music is accompanied by abstract color patterns. Dinner will be served in The Lodge at 7:00 P.M. You will find a guide to all our operations, schedules, and a map in the top drawer of your desk. The Lodge is half a mile away by the path that starts at your back door. You might want to get there early and look around. If there are any questions..."
"Not at the moment," said Waverly. "And I suppose the television in the den would be able to tell me anything I cared to know, eh?"
"More than likely. If there will be nothing else, then..."
"By all means. Thank you."
The driver nodded, and the door closed behind him. A moment later the roar of the little motor caught in the traction of the wheels and faded quickly among the trees. Waverly found himself alone.
It was slightly uncomfortable. His regular life had been crowded with communication—data coming in, people around him—and while his position had denied him close friends, still he was acutely aware of the profound absence of company from his present situation.
As his ear adjusted to the silence, he caught the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette and the rustling of leaves outside. He thought suddenly of the humidor on the desk, and wondered. He had packed a couple of pipes in the hope that his doctors might relent, and there had been something in the humidor... It was still there when he went to look. This time he noticed a white label inside the lid. It was a prescription blank, signed by a scribble he did not recognize, saying, Leon Dodgson. Six oz. private blend smoking mixture. Non- refillable.
He smiled slightly. They would let him taper off as he wished, but there would be no more for the duration. Instead, he replaced the lid and turned to the desk itself. In the top drawer, next to the Gideon Bible, he found the described literature. His cottage was designated 35 on the key, and on the map a path through the woods to the centrally located lodge was clearly indicated. He put the map down and picked up some thing else.
It was a tastefully done brochure, describing the many forms of entertainment and diversion available to the guests of Utopia. None of them sounded especially interesting, he thought as he leafed through. One caught his eye—a war game of some kind, on a large scale. It looked rather complicated and possibly challenging; perhaps he would look into it tomorrow. His first need was to learn the rules of the comfortably primitive prison he found himself confined in. He set his alarm watch for six o'clock to give himself time to unpack and dress for dinner, if that would be proper, and opened his suitcase.
A small black box and several coils of wire came out first, and ten minutes passed quickly as he connected the wires to all the windows and plugged in the black box. Since he was American, the bungalow was furnished with 117-volt 60-cycle a.c. and everything would work; a few adjustments on the box and the place was protected. Anyone approaching a window from outside would trigger the alarm. Essentially it was a portable edition of Mr. Solo's capacitance-actuated built-in, and would keep him safe from unauthorized visitation. The precaution was probably unnecessary, but a lifetime of habit dies hard. He turned back to his luggage and shook out a suit. Dinner in a couple hours. Mentally he began to relax a little, looking forward without enthusiasm to six quiet weeks.
Chapter 3
"Don't Make Waves."
HIS OWN MOTHER would have been unlikely to recognize Illya Kuryakin when he stepped from the same twin-jet two days later. His hair had been cropped to a severe eighth of an inch, lifts in his shoes added two inches to his height, a stubbly beard lengthened his jaw and an intentionally faulty left shoe gave him a very realistic, though slight limp. Illya was quite aware that Waverly was even more perceptive than his mother, but he felt reasonably confident of passing at least cursory examination. He had taken the false name and imaginary identity of one Klaus Rademeyer, with excellent references from some of the finest hotels in Europe.
"Klaus" existed only in the minds of a few cooperative clerks, properly placed, and in the files of Section Four of the U.N.C.L.E. He had an irreproachable record and credible background and identifying characteristics which could be adapted to many different agents—as they had been several times in the past. Now he had accepted employment in Utopia, bringing the subtle skills and special talents of Illya Kuryakin within his fierce-looking shell.
Like Waverly, he had come in alone and was met by the microbus. But he carried his own bag, and the driver shook hands with him. He gave the proper click with his heels as he returned the handshake and accepted the welcome.
The bus bounced away in a different direction, and shortly brought them up to the side of a hill. The driver touched a button on the dash and the hill split open, revealing an artificially illuminated area of unguessable extent. They drove in, and the doors closed behind them.
"You'll be going to Park Security first thing," the driver said as he drove slowly through a warren of tunnels. "They'll check you in and pass you along to Personnel, who'll see to your quarters, uniforms, scheduling and so on. Don't worry, it won't take long. We're all computerized here."
He gestured about them. "All the underground stuff is Security Area—means it's off limits to the guests. They aren't supposed to care how everything works." He pulled the little bus into a numbered slot and they got out. "Your luggage'll be safe here. This is Security."
A door ahead of them confirmed this, and opened into a small reception room. A secretary looked up, and the driver said, "Klaus Rademeyer. Just came in on the supply flight."
She looked in a narrow bin to her left and found a folder. "Right here. Thank you, Jimmy."
He touched his hat to her and told Illya, "She'll take over here. I'll see that your bags get up to your room as soon as it's assigned."
Illya approached the desk as Jimmy left, and the secretary looked him over for comparison with his picture. She gave him a good professional smile, bid him welcome and invited him to sit down. In the next few minutes she gave him a quick run-through on his back ground, took his fingerprints and cross-checked his employment record and political affiliations, all with the utmost grace and charm. It felt like a casual conversation, and if Illya had not been a professional himself he might not have spotted the thorough, intensive grilling that was going on. He played it on the same level and thought he acquitted himself rather well.
Then he was shown through into a comfortably furnished waiting room, where he found the latest issue of Spirou and settled down with it. He had scarcely finished when the next door opened and a pretty little blonde stepped out. "Hi. I'm here to see you through Personnel."