foolhardy, to go to daring extremes. Don't!" They were in the Laboratory Room. Solo was being fitted out with his equipment, and they were waiting for what one of the lab technicians had called "your galvanized thick shake."
"Caution." Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."
"There are lives at stake, Mr. Solo—an innocent boy, your friend Kuryakin—so please, no heroics. Your job is to deliver Stanley and effect the return of our two. It sounds simple; it may not be as simple as it sounds. If it works out simply, well and good—don't push it. If not"—he shrugged—"we're arranging precautions. But essentially your job is to effect the exchange."
"Right," Solo said. "Anything else?"
The Old Man rubbed a finger along his jowls and his smile was small. "Well, if without risk––without any risk, mind you—if by chance—you'll be in the field, you know—if by chance and without risk you can find out anything about Leslie Tudor, we would, of course, appreciate that."
"Ready," a white-jacketed technician called. "Here you are, Mr. Solo." He brought a tall glass filled with a thick cream-colored mixture.
Solo made a face. "What's it taste like?"
"Good, as a matter of fact. We flavored it with vanilla syrup."
"Well, here goes." Solo gulped it down, grimacing.
"That bad?" the technician said, but his expression had gone sour in sympathy with Solo.
"Let's put it this way," Solo said. "If I sponsored it to replace malted milks, I'd go broke."
The technician laughed. "Well, it's down and that's what counts. You're ionized. From here on out you're a living beacon, electronically charged. For the next twenty-four hours you'll have these ions in your bloodstream. Harmless, but most effective. Listen." The technician went to a wall and touched the switch of an instrument. A sharp, penetrating screech filled the room.
Waverly put his hands to his ears. "Enough." The technician switched off the sound. "They'll be able to hear that, in the cars, within a hundred mile radius."
"What cars?" Solo asked.
"We'll go to my office now," Waverly said.
In the office, he sat behind his desk and lit his pipe. "The car's waiting upstairs. Nothing special, an ordinary Chevy. They'll bring Stanley out to you, and off you'll go. You'll follow Burrows' directions to the letter."
"How much does Stanley know?"
"That they have hostages, and he's being exchanged for them."
"Does he know who?"
"No."
"May I tell him?"
"For what purpose?"
"To prevent him from trying to make a break. If he knows who, he'll know how stupid he'd be to try to break."
"He's not quite the type, but yes, you may tell him; no reason why not."
"And if he does try to break?"
"Then you'll have to use your pistol, but low, not for a kill. You'll get him back to the car and proceed according to instructions. A wounded Stanley would be infinitely better than a dead one. Our object is rescue, not retribution. By the way, do you have your sunglasses? It's blistering out there."
"I have them."
Waverly opened a drawer of his desk, took out a pair of sunglasses, and handed them up to Solo. "For Stanley. To keep him comfortable. What's good for you is good for him. As long as we're doing what we're doing, we may as well do it properly right down the line. Now about those cars."
"Yes?" Solo said.
"There'll be five cars, ten agents, two in each car. They'll be all around you, at various distances, out of sight, of course. But they'll be able to judge just where you are by instruments, marking you by the electronic sound that emanates from you."
"Be careful," Solo said. "No interference. We really don't know how many of them there are; perhaps Stanley himself doesn't know. You said yourself there are lives at stake. That poor kid, and Illya..."
"A most careful man is in charge. McNabb."
"Excellent."
Waverly looked at his watch, then stood up. "You have all your equipment?"
"Everything."
"Good luck, Mr. Solo."
9. "A Crazy World"
SOLO DROVE. Stanley sat
"Caution." Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."
"There are lives at stake, Mr. Solo—an innocent boy, your friend Kuryakin—so please, no heroics. Your job is to deliver Stanley and effect the return of our two. It sounds simple; it may not be as simple as it sounds. If it works out simply, well and good—don't push it. If not"—he shrugged—"we're arranging precautions. But essentially your job is to effect the exchange."
"Right," Solo said. "Anything else?"
The Old Man rubbed a finger along his jowls and his smile was small. "Well, if without risk––without any risk, mind you—if by chance—you'll be in the field, you know—if by chance and without risk you can find out anything about Leslie Tudor, we would, of course, appreciate that."
"Ready," a white-jacketed technician called. "Here you are, Mr. Solo." He brought a tall glass filled with a thick cream-colored mixture.
Solo made a face. "What's it taste like?"
"Good, as a matter of fact. We flavored it with vanilla syrup."
"Well, here goes." Solo gulped it down, grimacing.
"That bad?" the technician said, but his expression had gone sour in sympathy with Solo.
"Let's put it this way," Solo said. "If I sponsored it to replace malted milks, I'd go broke."
The technician laughed. "Well, it's down and that's what counts. You're ionized. From here on out you're a living beacon, electronically charged. For the next twenty-four hours you'll have these ions in your bloodstream. Harmless, but most effective. Listen." The technician went to a wall and touched the switch of an instrument. A sharp, penetrating screech filled the room.
Waverly put his hands to his ears. "Enough." The technician switched off the sound. "They'll be able to hear that, in the cars, within a hundred mile radius."
"What cars?" Solo asked.
"We'll go to my office now," Waverly said.
In the office, he sat behind his desk and lit his pipe. "The car's waiting upstairs. Nothing special, an ordinary Chevy. They'll bring Stanley out to you, and off you'll go. You'll follow Burrows' directions to the letter."
"How much does Stanley know?"
"That they have hostages, and he's being exchanged for them."
"Does he know who?"
"No."
"May I tell him?"
"For what purpose?"
"To prevent him from trying to make a break. If he knows who, he'll know how stupid he'd be to try to break."
"He's not quite the type, but yes, you may tell him; no reason why not."
"And if he does try to break?"
"Then you'll have to use your pistol, but low, not for a kill. You'll get him back to the car and proceed according to instructions. A wounded Stanley would be infinitely better than a dead one. Our object is rescue, not retribution. By the way, do you have your sunglasses? It's blistering out there."
"I have them."
Waverly opened a drawer of his desk, took out a pair of sunglasses, and handed them up to Solo. "For Stanley. To keep him comfortable. What's good for you is good for him. As long as we're doing what we're doing, we may as well do it properly right down the line. Now about those cars."
"Yes?" Solo said.
"There'll be five cars, ten agents, two in each car. They'll be all around you, at various distances, out of sight, of course. But they'll be able to judge just where you are by instruments, marking you by the electronic sound that emanates from you."
"Be careful," Solo said. "No interference. We really don't know how many of them there are; perhaps Stanley himself doesn't know. You said yourself there are lives at stake. That poor kid, and Illya..."
"A most careful man is in charge. McNabb."
"Excellent."
Waverly looked at his watch, then stood up. "You have all your equipment?"
"Everything."
"Good luck, Mr. Solo."
9. "A Crazy World"
SOLO DROVE. Stanley sat
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