away from Napoleon Solo, he smiled.
"So now you and your friend have found me, Mr. Solo. Are you pleased?"
Solo spoke ruefully. "This isn't exactly the way we planned it."
"I suppose not. Still, you must have known, you and your interfering spy organization—"
"We were only trying to help, sir—"
"Help? Did it occur to any of you that I might not want help? You must have learned from what happened to your agents in Central America when they came prying that we could have easily have killed you and Mr. Kuryakin."
"We couldn't let that stop us, Doctor. We still believed you might want to communicate through us with your friends in the outside world."
Nesbitt's voice slashed at him. "I have no friends in the outside world. I have only my work."
"But that's it, sir. That's what puzzled us. You turned your back on a most rewarding and selfless career—disappeared. The world was puzzled. We couldn't turn our backs on you."
"I assure you there is no puzzlement. I'm here doing what I want to do. I have my experiments. I am successful beyond my most fantastic expectations."
"Jungle plants growing in Montana," Illya said.
Nesbitt heeled around, the scarred half of his face livid. "That is only the smallest part of it. Mr. Kuryakin. Plants that are like living things, plants growing to huge trees overnight. Incredible, wonderful plants."
Solo kept his voice low. "Your friends are deeply concerned, Doctor."
"I said it once, Solo. I have no friends. None. Except here. My plants. My living, breathing plants."
Solo continued trying to appeal to Nesbitt's reason. "You do have friends. Evidently more than you know, or care to admit. You have one friend who may have given his life searching for you."
Nesbitt straightened slightly. "Oh?"
"Sam Connors," Solo persisted. "Does the name mean anything to you?"
Nesbitt hesitated the space of a breath. He shrugged. "Connors? Once an under-professor of mine."
"At Northwestern. He thought he was a close friend."
"Well, he was wrong."
"He's disappeared. He may be dead. He was looking for you, deeply worried."
Nesbitt shrugged again. "Sorry to hear that."
"But you're not really concerned about his fate?"
Nesbitt straightened his wide, thin shoulders. "No. Not particularly. I am in no wise responsible for a misguided man like Professor Connors—"
"But he was looking for you!"
"I am very busy here. The people who are financing my experiments expect quick results. Nothing else concerns me."
"Not even the life or death of Sam Connors?"
"Nothing! I have no knowledge of Sam's death. I have no wish to kill—not even two meddlers like you—but I wish to be let alone. And I will be let alone—at whatever cost!"
Solo brought the "summons to death" which had been delivered to Sam Connors, from his pocket. The two guards were alert.
Solo handed the paper to the doctor. Nesbitt took it, scanned it calmly.
"Does it mean anything to you?" Solo persisted.
"Nothing. It looks like some one's tasteless idea of a joke."
"Whoever sent it had a deadly sense of humor."
At this instant whistles wailed throughout the laboratory. The guards leaped to attention.
A white-smocked man ran into the office from the corridor. "Dr. Nesbitt, there's a woman in the walled yard."
Swearing, Nesbitt ran from the room, following the white-smocked assistant.
A moment later an intercom blared, "All guards to the yard. At once."
The guards standing beside Solo and Kuryakin snapped to attention and ran like robots from the room.
"Mindless," Illya whispered. "They're mindless slaves."
Napoleon Solo jerked his head toward the doors opening off the office. "We've got less than two minutes. We've got to find out anything we can."
Illya nodded, agreeing. They ran toward the long hothouse beyond Nesbitt's rows of equipment.
Illya jerked open the door and they entered the room. They hesitated, staggered by the unnatural heat and humidity. It was almost impossible to breathe.
Quick scanning showed them the
"So now you and your friend have found me, Mr. Solo. Are you pleased?"
Solo spoke ruefully. "This isn't exactly the way we planned it."
"I suppose not. Still, you must have known, you and your interfering spy organization—"
"We were only trying to help, sir—"
"Help? Did it occur to any of you that I might not want help? You must have learned from what happened to your agents in Central America when they came prying that we could have easily have killed you and Mr. Kuryakin."
"We couldn't let that stop us, Doctor. We still believed you might want to communicate through us with your friends in the outside world."
Nesbitt's voice slashed at him. "I have no friends in the outside world. I have only my work."
"But that's it, sir. That's what puzzled us. You turned your back on a most rewarding and selfless career—disappeared. The world was puzzled. We couldn't turn our backs on you."
"I assure you there is no puzzlement. I'm here doing what I want to do. I have my experiments. I am successful beyond my most fantastic expectations."
"Jungle plants growing in Montana," Illya said.
Nesbitt heeled around, the scarred half of his face livid. "That is only the smallest part of it. Mr. Kuryakin. Plants that are like living things, plants growing to huge trees overnight. Incredible, wonderful plants."
Solo kept his voice low. "Your friends are deeply concerned, Doctor."
"I said it once, Solo. I have no friends. None. Except here. My plants. My living, breathing plants."
Solo continued trying to appeal to Nesbitt's reason. "You do have friends. Evidently more than you know, or care to admit. You have one friend who may have given his life searching for you."
Nesbitt straightened slightly. "Oh?"
"Sam Connors," Solo persisted. "Does the name mean anything to you?"
Nesbitt hesitated the space of a breath. He shrugged. "Connors? Once an under-professor of mine."
"At Northwestern. He thought he was a close friend."
"Well, he was wrong."
"He's disappeared. He may be dead. He was looking for you, deeply worried."
Nesbitt shrugged again. "Sorry to hear that."
"But you're not really concerned about his fate?"
Nesbitt straightened his wide, thin shoulders. "No. Not particularly. I am in no wise responsible for a misguided man like Professor Connors—"
"But he was looking for you!"
"I am very busy here. The people who are financing my experiments expect quick results. Nothing else concerns me."
"Not even the life or death of Sam Connors?"
"Nothing! I have no knowledge of Sam's death. I have no wish to kill—not even two meddlers like you—but I wish to be let alone. And I will be let alone—at whatever cost!"
Solo brought the "summons to death" which had been delivered to Sam Connors, from his pocket. The two guards were alert.
Solo handed the paper to the doctor. Nesbitt took it, scanned it calmly.
"Does it mean anything to you?" Solo persisted.
"Nothing. It looks like some one's tasteless idea of a joke."
"Whoever sent it had a deadly sense of humor."
At this instant whistles wailed throughout the laboratory. The guards leaped to attention.
A white-smocked man ran into the office from the corridor. "Dr. Nesbitt, there's a woman in the walled yard."
Swearing, Nesbitt ran from the room, following the white-smocked assistant.
A moment later an intercom blared, "All guards to the yard. At once."
The guards standing beside Solo and Kuryakin snapped to attention and ran like robots from the room.
"Mindless," Illya whispered. "They're mindless slaves."
Napoleon Solo jerked his head toward the doors opening off the office. "We've got less than two minutes. We've got to find out anything we can."
Illya nodded, agreeing. They ran toward the long hothouse beyond Nesbitt's rows of equipment.
Illya jerked open the door and they entered the room. They hesitated, staggered by the unnatural heat and humidity. It was almost impossible to breathe.
Quick scanning showed them the
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