plants were all of one species, but there was every size from one inch to huge tubular plants with six foot leaves and twisting, snake-like branches.
The room was loud with a rustling, stirring of leaves and limbs.
"This is far enough," Solo said, gasping for breath and already sweating profusely. "Let's get out of here."
Illya nodded and heeled around. There was no handle on the inside of these doors. Illya thrust against them. They were securely locked and would not open from this side.
Solo wiped the sweat from his eyes. "Never mind. There's got to be more than one way out of here."
They saw another door far through narrowing aisles to their right. They ran toward it.
As they ran the large leaves brushed them, dripping water as hot as tears on them. The smell was sickeningly sweet, the smell of death. When they brushed one of the tentacle-like limbs, it adhered to their clothing and they had to break free.
The rustling was louder and the limbs stirred faster all through the hot-house, although there was not the slightest breeze.
"Out that door," Solo said, the horror mounting in him.
He pushed through overhanging leaves and limbs that seemed to fight back at him, almost like human arms.
He broke clear and lunged to ward the door. His feet brushed something and he stumbled to his knees.
"Solo!"
Illya's voice cried out behind him, but for the moment Solo stared at the dead man on the floor.
"Connors," he whispered, shaking his head. He'd seen the photograph Bikini carried of her father, but Sam had resembled his daughter in life, and he recognized him instantly.
Connors lay twisted on the floor, limp as a sawdust doll. He looked as if he had been crushed by a boa constrictor. All the bones in his body had been smashed.
"Solo!" Illya Kuryakin yelled again.
Solo jumped up, bringing his gaze from the shattered body on the floor.
Illya had tried to follow him through the growth of jungle plants, but had not made it. A green tentacle, larger than a fire hose had constricted about his throat and head.
Illya fought at it helplessly.
Solo looked around, feeling panic, sweated and almost drowned in the now wailing rustle of the plants all around them.
He caught up a pruning shears near the door and leaped toward the plant where Illya was trapped.
He drove the shears into the soft green texture of the constricting limb. Sap spurted out, sap that was pouring pinkly, almost like very anemic human blood.
ACT III—INCIDENT OF THE KILLER PLANTS
DR. IVEY NESBITT strode along the corridor and entered his office. Neither side of his face betrayed any emotion at seeing that Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo were gone.
He was immediately followed by his white-smocked assistant, a sullen, unsmiling man clearly of Indian ancestry.
At a short distance behind the assistant, two staring-eyed guards came, half-dragging Bikini Connors.
They led her into the office, deposited her in the chair in which Illya had sat. They stood at attention on each side of her then, gazing emptily ahead.
"Please, Dr. Nesbitt," Bikini begged. "Where is my father?"
At his desk, the tall scientist ignored her. He didn't look her way or appear to have heard her voice.
He glanced at the guards testily, as he might have gazed once at recalcitrant students in his class rooms. "What is the meaning of deserting your posts, letting our two prisoners run free?"
"Professor," the assistant said gently, "they don't hear you. Even if they do, they are unmoved by criticism or praise."
The doctor waved his arm. "Of course. One forgets one is dealing here with mindless animals, eh, Joe?"
"It's safest that way, Doctor," was all the Indian assistant said.
Nesbitt nodded, dismissing the subject.
Bikini spoke to him again, but it was as if he could not be reached by anyone from the outside world, from his past.
He turned his back, went to a bank of closed-circuit television screens. All glittered blackly, powered, waiting to be activated.
Nesbitt
The room was loud with a rustling, stirring of leaves and limbs.
"This is far enough," Solo said, gasping for breath and already sweating profusely. "Let's get out of here."
Illya nodded and heeled around. There was no handle on the inside of these doors. Illya thrust against them. They were securely locked and would not open from this side.
Solo wiped the sweat from his eyes. "Never mind. There's got to be more than one way out of here."
They saw another door far through narrowing aisles to their right. They ran toward it.
As they ran the large leaves brushed them, dripping water as hot as tears on them. The smell was sickeningly sweet, the smell of death. When they brushed one of the tentacle-like limbs, it adhered to their clothing and they had to break free.
The rustling was louder and the limbs stirred faster all through the hot-house, although there was not the slightest breeze.
"Out that door," Solo said, the horror mounting in him.
He pushed through overhanging leaves and limbs that seemed to fight back at him, almost like human arms.
He broke clear and lunged to ward the door. His feet brushed something and he stumbled to his knees.
"Solo!"
Illya's voice cried out behind him, but for the moment Solo stared at the dead man on the floor.
"Connors," he whispered, shaking his head. He'd seen the photograph Bikini carried of her father, but Sam had resembled his daughter in life, and he recognized him instantly.
Connors lay twisted on the floor, limp as a sawdust doll. He looked as if he had been crushed by a boa constrictor. All the bones in his body had been smashed.
"Solo!" Illya Kuryakin yelled again.
Solo jumped up, bringing his gaze from the shattered body on the floor.
Illya had tried to follow him through the growth of jungle plants, but had not made it. A green tentacle, larger than a fire hose had constricted about his throat and head.
Illya fought at it helplessly.
Solo looked around, feeling panic, sweated and almost drowned in the now wailing rustle of the plants all around them.
He caught up a pruning shears near the door and leaped toward the plant where Illya was trapped.
He drove the shears into the soft green texture of the constricting limb. Sap spurted out, sap that was pouring pinkly, almost like very anemic human blood.
ACT III—INCIDENT OF THE KILLER PLANTS
DR. IVEY NESBITT strode along the corridor and entered his office. Neither side of his face betrayed any emotion at seeing that Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo were gone.
He was immediately followed by his white-smocked assistant, a sullen, unsmiling man clearly of Indian ancestry.
At a short distance behind the assistant, two staring-eyed guards came, half-dragging Bikini Connors.
They led her into the office, deposited her in the chair in which Illya had sat. They stood at attention on each side of her then, gazing emptily ahead.
"Please, Dr. Nesbitt," Bikini begged. "Where is my father?"
At his desk, the tall scientist ignored her. He didn't look her way or appear to have heard her voice.
He glanced at the guards testily, as he might have gazed once at recalcitrant students in his class rooms. "What is the meaning of deserting your posts, letting our two prisoners run free?"
"Professor," the assistant said gently, "they don't hear you. Even if they do, they are unmoved by criticism or praise."
The doctor waved his arm. "Of course. One forgets one is dealing here with mindless animals, eh, Joe?"
"It's safest that way, Doctor," was all the Indian assistant said.
Nesbitt nodded, dismissing the subject.
Bikini spoke to him again, but it was as if he could not be reached by anyone from the outside world, from his past.
He turned his back, went to a bank of closed-circuit television screens. All glittered blackly, powered, waiting to be activated.
Nesbitt
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