[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 7

He looked up as a violent crack sounded from the shattered tree. The poorly balanced beam slipped an inch.

Sweat dripped from Kuryakin’s face. He slipped his head through Napoleon’s arms, letting the bound wrists fall against the back of his neck. Then he tried to crawl and drag Solo out of the line of the beam’s fall.

He lacked the strength to drag the unconscious man from U.N.C.L.E. He collapsed on top of Solo. He twisted his head, shooting another fearful look upward. The beam was slipping. It was teetering too far now to hold. This was the end. It was coming down straight on them

In a last desperate attempt to save themselves, he pressed his body tightly against the unconscious man. He threw his arms about Solo’s body and tightened his knees about his friend’s hips.

Then he twisted frantically, trying to roll both of them over.

Above him, the last bit of stump holding the beam gave way!

Kuryakin got over on his back; then shoving with all his dwindling strength, he made another roll.

With a final chilling crack! that momentarily blotted out the roar of the flames, the last restraining branch gave way. The huge pillar, as large around as a man’s body, crashed down.

It smashed into the ground exactly where they had been. Illya, shaking and gasping for breath from his superhuman effort to get himself and Solo out of the way, collapsed. They were so close to the fallen column that they touched it. The edge of his open jacket was under the beam. They had missed death by a space equal to the thickness of a piece of paper!

He lay for a moment, trying to get his strength before making another move. The heat of the fire was terrific. It was scorching. He shakily pulled Solo’s coat up to protect his friend’s face.

Then not knowing if the other man were alive or dead, he gingerly reached over and touched Solo’s neck, seeking the vein to feel for a pulse.

In the distance he could see the flash of car lights in the driveway. Above the roar of the fire he heard the scream of fire sirens.

He pushed himself up shakily, tugging to get his coat from under the concrete mass. Fire was burning all around them. The tree branches and thick leaves had prevented them from being covered when the wall caved in.

But this now seemed only a momentary respite. They were almost encircled by flaming debris. The firemen, intent on getting water on the blaze to contain the fire, had not seen them.

He tried to yell, but his voice was swallowed in the cracking roar of collapsing walls in the blazing house.

He felt for the U.N.C.L.E. Special, hoping a shot would attract attention. But in the fall and scramble it had been lost.

Illya looked around frantically. He could still save himself. He was battered and weakened, but had strength to get out himself.

Provided he would abandon his companion. That, he knew, would mean Napoleon’s death. The fire around them, while hot and scorching, would not reach them. If he abandoned his companion to run for help, there was no danger of the unconscious man burning.

But - fire itself was not the danger. As the streams from the fire hose hit the fire, great masses of smoke were erupting up from the blaze.

Already Kuryakin was coughing badly. Within a couple of minutes it would be suffocating. He knew that if he left Solo long enough to get help, he would return to a dead man!

THREE

FOR A breathless moment Kuryakin stood there beside the prone figure of his companion in so many past adventures. Suddenly an idea penetrated his fogged mind. He grabbed the pen-communicator from his pocket. Jerking the antenna up, he called hoarsely: “Mr, Waverly! Can you -”

He broke off in a fit of strangling coughing as a cloud of smoke engulfed him. He dropped to the ground where the air was more clear.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly’s anxious voice came over the super-miniaturized transmitter. “What is the matter? Answer, please!”

“We are -”

Kuryakin went into another fit of coughing before he could control himself sufficiently to choke out the words: “Solo is unconscious and I’m too weak to carry him out. We’re surrounded by fire at Mallon’s estate.”

He paused, coughing again.

“Mr. Kuryakin! Quickly! What can we do for you?” Waverly called his voice thick with anxiety. “I can radio Los Angeles to get the fire department out.”

“The fire department is here!” Illya said thickly. “But they can’t see us. Can you alert them that we are here? I can get out, but I can’t get Napoleon out.”

“Hold the connection!” Waverly said crisply.

Illya heard him speaking rapidly into another connection: “Get me a direct beam to Los Angeles! Quickly! Every second counts!”

Two ticks of a clock later, Illya heard him say: “Los Angeles operator? This is an emergency. The fire department, please!”

The connection was completed in record time. Illya heard Waverly sketch their plight in a few crisp words. The fire department dispatcher said hurriedly, “We will radio the battalion chief at the blaze.”

Illya heard a click and then the voice of the dispatcher relayed from Los Angeles to New York and back to him in Los Angeles via the U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator.

“New York reports that there are two men trapped under the splintered oak on the west side of the building,” the dispatcher said into his radio.

“New York?” The amazed voice of the assistant fire chief in charge of the engines called back over his walkie-talkie, “What does New York know about what is going on out here? Somebody is pulling your leg.”

“No, sir. The call is authentic. It is no hoax.”

“How do you know?” the assistant chief asked in a rasping voice. “I got work to do. I can’t -”

“The call came in on a preemption code that cut off every telephone interference across the country,” the dispatcher said. “It takes somebody mighty important to do that. The emergency code he used is just under a presidential preemption.”

Illya heard the chief whistle. “That is somebody important. Hey, Gerrity! Smith! Snap on a smoke mask and see if there are any persons under that splintered oak. Get a move on. It’s important.”

Then Illya Kuryakin heard him say plaintively, “But I’d like to know how anybody in New York knew what’s going on here?”

“ESP, maybe?” the dispatcher suggested.

Then two men came charging through the smoke and fire. Within seconds smoke masks were slipped over Illya’s and Solo’s faces. They were quickly carried to safety.

The department first aid man brought Napoleon Solo back to consciousness. Napoleon sat up, gingerly touching the bloody knot on the side of his head.

“What happened?” he asked thickly.

Then before Illya could reply, he added, “When did you get to be twins?”

Kuryakin knelt down beside him. He extracted a paper thin pill from an inner compartment of his wallet. He stripped off the cellophane covering and handed it to Solo.

Napoleon downed it and lay back with his eyes closed for a full minute. Then he sat up. “Those energy pills really work,” he said in a clear voice. “I feel like getting up and running the hundred yard dash.”

“Take it easy,” Illya said, downing one of the pills himself to ease the ache in his legs. “You know I they don’t put anything into you. They just make you forget there isn’t any juice left in the battery.”

“I know,” Napoleon said. “What happened?”

Illya shrugged. “After you laid down on me, there wasn’t anybody to tell me what to do. So I sat down beside you and waited until you decided to get back in the act.”

Solo got shakily to his feet anal gave Illya a hard look from under raised eyebrows.

“That sounds like you,” he said sarcastically. “What about the girl? Did you get a look at her face?”

Illya shook his head.

“But don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’d recognize that bikini anywhere. What do we do now? Mallon’s body is lost - if it was Mallon.”