Pulp Fiction | The Goliath Affair (December 1966) Page 7

  Illya didn't care for the idea of digging in and standing fast, either. The dogs could surround him if he remained in one place for too long. He had to devise a way to strike once, effectively.

  This whole thought process actually took place in Illya's mind in seconds, while he limped and lurched onward. The light in the forest was tricky. Patches of deep fir-scented gloom alternated with sudden brilliant glades where the sun managed to find its way downward through the boughs.

  He had just crossed one of these glades and plunged into the shadows on the far side when he found what he hoped might be the solution—

  Bursting through a row of trees on the far side of the glade, Illya nearly pitched into space. He dug in his heels and rocked to a stop, panting.

  Directly in front of him the side of a gully sloped precipitously downward. It was a drop of about eight feet. At the bottom a gurgling stream meandered. What attracted Illya's notice was a large, dark opening in the wall of the gully opposite. It was some kind of animal's burrow, nearly four feet high and three feet wide at its opening.

  Just behind this, an immense old deep-rooted oak thrust upward through the soil of the gully wall. One of the oak's lower branches hung out over the burrow entrance and the little stream.

  The plan was desperate and even a trifle ridiculous because it was such a long, long shot. It sprang full-blown into his mind in an instant. He decided to trust his instinct and go ahead, provided he still had the one bit of armament he needed—

  Desperately Illya shoved his pistol into the waistband of his trousers and dug his hand beneath his belt to the utility pocket where he carried a number of items such as lock-picks, a suicide capsule and a special communicator pack shaped like a half-sized cigarette pack. Gingerly and carefully he pulled out a small football-shaped pill.

  The pill was a low-charge pressure-fused demolition device usually employed for creating a blast in a highly limited area. Such devices were valuable in blowing open a lock because the charge was concentrated. To fling such a pill back at the dog pack would have been useless; there was not enough scatter.

  Buried in earth, though—Illya's eyes glittered hopefully as he charged down this side of the gully, staggered across the stream and crawled up to the entrance of the animal burrow.

  Peering into that musty-smelling opening, Illya noted a pair of feral, red-gleaming animal eyes regarding him from far back in the dark. He heard a faint, rasping snarl.

  A fox! What luck!

  Carefully Illya bit down on the brown pill, holding it between his teeth as he stripped off the scrofulous knee-length coat and floppy hat which had been his costume of the day. He flung these rags into the animal's den. Then he clambered up the gully-side and leaped high. He caught hold of the thick, swaying tree branch which overhung the gully wall.

  His right leg throbbed. He managed to swing it up and stretch himself precariously upon the branch, which swayed like a hammock under his weight.

  Across the gully, the first of the mastiffs bounded from the trees, tongue lolling, savage eyes sweeping the scene before it. The other dogs appeared almost at once. Their smooth coats shone in the dim sunlight. Their teeth gleamed like white needles.

  The dogs stopped yapping. One scratched his way down the gully-side and padded across the creek, sniffing and whining. Far back in the forest there were shouts, the crashing of boots. Time was precious. The THRUSH agents would be here in a matter of moments.

  The mastiffs seemed confused. They were all sniffing up and down the gully bank. The dog that had crossed the creek was growling and advancing with a twitching muzzle toward the dark circle of the burrow.

  "That's it," Illya breathed. "Don't look up."

  The limb upon which Illya was hanging gave a faint, horrendous crack.

  Illya hung on tightly as the limb sagged perhaps a foot. There came another splintery sound. More wood gave way.

  Illya wished he were sixty pounds lighter. There was nothing to be done about that now. He was hanging barely six feet above the head of the curious mastiff, absolutely immobile.

  The dogs would know Illya was somewhere nearby; scent would tell them so. But he had thrown them off by pitching his clothes into the burrow. If this accursed limb only held up long enough—

  With a ferocious yelp, the mastiff just below shot his muzzle into the burrow, growling savagely. Then, as though jerked by a collar-tether, the mastiff totally disappeared inside.

  Illya waited for the next act in the naturalistic drama. It was not long in coming.

  A yip, a sound of earth being violently disturbed, the angry barkings and snarlings of more than one animal all indicated that mastiff and fox had met.

  Hearing this call to arms, the rest of the dogs shot into action. They barked and charged across the creek, and for a moment there was a considerable traffic-jam at the narrow entrance as the mastiffs all tried to squeeze inside to aid their comrade.

  The last of the mastiffs finally squirmed into the burrow, from which issued the most frightful sounds of animal ill-temper Illya Kuryakin had ever heard. He wasted no time. He pinched the brown capsule with his thumbnail to activate the pressure-fused trigger device and dropped the capsule straight down into the dirt a foot above the burrow entrance.

  Suddenly a reddish projectile shot from the burrow and landed with a splash in the creek. The earth at the burrow mouth erupted in a low, smacking explosion. A cloud of white billowed, followed by a shockwave sufficient to shear off the limb where Illya hung.

  Illya flailed in space and landed on all fours in the creek, sopping wet. From a flat rock a foot away a red fox regarded him with alarm. Apparently, figuring that there had been enough surprises for one morning, the fox bounded away into the forest.

  TWO

  Breathing hard, Illya picked himself up. The explosion had sealed the burrow. Wisps of smoke curled into the air; frantic barking seemed to rise from the very ground. It would give Illya the slight advantage he needed, even though Illya could still hear the THRUSH agents clattering along in the woods, getting closer.

  He fought his way up the bank beside the sealed-up burrow and slipped into the forest.

  The THRUSH agents would have quite a time figuring out how nine of their killer dogs had gotten sealed inside a hole in the ground which contained no U.N.C.L.E. agents.

  By the time they dug the mastiffs out, Illya trusted that he would be safely hidden away somewhere. This was his immediate goal as he glided through the trees, making as little noise as possible.

  His right leg still pulsed hellishly. He knew he would have to hole up soon, not only to wait for covering darkness, but to rest.

  After having covered about two miles with no immediate evidence of pursuit, Illya discovered another huge oak which would offer him sufficient shelter. He dragged himself up to the second fork, folded his body awkwardly into a not-quite-comfortable position and settled down to listen.

  Far off he heard barking. This gradually died away. The sun rose higher. Illya dozed.

  He woke as the shadows of afternoon were lengthening. He heard a party of men passing somewhere, the renewed snarling and snapping of dogs.

  He lay still as a stone among the rustling leaves.

  By turning his head just a fraction he was able to catch a glimpse of the searchers—fully-armed THRUSH troopers. THis time the two mastiffs which they had with them were leashed. Such was the reward for dogs who failed.

  Several tense moments passed before the search party disappeared. Evidently Illya's trail had grown cold. The forest fell silent again, save for the occasional twitter of a bird or the chirp of an insect.

  The pain in Illya's right leg had begun to diminish a little. He was incredibly hungry. Satisfying the inner man would have to wait, though. He had to take up his westward course again, and try to locate Napoleon.

  Wasting nearly an entire day eluding the THRUSH pursuers did not exactly put Illya in high spirits. There was no telling what had happened to Napoleon during that ti
me.

  But there was nothing to be done about it. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he hadn't holed up in the tree to avoid discovery.

  At sunset Illya climbed down. He walked cautiously, shivering in the night's coolness.

  About an hour later, Illya nearly stumbled across a light beam running between two photo-cells set facing one another in two large tree trunks. His pulses quickened. He bellied down. Carefully he slid beneath the photo-beam and jumped up on the other side.

  Warning devices built into tree trunks meant that he was nearly to the target.

  Pressing on, Illya thought for the first time since the preceding night about the girl with whom Napoleon had had a date. What was her name? Helen? No, Helene. A German last name. Bauer, that was it. Was she too a prisoner of the unspeakable minions of THRUSH? That would teach her to listen to Napoleon's sweet nothings.

  The cynical thought did nothing to cheer him up. As he crept on through the forest suffused with blood-colored sunset light, he still had the depressing conviction that he might be much too late to save his friend.

  Presently he heard a sound. It happened only seconds before his keen eyes picked out something ahead which resembled a high stone wall.

  Illya advanced to a large tree by the wall. Looking to the left, he saw by the feeble light of evening a large gate guarded by a pair of oversized THRUSH troopers lounging near a booth. This, he realized with a tightening of his nerves, was the place.

  THREE

  The sound which assaulted his ears took on definition. Voices, many of them, sharp and in unison. The voices chanted some kind of cadence count.

  Then Illya recognized the language.

  German.

  "Ein. Zwei. Drei! Vier! Ein! Zwei! Drei! Vier!"

  What made the chant chilling was the savage way the syllables were shouted out. The voices from the other side of the high wall belonged to women.

  Drawing back into the trees, he began to work his way around to the right. He was sure the wall itself would be rigged with anti-personnel devices. He decided that he would make a complete circle of the wall to judge its length. Then, if no other means of entrance presented itself, he would make an attempt on the front gate, risky as it might be.

  In moments Illya reached the corner of the wall. He peered down the side of the square which ran westward, at a right angle to the front expanse. Trees completely ringed the property, affording him cover as he worked along all the way to the wall's rear corner. There he paused once more to reconnoiter.

  The cadence-count had grown much louder. Whatever the women were doing, they were doing it near this rear part of the grounds. A kind of postern gate appeared to be set in the back wall about half way along. A THRUSH soldier walked up and down laconically, a machine pistol slung over his shoulder.

  Illya's nerves tightened another notch. He crept along through the underbrush until he was opposite the postern gate, an ancient metal affair with new hinges and polished locking mechanism.

  Carefully Illya palmed his long-muzzled pistol, giving one screw to the barrel to snap the silencing baffles in place. He set another control on the butt to feed the proper projectiles to the chamber. Then, with his left hand, he picked up a small stone and lobbed it high against the wall, to the left of where the THRUSH minion was examining his knuckles in a preoccupied way.

  The pebble struck. The guard whipped around toward it. Illya lunged from the trees. He dropped to one knee and carefully pulled the trigger.

  With a pop the pistol jerked in Illya's hand. The THRUSH guard opened his mouth to scream, slapped his neck. His eyes turned milky as the serum on the tranquilizing dart raced to his brain. Giving a feeble murmur, the guard folded to the ground, out for twelve hours.

  Quickly Illya dragged the man into the trees. He yanked off the THRUSH uniform and hastily donned the oversized blouse and trousers. Next he stuffed some leaves in the crown of the too-large visored cap so that it wouldn't slip down over his ears.

  He approached the metal postern gate, rapping it smartly with the butt of his pistol and stepping to the right when the bolt rattled. The door opened from inside.

  "Ein! Zwei! Drei! Vier! Ein! Zwei! Drei! Vier—"

  The massed female voices continued to shout out the cadence beyond the wall. IN the crack of the postern door, a misshapen face loomed. The THRUSH soldier looking out was another of those grotesque, slab-shouldered types. Illya jammed the pistol muzzle against the man's neck and triggered once.

  Like a bull the man reared backward, reaching for a red-painted lever affixed to a klaxon. His eyes were already glazed but he was falling in such a way that if his hand missed the lever, his body would fall across it. Illya dived forward frantically and shoved the THRUSH man aside.

  The guard went down with a groan, fingertips missing the klaxon lever by a matter of an inch.

  The THRUSH man thudded onto the wooden floor of a little guard booth which was built against the high wall directly inside the massive postern door.

  Illya slammed and bolted the door and then examined his surroundings more carefully.

  The booth was constructed of steel. There was a window wicket in the door, which led from the booth to a floodlit parade ground outside.

  On this parade ground, three dozen incredibly tall and attractive young women, all in black jumpers, trousers and boots, were lined up doing calisthenics as the white glare of the floodlights poured down upon them in the twilight.

  Beyond the parade ground towered what appeared to be an ancient baronial hall with several sprawling wings. Many of its windows were alight.

  With a final lusty "Vier!" the exercises came to a halt. The ranks of superbly-muscled young women drew up to stiff attention. In front of them another girl with an electric megaphone was cracking out instructions in German. Illya couldn't quite see all of the girl's face, but something about it was hauntingly familiar.

  As soon as the girl in command finished her harangue, the amazons drew themselves up even more stiffly, shot their right arms into the air palm outward and cried:

  "Heil THRUSH!"

  Illya's belly turned over with nausea. He had certainly come to the right place.

  In twos and threes the girls broke ranks and moved toward the great baronial house. None dawdled. They moved out with long, determined strides.

  Now the instructress, likewise clad entirely in black, with a wide black leather belt around her waist, was moving in the direction of the wall. Evidently she intended to stow the electric megaphone in a kind of hut or equipment locker built against the wall to Illya's left. At last Illya recognized the blonde tresses, the pretty whipped-cream face—

  The last time he had seen that face, the girl had been serving refreshments aboard an Air Deutschland jet.

  Illya hefted his pistol and, keeping his head down, opened the inner door of the booth. He closed it smartly and began walking along a path of stones toward the equipment shed, on a course which would intersect the girl's.

  All of the girls had now departed from the floodlit field. The sky above was black. The first stars were glittering. But he and the girl were bathed in the blue-white glare of the spots.

  Quickly Illya transferred his weapon to his left hand, the one nearest the wall, in case any watch-stations up at the big house had them under surveillance. The girl had reached the hut. She opened its door to stow her megaphone inside. She glanced at him once and then glanced away, assuming him to be just another guard on some errand or other. Illya moved close enough to call out softly:

  "Good evening, Fraulein Bauer."

  Her head whipped up. Her blue eyes narrowed and fire shone out. Illya remained standing right where he was, pistol angled up alongside his left thigh so that it pointed at her bosom.

  "Kuryakin!" Helene Bauer's fingers dropped toward a knife sheath at her belt.

  "Leave the knife where it is, please," Illya said, keeping a smile pasted on his face in the unlikely event they were being surveyed through field-glasses.

/>   Helene's fingers tensed just inches from the knife hilt. Indecision and fear shone on her face as she hesitated.

  "If you are thinking about raising an alarm," Illya said, strolling forward at an easy pace, his teeth bared in that fake grin but his voice deadly quiet, "I would advise against it. Perhaps your comrades could reach us and capture or kill me. But before they did, I assure you I would disregard your sex and shoot you."

  The girl hesitated only a moment longer. Her shoulders slumped. "All right."

  "I thought I might find you a prisoner, Fraulein. Apparently, however, you are one of the clutchers. I don't know what pretty plots you're hatching at this school for savage-looking female storm troopers—"

  "Let them get their hands on you, Kuryakin, and you'll discover you don't know the meaning of the word savage!"

  He said, "Mustn't lose your temper just because I'm one up."

  "For the moment. Only for the moment."

  "No," Illya corrected, his face no longer friendly. "For as long as you wish to remain alive, Fraulein Bauer. I will not hesitate because you are a woman. U.N.C.L.E. does train us rather thoroughly in such matters, you know. Now—is Napoleon Solo here?"

  Helene Bauer bit her lip. She glanced away, as though searching for help. The parade ground stretched empty and flood-lit. The girl seemed unable to make up her mind as to whether Illya's threats were serious.

  To reinforce his psychological advantage, he thumbed a stud on the pistol-butt. An ominous ticking began. He said lightly:

  "I have just set my pistol on automatic timed discharge, Fraulein. If you have not answered my question at the end of sixty seconds, the gun will begin firing straight at you. To repeat—is Napoleon Solo here?"

  The ticking continued steadily. A nightbird cried in the forest.

  Ticktickticktick—

  Suddenly the girl wilted, shielding her eyes with her right hand. "Turn it off."

  "Not until you answer me."

  "He's here." She whipped her hand down, her face a changing pattern of fear, doubt, anxiety. "But what time is it? She glanced at a small stainless steel watch on her wrist. "Ten past seven already. He may no longer be alive."