willingly. He is under compulsion by this fiendish device. The next question must be, how do we get him back?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS the whole of the efficient organization that was U.N.C.L.E. seethed into fervent activity to deal with the problem, Waverly was at pains to make one point clear.
"We want Mr. Solo back," he said, facing a team of experts from all sections, "preferably. But failing that, he must be killed. He is much too dangerous to be left in that woman's hands." It was a bitter decision and there was more than one sympathetic glance for Illya Kuryakin, but no one questioned the correctness of it. The United Network Command was too important to be risked for the sake of one member.
For two days, Kuryakin did less than anyone. Try as he might, his brain was too bothered by various factors, and in any case he was in urgent need of rest and recuperation from his wounds. Susan Harvey attended him as often and regularly as her time would allow, but he was difficult, both as a patient and as a person. In neither valence would he render any clues as to his feelings. Never, she felt, had she made less impression on a man. It was as if she was transparent, as if he couldn't see her, no matter how carefully she tried to make herself pleasant and attractive. He had interest in two things, and two things only. One was for news that Solo had been sighted. The other was for some outcome to the ceaseless quest for some efficient way of getting that telltale module safely out of Solo's head, if and when they did manage to catch him.
Answers to both came in quick succession on the evening of the second day. Kuryakin had taken up residence in one of the spare small apartments within the crumbling brownstone facade, so as to be on hand in the event of any news. Susan Harvey had come to visit him, ostensibly to change his bandages but in secret fact to try out on him the effect of her newest and most brief mini-dress. She had long and extremely attractive legs, and she knew it. He would have known it too, had he taken the trouble to look, but he didn't. She sat, now, directly opposite him and crossed her lovely legs with deliberate abandon. Then she sighed and shook her head in despair.
"All right!" she declared. "I'll tell you!"
"Hmm?" Resounded indifferent. "Why?"
"Jerry Cronshaw made me promise not to, because it's still in the uncertain stage, but he thinks he is getting close to a way of jamming the output of those modules with a directional beam."
"Hah?" Kuryakin sat forward at once. "That's more like it. If we can catch him, and jam the signal effectively until we can get him operated on—the operation is straightforward enough, isn't it?"
"Nothing to it," she declared. "I can do it myself."
"That's great!" The change in him was startling. She felt a twinge of sharp envy that he could care so much more about his friend than he did for a woman—meaning herself.
"He really means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
"It's not that, exactly." His grin was instantly wry. "It's just that he's not safe, running around on his own, and with that radio voice inside his head there's no telling what he might get up to."
"Oh well." She took courage from his flippancy. "If you're feeling that much better, how about going out somewhere this evening, to celebrate?"
"Celebrate what?" he asked pointedly. "The redundancy of female attire? You can't surely be serious about going out in that?"
"Why not?" she demanded, tugging ineffectively at an almost nonexistent hem. "What's wrong with it?"
"There isn't enough of it to be wrong. You'd be arrested!"
"All right!" she shrugged. "We'll stay in and celebrate, then..." Her suggestions trailed off as the telephone shrilled for attention. Waverly's voice came.
"Mr. Kuryakin? Is Dr. Harvey with you? Good. I want both of you in my office, a once, please."
"Is it Napoleon?"
"I think so."
"We're on our way!"
Waverly's outer office was full of silent grave-faced attentive men. Number One,
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS the whole of the efficient organization that was U.N.C.L.E. seethed into fervent activity to deal with the problem, Waverly was at pains to make one point clear.
"We want Mr. Solo back," he said, facing a team of experts from all sections, "preferably. But failing that, he must be killed. He is much too dangerous to be left in that woman's hands." It was a bitter decision and there was more than one sympathetic glance for Illya Kuryakin, but no one questioned the correctness of it. The United Network Command was too important to be risked for the sake of one member.
For two days, Kuryakin did less than anyone. Try as he might, his brain was too bothered by various factors, and in any case he was in urgent need of rest and recuperation from his wounds. Susan Harvey attended him as often and regularly as her time would allow, but he was difficult, both as a patient and as a person. In neither valence would he render any clues as to his feelings. Never, she felt, had she made less impression on a man. It was as if she was transparent, as if he couldn't see her, no matter how carefully she tried to make herself pleasant and attractive. He had interest in two things, and two things only. One was for news that Solo had been sighted. The other was for some outcome to the ceaseless quest for some efficient way of getting that telltale module safely out of Solo's head, if and when they did manage to catch him.
Answers to both came in quick succession on the evening of the second day. Kuryakin had taken up residence in one of the spare small apartments within the crumbling brownstone facade, so as to be on hand in the event of any news. Susan Harvey had come to visit him, ostensibly to change his bandages but in secret fact to try out on him the effect of her newest and most brief mini-dress. She had long and extremely attractive legs, and she knew it. He would have known it too, had he taken the trouble to look, but he didn't. She sat, now, directly opposite him and crossed her lovely legs with deliberate abandon. Then she sighed and shook her head in despair.
"All right!" she declared. "I'll tell you!"
"Hmm?" Resounded indifferent. "Why?"
"Jerry Cronshaw made me promise not to, because it's still in the uncertain stage, but he thinks he is getting close to a way of jamming the output of those modules with a directional beam."
"Hah?" Kuryakin sat forward at once. "That's more like it. If we can catch him, and jam the signal effectively until we can get him operated on—the operation is straightforward enough, isn't it?"
"Nothing to it," she declared. "I can do it myself."
"That's great!" The change in him was startling. She felt a twinge of sharp envy that he could care so much more about his friend than he did for a woman—meaning herself.
"He really means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
"It's not that, exactly." His grin was instantly wry. "It's just that he's not safe, running around on his own, and with that radio voice inside his head there's no telling what he might get up to."
"Oh well." She took courage from his flippancy. "If you're feeling that much better, how about going out somewhere this evening, to celebrate?"
"Celebrate what?" he asked pointedly. "The redundancy of female attire? You can't surely be serious about going out in that?"
"Why not?" she demanded, tugging ineffectively at an almost nonexistent hem. "What's wrong with it?"
"There isn't enough of it to be wrong. You'd be arrested!"
"All right!" she shrugged. "We'll stay in and celebrate, then..." Her suggestions trailed off as the telephone shrilled for attention. Waverly's voice came.
"Mr. Kuryakin? Is Dr. Harvey with you? Good. I want both of you in my office, a once, please."
"Is it Napoleon?"
"I think so."
"We're on our way!"
Waverly's outer office was full of silent grave-faced attentive men. Number One,
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