15 - The Utopia Affair Read online

  THE UTOPIA AFFAIR

  COLD WHITE LIGHT gleamed off polished metal and porcelain. Distorted reflections of fluorescent overheads were tiny rectangular highlights in the shadow less illumination which filled the room. Trays of delicate instruments lay in precise ranks behind glass. The tense silence was underscored by a faint electronic humming, the regular hiss of a controlled flow of gas, and the soft breathing of the white-robed figures who stood intently watching a glowing display.

  A steel box squatted on a wheeled stand next to a sheet-draped table, black-sheathed cables connecting them. A green trace danced unsteadily on the face of a cathode-ray screen, surrounded by smaller dials where readings changed from moment to moment. A heavy cable ran from the steel box to a large Cannon socket in the nearest wall.

  One of the watchers spoke. "Take number three down a couple points." Another turned slightly to adjust a knob on a compact control console built into the side of the table. Gradually the oscilloscope trace changed, the spikes growing taller and closer together. "Good. Let's hear the cardio." A moment later the amplified sound of a heartbeat, like a muffled drum beating a primitive dirge, trembled the still air of the room.

  The figure lying beneath the sheet on the table stirred slightly, and the neat green trace shattered. Heads swiveled towards the figure, and one man moved to check the mask which covered its nose and mouth. "Just lie quite still another minute, and we'll be through."

  Keen eyes glared up at the speaker over the rim of the black rubber mask—eyes which lay deep in wrinkled fleshy pouches like the jet bead eyes of a tortoise. Alexander Waverly was becoming annoyed.

  Forty hours earlier, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had been chatting over a leisurely lunch in the commissary at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. As usual, Illya was doing most of the listening, while his partner spoke expansively of the home improvements he'd had installed in his Manhattan apartment while the two of them were out of town on a recent assignment.

  "All the windows have capacitance-actuated alarms on them," he said, "and the entry hall is full of ultrasonics. The only trouble I've had so far is the window by the fire escape—a large cat set off the alarm there a few nights ago. I had to adjust the sensitivity."

  Illya's glance shifted over Solo's right shoulder and his eyebrows arched slightly. "Not to change the subject," he said, "but we seem to have company."

  Napoleon idly lifted a knife from his tray and used the polished blade as a reflector to look behind him. "Well! Socializing with the hired help." He swung around and raised an arm in casual greeting and invitation. Alexander Waverly, Continental Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, nodded to him and bore a lightly laden tray to their table. As he approached, Solo hooked a foot around the leg of a chair, pulling it out for his chief.

  "Thank you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said as he accepted the seat and placed his tray on the Formica table top, "and good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin."

  "Good afternoon, sir," returned the Russian agent gravely. "Who's minding the store?"

  "It can take care of itself for a few minutes," Waverly said. "Things have been quiet."

  "That's seldom a good sign," Napoleon commented. "They're probably up to something."

  "They always are. But we cannot act until they make the first move." Waverly poured a dollop of cream into his tea. "One of our most frustrating limitations." He raised the cup to his lips and took an experimental sip. The cup rattled briefly against the saucer as he replaced it. Napoleon flicked a glance at Illya and saw he had noticed it too.

  "Ah—I was just telling Illya about some new gadgets I had installed in my apartment last month. Besides the security devices, I've got a new shower. Fully adjustable spray from a fog through a tropical rainstorm to a water fall. And there's a pull-knob at the side which can be activated either manually or by a pre-set timer—when it goes off, all the hot water is cut and you get a five second blast of ice water. It's great for waking up."

  Illya shuddered visibly. "I should think the shock would be enough to send you back to bed."

  "Far from it; I leap from the shower feeling thoroughly refreshed and ready to face the day."

  "Secure in the knowledge that whatever happens couldn't be worse than what you've already gone through."

  Waverly had taken another sip of his tea, and as he set the cup down again he choked. The cup half-missed the saucer and its contents cascaded across the tray, dislodging his toasted muffin in passing, and surged over the edge of the table to where Napoleon's lap had been an instant before. Illya had two paper napkins at the edge a moment later, saving the floor from further embarrassment.

  Waverly, meanwhile, was pushed back from the table, both hands gripping the edge, as a fit of coughing doubled him over. He fought for breath as spasms shook his body. At last he began to regain control, and raised his head. His face was a mottled gray and tears poured from his eyes as he gasped in air. His hand groped out blindly; Napoleon found a dry napkin and gave it to him. His breathing gradually eased as he mopped his face for several seconds, then blew his nose resoundingly. His voice was an unsteady gravelly whisper when he spoke. "I'm afraid the tea is a little strong today."

  Napoleon and Illya looked at each other as an attendant hurried up to repair the damages and remove the wreckage. Solo spoke casually, as though continuing the earlier conversation. "Actually, the cold shower is supposed to be quite healthful. Closes the pores, stimulates circulation, improves muscle tone and so on."

  Illya picked up the cue. "I find my health stays quite satisfactory without resorting to such violence upon my system. The results of my annual checkup came a few days ago and apart from a somewhat below average blood pressure, I'm in fine condition. Oh, by the way, Mr. Waverly, the good doctor in Section Six mentioned that you were slightly overdue for your annual checkup. I believe eighteen months overdue was the figure he quoted."

  Waverly scowled at his Russian agent. "When I was a lad, doctors kept their patients' affairs confidential. Things have been quite hectic of late."

  "Then we shouldn't be sitting here talking," said Napoleon, starting briskly to his feet. "Back to work to save the world!"

  Waverly snorted. "Sit down, Mr. Solo. The urgency is not that pressing. I should have gone for my overhaul some time ago—and now that you two know of my laxity I suppose you will give me no rest until I have done so. So be it. I shall request Section Six for an appointment this afternoon. Now will you let me finish my lunch in peace?"

  "Why, certainly, sir," said Napoleon innocently.

  "And no more pointed remarks about health, either. Talk about your boat, or something else."

  "Well, the Pursang has been in dry dock for six months, sir, but I'm planning on having her refitted for spring..."

  The memo from Section Six hit Waverly's desk a little less than two hours after his examination was completed. Ninety seconds later, he had the head of Section Six on the intercom.

  "I'm sorry, sir," the worthy physician was saying, "but it is quite necessary. You haven't been taking proper care of yourself, and your old lung injury is hardly being helped by the New York atmosphere. In addition, your upper digestive tract—"

  "You may spare me the post-mortem, doctor," said Waverly. "You are the authority on my condition. What I question is your choice of treatment."

  "No choice in the matter, sir. It's not as if you presented only a single symptom or even a single problem—the entire complex syndrome has only one practical treatment. Pills, injections, any forms of chemotherapy––all specifics would only serve as temporary stopgaps with your condition, which is, frankly, deteriorating. It's not as if there were a crisis situation in Section One, after all, and you yourself have said many times that no man is absolutely indispensable. Besid
es which, sir, if I may say so, we would like you to be able to continue working as our chief for many more years."

  Waverly did not speak for several seconds. Many times in his career he had made equally difficult decisions in moments, but this time, though the decision had effectively been taken from his hands, he had to stop and question himself deeply. At length he spoke.

  "Very well. I must accept your treatment." He snapped over a key on the intercom and spoke again. "Miss Williamson—send in Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin."

  He shut off the set as she acknowledged, and leaned back in his chair, feeling suddenly old and very tired, and vaguely doomed. Alexander Waverly was going to have to take a vacation.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Section I : "There Is A Happy Land...

  Chapter 1 : "For The Duration Of My Absence."

  Chapter 2 : "Let's Wait And See How You Work Out."

  Chapter 3 : "Don't Make Waves."

  Chapter 4 : "Happy Halloween, Napoleon."

  Section II: "A Principality In Utopia."

  Chapter 5 : "We Could Use A Man Like That."

  Chapter 6 : "Q: ASSASSINATION."

  Chapter 7 : "Always The Easiest."

  Chapter 8 : "Are You Sure This Thing Is Safe?"

  Section III : "Death In Utopia."

  Chapter 9 : "After All, Ills War."

  Chapter 10 : "Our Old Fox Is Wily."

  Chapter 11 : "This Looks Like One Of Those Days."

  Chapter 12 : "You Really Blew It, Didn't You?"

  Section IV : "The Pride Of Utopia."

  Chapter 13 : "You Knew The Job Was Dangerous When You Took It."

  Chapter 14 : "Stop Them."

  Chapter 15 : "Pommery '74."

  Chapter 16 : "I Trust You Learned From The Experience."

  Section I : "There Is A Happy Land...

  Chapter 1

  "For The Duration Of My Absence."

  THE DOOR SLID smoothly open before Napoleon and Illya, and they stepped into Waverly's office, the central command post of the vast international network that was U.N.C.L.E. Their chief didn't look up as they approached the round conference table in the middle of the room; he appeared to be deeply involved in some reports he was studying. But on the table, facing the door, lay a pink copy of a memorandum.

  Both agents bent to look at it. A moment later Waverly spoke. "Section Six has advised that my health demands a vacation. I have been unable to convince them otherwise."

  Illya looked up. "The wording on this memo is hardly so circumspect. They've picked your health resort, made your reservation, and only left you room to sign."

  Napoleon's eye caught on one item and he read it aloud. "Reservations have been made for you in the name of Leon Dodgson at Utopia, South Australia, for six weeks beginning 29 October. They didn't give you much time to look forward to it, did they? And incidentally, where is 'Utopia, South Australia?'"

  "Somewhere in the south of Australia I should imagine," said Illya.

  "About the northernmost point in the coastline of the Bight," said Waverly, sliding a map before them and indicating the area with a knobbly forefinger. "It seems to be some sort of open-air hospital where valuable people are sent for vacations they don't want. The cost is apparently immense; I will not be allowed to find out precisely how immense until the item appears on the next budget summary, but the impression is that these six weeks will entail an expenditure roughly sufficient to operate one of our smaller offices for six months. The cost is commensurate with the social level of the clientele—Section Six tells me the present patients include the Assistant Chairman of the Board of General Motors, the Director of Krupp, a Prince Regent and three Prime Ministers of solvent European states. I am flattered, but not impressed. As for what goes on inside, I couldn't say, but it seems effective in restoring the efficiency of the inmates."

  Napoleon and Illya took seats at the round table as he continued, "I will of course be unable to continue directing operations while on my... vacation. This will require a few temporary revisions in the situation here. Mr. Kuryakin, effective on my departure you will be acting Chief Enforcement Agent, replacing Mr. Solo."

  The two agents exchanged raised eyebrows, and Napoleon developed a slightly apprehensive look. Before he could quite voice it, Waverly went on. "You, Mr. Solo, are listed as Section One, Number Two. My second in command. For the duration of my absence you will take command in my place. Your training has long been directed to prepare you to inherit my position— now you will have a chance to apply all the experience you've had in field operations." He paused, reaching for his pipe, then remembered the imperative statements of the memo from Section Six and did not complete the action, shifting instead to rub his jaw. "You will not be left alone to sink or swim—my personal secretary, Miss Williamson, will be able to coach you through the routines and advise you in emergencies.

  "You will report tomorrow at 10 A.M. for a day of observation of regular operations and assume command twenty-four hours later, on Sunday the 29th. You will have complete responsibility until my return."

  Napoleon was speechless. Finally he looked at Illya, who looked back and said, "Congratulations."

  "Thank you," said Solo automatically and turned back to Waverly. "But why don't you have one of the other Continental Chiefs take over your job, as you did last time?"

  "The last time was for three days. None of the Continental offices could spare their own commander for as long as six weeks. Besides, you ought to have the practical experience."

  "Then I'll be moving into your office?"

  "Of course. This is where communications is centered. You couldn't hope to coordinate operations from your own office."

  Napoleon looked around the room consideringly. "I presume tomorrow will include checking me out on all the controls?"

  "All that and more," said Waverly. "Much more."

  Saturday was a busy day for Napoleon. He came in half an hour early and was not at all surprised to find Waverly already deep in his work. For the rest of the day he stood behind his commander, observing the never-ending flow of information through the complex control console and studying the practiced ease with which Waverly juggled the factors of more than a score of active assignments, suggesting new approaches or continuing action, keeping all the salient facts of each in his head, responding to call after call, checking on various operations apparently at random but maintaining constant control over all the activities of the various levels of the U.N.C.L.E. A ten-minute conference with Mr. Simpson of Section Eight covered field problems with the modified communicator design, the current state of development on a practical personal invisibility shield, developed from the researches of a captured Thrush project; and a report on preliminary investigation into a limited-range mental activity detector. Shorter conferences with other Section Heads covered swiftly and with equal detail their respective operations, problems and goals. Waverly had a single file drawer, arranged in some system of his own, with slim manila folders, each with the skeleton globe insignia of U.N. C.L.E. large on the front. Into this he would dip from time to time for a concise summary of something to refresh his memory. He paused once to tell Solo, "This is my reference file. Notes on all current operations are here in order."

  "Alphabetical or by reference number?"

  "Hem! Neither. The system was most efficient for me, but will probably be rather difficult to learn. They are placed in order of priority. This order changes from time to time. I rearrange them almost every time I consult them." He flicked out a red-tabbed folder two inches from the front and opened it. "This man is on bodyguard duty to the Akhoond of Swat during a period of ritual unrest. The unrest has eased slightly in the last two days, so he is shifted"—the knobbly thin fingers dived into a slot a little farther back—"towards the rear."

  Solo bent to look. There was a neatly typed reference number on the red tab which indicated Field Operations. It would be slow for a while, but he could have a constantly updated list of reference numbers
by name taped over the cabinet, which would be rearranged logically. He made a mental note to that effect.

  Miss Williamson, a leggy redhead much younger than one would expect in such a position of responsibility, flickered in and out of the office with dizzying irregularity. She typed the most confidential material, fielded low-priority calls, prepared his outlines, and made tea. She also acted as an extra memory and a mobile pair of hands; in short, a perfect secretary. Good looking, too, Napoleon thought, watching her pass him as though he were invisible, and wondered momentarily at the perquisites of his temporary position.

  He was called back to his duties a moment later when a team of agents, a sleek dark-haired girl and a young Englishman, was called in for a quick briefing and a fatherly, cautionary word of encouragement before setting out on an assignment. As the automatic door slid closed behind them, Waverly allowed his face to seam into an expression of concern. "By the way, Mr. Solo— another sensitive problem you will have to keep in mind is the use of female enforcement agents. The Board of Directors has never fully approved our employment of young women in front-line operations, despite the fine account they have given of themselves."

  He pushed his chair back from the desk and rose, Napoleon following. "In my personal safe, there is a sealed package containing information concerning our operations which you will need to know only if I am gone for more than three months. You need not concern yourself with it now, nor, hopefully, for quite some time. My personal safe is behind the large picture to the left of the door. It is keyed to my voice-print, and now also to yours. It will not function with more than one person in the room. I shall step outside for a moment while you test it." Waverly moved to the door, pausing short of the opening sensors. "Just say your name. Stand about three feet straight out from the rubber plant and address the middle of the picture. If it doesn't trip directly, try varying your inflection a trifle. It's rather sensitive." The door slid open and closed behind him.