The Utopia Affair - McDaniel David (книги без регистрации .TXT) 📗
"Thank you."
"Our pleasure. Good night, sir."
"Good night."
He broke the connection. The slightest flaw in the plan was that Dodgson might develop a reputation as a bit of an old maid, but this, while perhaps a little degrading, would never be allowed to come to his notice and could also result in other staff members keeping a little bit closer eye on him. Otherwise it fit every requirement. Illya rarely displayed his imitation of Alexander Waverly, but it had drawn applause wherever performed.
He went back to work on his report, leaving a receiving channel open to the bug in Waverly's bungalow and another open to the assassins' room—the Thrush suite. A good three-quarters of an hour passed without a signal from either. Occasionally he turned the amplification up full on the former and was able to detect a faint irregular snore.
Shortly before one o'clock a sound on the second channel brought him back to attention. A door opened and closed, and the signal picked up slightly as the light turned on and the circuit completed.
"So their visits are irregular after all," said the Turk's voice.
"It would appear so," said a lighter tone matter-of factly. "But since we lack the equipment necessary to defeat the alarm systems, his house will be his sanctuary. Another approach will be indicated. Let us discuss it no further until we have considered the implications overnight."
"Agreed."
There were more noises, and a few words exchanged, but nothing of import. Illya learned only that the Japanese slept on the floor in the living room, apparently out of preference.
At length he rose, switched the unit back to Record, and turned to his own bed again. Working two jobs was not his idea of a vacation; he hoped Section Six would remember this in a few weeks. He glanced at the schedule taped beside his clock, and winced. Tomorrow was Thursday––in America it was Thanksgiving, and for the ten or twelve Americans currently in residence a traditional dinner was arranged for all the guests. The same thing happened with fine impartiality on Passover, Christmas, Buddha's Birthday, Id al-Fitr and May Day; each time it happened the kitchen staff worked overtime in preparation and clean-up. Tomorrow he was assigned to the former, trying to adapt individual servings to the dietary requirements of a few guests with religious or medical restrictions, and was due in the kitchens at five-thirty. Wearily he set the alarm for five and turned off the lights.
At least he could be thankful tomorrow; his job had been done tonight, and done well, he told himself as he slipped off to sleep.
Chapter 8
"Are You Sure This Thing Is Safe?"
NAPOLEON SOLO blinked bleary eyes and sat up. He had been surviving on catnaps for longer than he cared to remember, and hadn't been home to bed for a week. Channel D was signaling from across the room, and he rose from the couch to answer it. A glass of orange juice and two long red capsules rested on the console next to the microphone clip; he ingested them as he listened to the call from the field agent on Clipperton Island.
"Sir, I'm going to need authorization for a light plane tomorrow afternoon. I've got a line on the submarine sightings, but it'll be murder to nail down."
As his right hand lifted the juice to wash down the Vitamin B, his left flipped through a file for data on Clipperton. "Will you need a pilot?" he asked as soon as he finished swallowing.
"I can't handle a copter, but a twin-jet or piston job is no problem."
Nothing on the island at all. He tapped two buttons and flipped a switch, and a lighted display appeared showing the Pacific Ocean, sprinkled with colored lights and blocks of symbols. There was a group of ships including one carrier about 118 W 7 N, but commandeering a plane from the military got involved with forms and huffy people. The branch office at Acapulco had a Lear Jet with long-range auxiliary tanks, he remembered, and that was only about 800 miles away.
"Can probably get you a twin-jet from Acapulco in a couple of hours. I'll hand you over to them." Let somebody else be roused at dawn. He keyed out as the operator switched the call.
The master clock above the display indicated 0845 and added that it was Wednesday 8 November. He turned as the door sighed open behind him to greet Miss Williamson bearing a stack of reports. "Operations Summaries for October," she said. "Deadline was yesterday. We've got precis' on top so you should be able to cover them. Microfilming needs them by five o'clock. And a tape came in last night you ought to hear; Cindy had it held so you could get some sleep. It didn't demand immediate action."
She set the reports on the desk and pulled a tape cartridge from her pocket. "Field Agent DeWeese explains at the beginning, sir," she said, as she slipped it into a slot in the side of the desk and pushed a button.
"I'm having this recorded for you, because I think it's something you'll want to study. Oh, this is Buck DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba. We've got something definite on that monster I heard about. There's a radar site near here, up towards Sherridon. It's one of a string, and they're all in touch by radio and the communications are routinely recorded. So here's the whole thing. The, first transmission was at 5:12 last night; the transmissions ended at 5:19:30. Uh, sorry about the sound quality; you know the kind of recording gear they use."
CLICK chink whrrrishhhhh…
"Coca Bravo this is Victor Lima—I got something at Echo Kilo Three Five Two Two. Looks like either a malfunction or a storm front. You got a scan."
"Negative, Victor Lima. Try manual procedures?"
"Yeah, and it's still there. Reads like a big ground clutter. If it was solid, it'd be a couple thousand feet high moving about eighty knots."
"Sounds like a mountain. Have you tried a visual?"
"Negative. I don't think there's enough daylight left. Hey, it's changing vector. Now bearing two-seven-five degrees—it's heading for Point Zero Local; ground speed… uh, looks like 95 knots! It'll hit here in a minute or two! Stand by, Coca Bravo, I'm gonna try a visual...
"Here we go—I'm at the south window. There's a little light left but I can't see any... Holy Mary! There's something—I think there's something down there… I can see something like a thunderhead coming up over the trees and coming fast!"
"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. What's going on out there!"
"There's something coming at the site, sir! It reads on my scope as big as a storm front, but here it comes and I think it's solid, sir. It's like a black cloud, but I can't quite see where it rests on the ground because there's too much dust. But it's knocking aside the trees, sir—even the big pines. It must be...two thousand feet tall! There's no—no feel to it, sir, no more texture than a big solid cloud. But there's something way up near the top—a couple red things, glowing, like eyes. It's coming this way, all right, straight up the hill. Dear God, I hope it doesn't mind radomes... It's changing a little—the red eyes are moving down—it's going slower, it's only maybe a couple hundred yards away— the top of it is swinging forward! The eyes are red as fire...they're getting bigger! The head of the thing's coming—"
riRRRRRIIIIIPPPPPPWWWOOOOOOOBAP!!...
"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. Come in please. Victor Lima, come in please…"
"Zebra, this is Coca Bravo. I think Victor Lima is off the air. I think he's been zapped. Request permission to send a recon party."
"Granted, Coca Bravo. We'll get a group ready to go from Winnipeg on the assumption he knew what he was talking about; they'll wait on your preliminary report"
