[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полные версии txt) 📗

He braced himself, desperately trying to force his paralyzed arms up to crush the bulb before Taro could work it out of the lapel. Sweat broke out on his face from the violence of his struggle, but couldn't do more than barely twitch his fingers. He could slightly contract the muscles of his arms, but lacked the power to raise them.

He was sitting upright next to Kuryakin. He suspected that his partner was undergoing an equally desperate attempt to break the paralysis.

Suddenly he switched tactics. He stiffened every workable muscle in his body. He threw everything into a last desperate attempt to move. He did not try to lift his hands any longer. He knew now that this was impossible.

Instead he put every desperate contraction of his sluggish muscles in an attempt to throw his body off balance.

It wasn't too difficult. Kuryakin seemed to realize what he was attempting to do. Illya moved slightly away. With the two bodies not supporting each other so well, Napoleon was able to fall forward.

His head hit against the hand of Taro as the murderous THRUSH agent pulled away the tear gas bulb from Solo's lapel. The blow pushed Taro's fingers down hard against the U.N.C.L.E. protective device. The thin container crushed.

Solo closed his eyes tight as the blinding flood of supercompressed tear gas burst through Taro's fingers. The three THRUSH men jumped back, but it was too late. They fell, choking and crying, too blinded to see.

Both Solo and Illya closed their eyes tightly in preparation for the rush of irritating gases, but even so the highly penetrable material set their eyes streaming with blinding tears.

Solo hunched over, his chin hanging over the back of the front seat. Tears streamed down his face. His body racked with choking coughs.

But despite his painful predicament, his mind was still working sharply. He tried to raise his arms again. He still could do no more then barely move them. He tried to speak to Kuryakin, but his tongue would not move. He shifted his feet and got the slightest movement.

It was true that the effects of the THRUSH numbing injection was wearing off, but he was certain now it would come too late. Even though the soft trade winds dispersed the tear gas, the effect once it entered the eyes would last for about fifteen minutes.

That meant that the THRUSH men would regain their faculties before he and Illya could hope to beat off the paralysis.

There was always a hope that someone would pass, see them and call the police. However, he knew it was a slim one. This section of the park was carefully chosen by the THRUSH men because it was deserted at night.

It was only a short distance to Kalakaua, the Broadway of Waikiki, but for all the good it did them, the street might have been a mile away.

In the background he could hear the THRUSH men coughing and retching. He knew that he had to find some way to call attention to their plight before the nauseating tear gas wore off. The tool for that lay just two feet from his head, but he couldn't move two inches.

He tensed, waiting for a spasm of coughing to pass and then threw his full will into a desperate effort to move.

When this supreme trial failed, he relaxed. His chin fell down over the back curve of the front seat. For a while he huddled there, coughing, eyes streaming and fighting the struggle of his stomach to throw up.

At the same time, he tried to estimate the passing time. It was impossible. Time dragged so slowly for the desperate man that each ticking second moved like an hour.

He waited until he estimated another five minutes had passed. He tensed. His body shivered with his intense struggle to raise his hand. His teeth gritted. Sweat poured from his face. Slowly his hands moved two inches. His feet shifted slightly.

He relaxed, taking fresh courage from the movement. The paralysis was wearing off, but so slowly he doubted it would come fast enough to save them. He strained again, striving with all his strength to force his body. Already he was coughing less, proving that the tear gas was wearing off faster than the paralysis serum.

He tried to estimate the passage of time by the old photographer's system of counting seconds by saying, "One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two—"

He waited then for another five minutes before throwing all his depleted strength into one more final attempt to move. He knew this was his last chance.

This time he braced his legs, trying to heave his body up. It moved slightly. He managed to get his dragging arms over the back of the front seat. He pulled with his arms and pushed hard with his legs.

But his body shook. It inched up slightly, but his trembling legs lacked the force to push him up. He hung there, taking all his strength to maintain his balance. There was none left to push himself up any higher.

Grimly he hung on to the slight gain he had made. Even though he knew he had lost, he refused to let himself fall back. The relentless determination that had carried him through desperate situations before refused to quit even when he knew it was useless to struggle any longer.

Then he felt a weight against his shoulder. He realized it was Illya Kuryakin. His partner seemed to realize what he was doing. He tried to speak to him, but his racking coughs from the special U.N.C.L.E. gas choked his voice.

But he didn't need to speak. Kuryakin understood what he was attempting. He needed no instructions.

Weakly pushing himself partly up, Illya got his shoulder under Solo's armpit. For a breathless moment the two men remained there, gathering strength for the final push that could mean the difference between life and death.

For a brief moment they hesitated. Then Solo's muscles tensed again. Illya felt it and shoved with his feet, putting all his slowly returning strength into a push to help Napoleon.

Solo's legs shook under the strain of heaving his body up. For one nearly fatal moment he thought he was going to fall, but with agonizing slowness he kept moving with Kuryakin's help.

But his rising body reached the overbalance point and he fell forward over the back of the front seat. His head hit the steering wheel with a crack that momentarily dazed him.

Then gasping, choking, he forced his head into a slight shift to the left. It touched the horn button. He pressed his head down harder.

The blast of the horn cut through the soft tropic night, loud, insistent, never stopping!

The effort, plus the hard blow he took on the head when he fell forward in his desperate attempt to hit the horn, was too much for him. His senses reeled. He lost consciousness, but the weight of his body kept the horns screeching out its wild appeal for help.

When he regained consciousness he was in an ambulance. All his frantic appeals that he was not injured, only deathly tired, had no affect on the attendants. They refused to release him.

At the hospital the doctors were equally adamant. He had to call New York and get Waverly to call the surgeon of the U.S. Public Health Service before the stubborn doctor would release his prerogative of deciding when a patient was well or not.

Even then the doctor, a short little man with bristly hair and the manner of an indignant bulldog, was furious.

Following their release from the hospital, Illya and Napoleon held a hasty conference at their Waikiki hotel.

The three THRUSH men were in the Honolulu jail, but neither would talk. On their own the two men from U.N.C.L.E. might have injected the prisoners with truth serum, but since they were in the hands of the civilian police, this was impossible. The U.S. constitutional guarantee against self-incrimination held true even when the knowledge hidden could mean the destruction of half a dozen of the world's governments.

Lupe de Rosa had vanished. All attempts to find her in Honolulu were fruitless. Late on the second day Illya picked up her trail, but it proved too late. He traced her to Hilo on the "Big Island" and from there she took a chartered seaplane for Maui, but never arrived.