Dr. Nyet

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Merry Christmas!"

It woke me from the sleep I'd tried so hard to avoid. I blinked, sure that I must still be dreaming. My eyes refocused on Ungilak standing over me, a big grin on his face.

"Merry Christmas!" He repeated it.

Nothing seemed to add up in my fogged brain. Was it really Ungilak? Or was it some vision conjured up from my delirium? If it was him, then how come he was suddenly speaking English? And what was this about Christmas?

"Merry Christmas!" He said it a third time, obviously waiting for some response.

"Merry Christmas." I responded.

My mind went off on a minor obsession, trying to add up the days. Somehow this Christmas bit seemed the easiest thing to cope with at the moment. Allowing for half a dozen or so days that I'd lost in the Arctic cold, I realized that it might indeed be Christmas.

Ungilak was rattling off some of his Eskimo dialect now. I understood that "Merry Christmas" was the extent of the English he'd picked up. When he saw that he wasn't getting through to me, he switched over to sign language. It clicked after a moment, and I understood he was asking where Olga was.

I took him outside and showed him where I'd stashed her corpse. He looked at it and his face grew dark with anger. He thought I'd killed her!

I backed away from him, shaking my head. I pointed to the hatchet still buried in her breast and made gestures to tell him that it wasn't mine. Finally I pointed out the tracks the Chinese had made when he ran away. Ungilak examined them and then nodded to show that he believed me.

I followed him back to the rescue party he'd brought with him. There were five Eskimos besides Ungilak, and two dogsleds. He spoke to them in their native tongue, evidently explaining about Olga's murder, and pointed out the tracks to them. They nodded, and four of the five set out to follow the tracks.

We waited. I guess it was about three hours later that they finally returned. They had the Chinese with them. He was half-dead from frostbite and in no condition to put up a fight, but they tied him down to one of the sleds anyway.

I settled in alongside him as we got under way. The other sled was laden with supplies, and Ungilak didn't seem to want to take the time to shift them. I didn't mind. The Chinese was in no condition to give me any trouble.

We were three days on the trail before he regained some of his strength. I tried talking to him then as we skimmed over the endless snow. To my surprise, he spoke flawless English.

"Why are you here?" I asked him.

"The same reason you are. To find Dr. Nyet."

"How did you know where to look?"

"We had the Russian agent followed."

"Why did you kill him?"

"We felt he was getting close. Indeed, we thought he might have found Dr. Nyet. We thought it was the young lady with you. We didn't want the Russians to have her. Nor you, for that matter. We wanted to take her ourselves. And so we eliminated the Russian to expedite matters."

"And you also may have eliminated Dr. Nyet," I pointed out.

"Possibly. It couldn't be helped. My reflexes simply worked too fast. She screamed and I killed her before she might have had a chance to kill me."

"Just like that." The hatred for him that came through in my voice then was genuine.

"What is done is done." He shrugged it off. "Right now our aims are the same, and we must think about how best to cooperate with each other."

"Oh? So now you want to cooperate."

"Yes. Are you agreeable?"

"Drop dead!" I told him, ending the conversation.

A few hours later we came in sight of the S.M.U.T. settlement at last. There were perhaps thirty or forty igloos spaced out in a wide circle. Ungilak called a halt and strode over to me. He took my hand between both of his and then leaned over to rub his nose against mine affectionately.

"Poli," he said, pointing back the way we'd come. "Poli." He repeated it and I understood that he was saying goodbye, that he was going to leave now because he wanted to get back to his wife. He made signs to tell me that the other Eskimos would see me to the conclusion of the journey, and then he turned the other sled around and started back to Poli.

Before he was out of sight, we were on our way to the settlement. As we drew closer, I was surprised at the number of Eskimos hard at work there. The tribal life of Eskimos is very loose, and it's rare for more than two or three families to congregate together. Yet I guessed there were more than a hundred in sight as we approached. Not one of them, I knew, was a native of Franz Josef Land. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to relocate them here. And someone was seeing to it that they were kept busy building still more igloos.

It wasn't long before I came face to face with that someone. The ice-structure in the center of the circle of igloos turned out to be only an entrance to a vast underground complex. The Chinese and I were escorted down in an elevator and then taken through a series of chambers hinting at the magnitude of the operation. Two of the Eskimos flanking me indicated that I should be seated in one of these chambers while the others took the Chinese through a door opposite the one by which we'd entered.

It was an hour or more before the Chinese reappeared. He looked like he'd been given a going-over. The Eskimo guards hustled him out, and then it was my turn. They prodded me through a door, and I found myself facing a man seated behind a plush desk. The man was Peter Highman!

"We meet again, Mr. Victor."

"So it seems." I was too shaken to say anything else. I had hoped to come up against some S.M.U.T. official I could con the way I'd conned Olga. Instead, I'd hopped out of the arctic frying pan and straight into the fire of Peter Highman's clutches.

"I congratulate you on your persistence," Highman said.

"Thanks. I take it I'm your prisoner."

"Yes."

"And I suppose you're going to kill me."

"At my leisure, Mr. Victor. There is no cause for immediate alarm on your part."

"Why wait?" I asked.

"There is certain information I would like from you and your Chinese friend, Mr. Victor."

"He's no friend of mine."

"Quite so. Nevertheless, there are things that you can tell us."

"Like what?"

"Like just how much your government has managed to learn about S.M.U.T. Like why they are cooperating with the Russians and even the Chinese in their quest for Dr. Nyet."

"You tell me your secrets, I'll tell you mine," I singsonged.

"I don't mind satisfying your curiosity, Mr. Victor. You are no longer in a position to do S.M.U.T. any harm. It's a human failing that I hope you'll forgive, but the truth is I rather enjoy this opportunity to gloat over a vanquished adversary."

"Why not call Dr. Nyet in to gloat with you?" I suggested.

"Alas, she has already left. She had to keep a previous engagement. I know she'll be devastated when I tell her how closely she missed you. Indeed, you made quite an impression on her."

"Then it was the blonde back in New York! The one who liked to go up in flames while making love!"

"It was. And it is. But she's not really a blonde, you know. She's a natural brunette. We simply prevailed upon her to dye her hair."

"She's the last one I would have picked," I admitted. "She talked like a born and bred Yankee."

"Among Dr. Nyet's other talents is a sure tongue for linguistics," Highman told me.

"Olga had that talent, too," I mused. "But then she was exactly what she said she was. Except she was also a dupe for you, which she didn't know."

"That's right."

"And so was Ilona."

"Yes – but something more as well." Highman sounded regretful.

"So she told me. And you were really hooked on her, weren't you? But then why did you have her killed?"

"It was inevitable once she took up with you, Mr. Victor. If only you had gone to New Delhi with Singh as planned, she would be alive today. It would have been you who was killed if you had gone to India. Everything was arranged for your quiet assassination. How did you happen to pick up Ilona's trail anyway?"

"Sheer chance. I spotted her at the airport."

"Sheer chance," Highman repeated. "And so you signed her death warrant. A death warrant, I can assure you, which I executed with great reluctance."

"Just how was she killed?" I asked. "And your wife – how did you manage that in a locked room? There wasn't a mark on either body to show what killed them."

"Both were killed by sound, Mr. Victor."

"Sound?"

"Yes. In my wife's case, I simply hooked a high-frequency device in on the Sonuswitch lines operating the appliances in her study. There was a timing mechanism attached so it would go off about an hour after the two of you were in there. You see, I wanted to give you time to get into a compromising position so that it might look as if you assaulted her. Oh, yes, I knew my wife. I knew how she arranged to enjoy her sex without ever admitting to herself what she was doing. I banked on her sucking you into some sort of sex situation. But what I didn't bank on was you going out to the bathroom. Again, sheer chance. If not for that, you would have died with her as you were meant to die."

"I still don't quite understand how sound killed her."

"Then let me explain. The pitch of the frequency directed into the room is so high that it can't be heard. It bypasses the eardrum and goes directly to the brain. It makes for a direct and agonizing sort of 'hearing.' Every muscle in the victim's body contracts from it. Spasm after spasm seizes the body as the clothes are ripped off in an effort to pluck the ultra-sensitized nerve-ends themselves from the body. The stress is so great that eventually the victim breaks her own neck in an effort to escape the deadly – but actually unheard – sound."

"You sound like you enjoy it." I shuddered.

"Well, you must admit it's ingenious. It was even more ingenious in Ilona's case. I had to virtually invent a hand transmitter with all-transistor components, a new weapon which could aim a beam of high frequency at her without the sort of leakage that might have killed half of Salisbury. I tell you, it wasn't easy."

"I'll bet. But why did you send Ilona to Salisbury in the first place? And why did you go there yourself? Surely that wasn't necessary just to transport the phallus. Any underling could have seen to that."

"True. The phallus was secondary. I only took it with me to Salisbury to throw those seeking its return off the track. I had to go to Salisbury anyway, and I simply took advantage of the trip to send it to Hammerfest from there. My real reason for going to Salisbury was gold, Mr. Victor."

"Gold?"

"Yes. The gold necessary to finance S.M.U.T.'s operations. You see, the stealing and selling and reclaiming of art objects like the phallus is not sufficient to finance our expanding needs. I went to Salisbury to arrange a deal through T.U.M.S. with the Rhodesian government. That government faces an international embargo on its gold exports. I was arranging terms whereby S.M.U.T. would bypass that embargo and dispose of the gold for the Rhodesians at a handsome profit. Unfortunately, the details were still being worked out when your Russian counterpart succeeded in rifling my room and getting a lead on the whereabouts of Dr. Nyet. That made it necessary for me to leave Rhodesia and fly here immediately. S.M.U.T. couldn't take any chances of the Russians' finding Dr. Nyet."

"Just what was it that Vlankov discovered?" I asked.

"You don't know? But how amusing! I naturally thought you were in cahoots when you traveled to Hammerfest together. What Vlankov found was a half- written message from me to my superiors requesting a plane to pick up Dr. Nyet in Hammerfest and fly her here."

"Then Dr. Nyet was in Hammerfest along with Olga?"

"Not with her, no. But they were both there at the same time. The original plan was for Dr. Nyet to wait there for the delivery of the phallus, and then sail to Franz Josef Land. Olga was to be sent back to Paris. But your interference made me nervous, and so I decided Dr. Nyet should be taken to safety as soon as possible while Olga waited to deliver the phallus."

"And the name of the ship was in the letter," I guessed. "That's why Vlankov went straight to it when he reached Hammerfest."

"Yes."

"Something he had just said stuck in my mind. "You mentioned your superiors," I said. "Does that mean you're not top man?"

"No, I'm not. I'm very close to the top. But I'm not the man in charge of S.M.U.T."

Who is?

"If I told you the name it wouldn't mean anything to you, Mr. Victor. It's just a name. Some day the whole world will know it. But that's in the future. By then you will be long dead."

"The whole world…" I picked up the phrase. "You really think that S.M.U.T. can enslave the population of the whole world by multiplying it? But how will you control them? And how will you feed them if their numbers increase? There's not enough food to sustain the population of the world as it exists today."

"Control and survival are intertwined, Mr. Victor. Let me give you an example. Did you notice the Eskimos above ground when you arrived?"

"Yes. I wondered about them. I've never seen so many Eskimos gathered together in one place. They don't usually crowd together in such numbers."

"Quite so. And the reason there are so many of them here is that S.M.U.T. carefully selected them as a sample population to test the theories we intend to apply to all the peoples of the world. To understand this, let me give you some facts about Eskimos. Twenty years ago, when the last worldwide census was taken, those countries with an Eskimo population put the total number of Eskimos in the world at 100,000. Today those same nations place their combined Eskimo populations at 30,000. A fantastic drop during a period when the rest of the world is faced with a population explosion."

"What caused it?" I asked.

"Civilization. That's right, Mr. Victor. Civilization is responsible for decimating the Eskimo population. As new frontiers were opened, Eskimos retreated farther and farther into the arctic wildernesses. Those who remained fell prey to diseases brought by civilized man. Believe it or not, measles killed thousands of them. There was no heritage of immunity to diseases which to us are minor. Indeed, the Eskimos have been dying off at such an alarming rate that both the U.S. and Canadian governments are taking measures to check their declining birth rate before the Eskimos become extinct."

"But what has this to do with S.M.U.T.?"

"We took our lead from those government programs. We sought out small bands of Eskimos on the brink of starvation and held a carrot in front of their noses. The carrot was food – just that, food, the means of survival – and they readily followed it to this settlement. Here our control over them is total. They labor for S.M.U.T. in return for food and shelter – and one thing more."

"Which is?"

"The security of knowing that their children will live. The infant mortality rate among Eskimos is fantastically high ordinarily. But not among the Eskimos here. We have reduced it to an insignificant ftaction. We encourage our Eskimos to have children and we guarantee the survival of those children. The Eskimos here know that S.M.U.T. controls that survival, and so they work willingly in exchange for it."

"In other words, you're breeding them like work animals. You're creating a slave population."

"I don't deny it," Highman said. "But it is only the beginning of S.M.U.T.'s great experiment. What has worked with the Eskimos will work on a far vaster scale with all the people in the world."

"I'm not so sure. You still haven't answered my second question. How will you feed your hordes of slaves if you succeed in creating an overpopulated world?"

"I take it you didn't see The New York Times of December 24th, Mr. Victor."

"The newsboy didn't deliver my copy," I told him drily. "Because of the weather, I imagine. What's that got to do with it?"

"There was a front page story there which answered your question. It told of the results of certain investigations by your Interior Department's Bureau of Commercial Fisheries. S.M.U.T. has long been interested in these investigations, and we have kept pace with their progress. There was nothing secret about them, and so it was simple. It is a mark of our faith in your scientists that we were convinced they would succeed in what they were working on long before their actual success was accomplished. You see, they didn't realize it, of course, but they were going to provide us with the answer of how to feed an overpopulated world of slaves. And now they have done it."

"Just what is it that they've done?"

"They've developed a pure fish concentrate with a protein content of 80 percent, the remaining 20 percent consisting of the most beneficial minerals and vitamins. It's really quite ingenious – the process, I mean. The flesh of the fish is ground to a pulp and then the pulp is put through an alcohol cold-bath. This removes all the water and fatty content from the pulp. Then it is immersed in isopropyl alcohol, which further purifies it. Finally it's spray-dried, and the result is the world's first perfect synthetic food supplement."

"Very interesting. But how can a fish-food sustain an overexpanded humanity?"

"This isn't just a 'fish-food,' Mr. Victor. It is a pure food concentrate. By your own government's estimates, it can be produced so cheaply and easily as to feed two-thirds of the human race today with no strain whatsoever. All it would take to do this would be the building of a relatively inexpensive plant capable of producing ten tons of concentrate daily. That, incidentally, is close to the output of – say – a large sardine cannery. The cost of this – including a margin for profit – would be only eighteen cents a pound. A larger plant might produce 100 tons daily at a cost of only thirteen cents a pound. And a pound of this concentrate could easily sustain – and provide a maximum of nourishment to – a human being for a week to ten days. Thus S.M.U.T. will easily be able to feed large populations. Indeed, one of the reasons for establishing this base here is the excellent fishing off the coast of Franz Josef Land. The need for secrecy keeps us inland now, but eventually we will move to the coast. Here we'll set up a processing plant to be supplied on a regular basis by our own fishing fleet."

"It looks like you've figured all the angles."

"Yes. Plus some fortuitous ones we didn't anticipate. Did I mention that this substance is colorless, odorless and tasteless? It looks like a gray flour, has no trace of a fish smell or taste about it, and is easily soluble. It's an ideal food supplement. It can be put in milkshakes, for instance, without being detected. These qualities have turned out to be most important to S.M.U.T. You see, they are also true of the formula for an antibirth control pill developed by Dr. Nyet."

"So what?"

"So this, Mr. Victor. Your government has been trying to encourage private industry to manufacture the food supplement. A company fronting for S.M.U.T. is already in the process of complying with this request. Only the supplement we produce will also have in it the formula invented by Dr. Nyet. Thus we will insure overpopulation at the very same time that we create the means to feed and control the resulting hordes."

"Then you do have Dr. Nyet's formula."

"Now we do, yes. You see, when she fled Russia, she was unable to take her notes with her. She had to destroy them. But with her scientific mind and photographic memory, it wasn't difficult for her to recreate the formula. She had done so and was testing the results when we got word of your coming to New York and took the precaution of hiding her in the brothel. How could I have guessed that fool Crampdick would steer you directly to her? No matter. That's past now. She finished the testing of the formula here yesterday, and wrote the ingredients and composition down on paper for S.M.U.T. I have that paper right here with me now." He tapped his breast pocket.

"And what will you do with it?"

"I will fly to New York immediately. Dr. Nyet already awaits me there. We will confer with the men arranging the production of the food supplement. Dr. Nyet has some ideas concerning the combining of the two in production." Highman sat back in his chair and beamed an "Oh-what-a-genius-am-I-don't-you-agree?" sort of smile at me.

"It's an ingenious scheme," I granted. "But how come you're telling me about it?"

"You will never be in a position to act on the information, Mr. Victor. Rest assured of that. As to why I'm telling you – Well, a man has to be able to talk to someone about his accomplishments. There's no one else here capable of understanding, even if I weren't kept from telling them by the need for secrecy. As for those above me – well, they only want to know the results, not the methods I labor so hard to devise in order to produce those results. We are enemies, Mr. Victor, but you are the only one with whom it is possible to enjoy a rapport concerning my work. I trust that rapport will continue after I return from my journey to New York."

"If I live that long."

"Oh, you shall. And much longer if you will only cooperate with S.M.U.T. All you have to do is tell us the extent of your government's knowledge about our operation."

"Suppose I don't know."

"Come now, Mr. Victor. You couldn't have been as effective as you were if you didn't have such knowledge."

"And if I refuse to betray my government?"

"Then eventually you will die. But I feel sure you will change your mind before accepting such a drastic fate. Just a taste of the sound that kills, a taste that will fall short of actually killing you, should insure that." Highman nodded as if he was trying to be reassuring. "But now," he added, looking at his watch, "I must be off. The plane is waiting for me." He turned to the Eskimo guards and said something to them in their native tongue. They led me away.

A few moments later I was pushed into a sparsely furnished room which evidently served as a cell. The door was locked behind me. But I wasn't alone. The Chinese was already imprisoned there.

"Welcome," he greeted me.

I didn't return the greeting. I just glared at him. I couldn't forget that he'd killed Olga. I hated his guts.

He knew it, but he wasn't going to let it deter him. "Our only chance of escape, Mr. Victor, is if we cooperate with each other. Regardless of how you feel about me, it would be foolhardy not to cooperate. That would doom you as well as me."

"It's almost worth it," I told him. But I had to admit he was right. Whatever slender chance we had depended on us acting together. "All right. I'll cooperate," I agreed reluctantly. "What's your plan?"

"First I have to sneeze."

"Go ahead."

"It's not that simple," he said. "I don't feel like sneezing."

"Then don't sneeze. What the hell's this all about, anyway? I thought we were going to plan an escape."

"We are. You see, in my right sinus cavity there is a small capsule which may make escape possible. But the only way to get it out is to sneeze."

"What's in the capsule?"

"Nitroglycerine."

"Then don't sneeze too hard," I advised. "As a matter of fact, if I were you, I wouldn't even sniffle. And," I added, "in my opinion, that's a pretty drastic cold cure even for a Chinese Red."

"It's not a cold cure. It's to enable me to commit suicide if I'm tortured. You see, the idea of a capsule of poison concealed in a tooth is too widely known to be effective any more. So my superiors devised this variation. Under pressure all I have to do is slap my forehead where the sinus passage is and my head will be blown apart. With luck, I might even take my inquisitor with me."

"But suppose you sneezed inadvertently?"

"It wouldn't necessarily set it off. Of course, it might, but when I do have to sneeze, I've trained myself to do it gently. I don't suffer from sinus trouble, so the passages are never so clogged as to present a very great hazard. However, right now the only way of extracting the capsule is if I can induce a series of sneezes."

"Sneeze away," I told him. I backed away to the far corner of the room. Why take a chance on germs? I figured. Or on nitro?

The Chinese knelt down, scooped up sonic dust in his hand, stuck his nose in the palm and sniffed mightily. "Ah-choo!" – which is a Chinese sneeze in any language.

I lowered my hands from in front of my face. "Is it out?" I asked.

"Not yet." He sniffed again, sneezed again, and made a wild dive to catch the flying capsule before it could hit the floor. I was flat on my belly before I realized he'd made the catch.

"Gezundheit!" I said fervently, getting to my feet. "What next?"

"We wait until the guards open the door to bring us a meal."

"Why wait? Why don't we just blow the door open ourselves right now?"

"I can't be sure the charge will be powerful enough to do that. It is, after all, only a very small amount. But if we time it right, it should blast the guards off their feet and we'll be able to overcome them before they recover their wits."

"And what then? Suppose we do get out of here? Suppose we even succeed in getting above ground? If they don't catch us, we'll only freeze to death out there, anyway."

"Don't be so negative," he told me. "We'll just have to try to steal a sled and supplies and make it back to civilization. Unless you have a better idea."

I had to admit I didn't. But it still seemed like suicide to me to attempt to brave the Arctic on our own. We hadn't the knowho'w to survive in such an environment. I guessed that he didn't have it from the fact that the three men with him when he'd disembarked from the ship must have perished in the storm. He was right, though. There was nothing else to do but try it.

It was about an hour before the guards arrived. There were two of them. One entered carrying a tray of food. The other stood beside him, leveling a sub-machine gun at us.

But before he had a chance to use it, the Chinese lobbed the capsule of nitro to the floor at their feet. The blast knocked them both backwards on their keisters. The Chinese and I dived on top of them. I came up with the sub-machine gun. The Chinese took the pistol from the holster worn by the other guard. They were still dazed, and he saw to it that they stayed that way. He clubbed each of them over the head with the gun butt, and then motioned for me to follow him down the passage.

The first guard we hit was when we reached the entrance to Highman's office. We hit him hard – or rather, the Chinese did. He shot him through the heart before the man could even raise the rifle he was holding.

The Chinese was as curious about Highman's office as I was. We rifled it together. He was looking for information, but he didn't find any. I was looking for something else, and I did. I found the jewelled phallus and hefted it under one arm. If I got out of this alive, I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't return it to Singh Huy-eva. I owed him a favor.

The Chinese raised his eyebrows and made a crack about "materialistic Americans." I let it pass. This was no time for dialectics. We still had to make it to the elevator.

There was another guard waiting when we reached it. He never saw us. The Chinese shot him in the back. A few moments later we got off the lift, on the surface once again.

There was a large stack of crates piled up beside the entrance to the elevator shaft. Each of them bore the same warning: DYNAMITE-CAUTION! The Chinese looked at them, and then around at the circle of igloos. He stopped his slow turning and pointed.

I looked beyond the fringe of igloos to where he was pointing. There was a small, single-engined cabin plane sitting on the flat ice-field there. "I don't know how to fly a plane," I told the Chinese.

"I do," he assured me. "But first let us take care of S.M.U.T."

I followed his lead, and we loaded up the elevator platform with the dynamite. Then he attached a long fuse and lit it. We lowered the elevator and sprinted for the plane. Just as we reached it, the explosion went off.

I tossed the phallus in the plane and turned around for a moment to see the results of the blast. Icicles were still flying around, and the area where the S.M.U.T. underground HQ had been was thick with smoke. The igloos around the perimeter seemed to be caving in, melting before my very eyes. And the ice in the center of the circle was splitting and shifting downward, caving in on what was left of the underground complex. The Eskimos had bolted from their igloos and were putting distance between themselves and the site of the blast.

The Chinese was already in the pilot's seat, revving up the engine of the plane. I started to climb aboard, and found myself looking into the barrel of his pistol. There was a nasty smile on his face. He motioned me to pass him the sub-machine gun I'd slung over my shoulder, and I did. Then he waved his gun at me to back off. I backed off. I saw his finger start to tighten on the trigger, and I dived under the plane. He'd only been waiting until I was clear of it to shoot.

But he didn't waste time chasing me. I guess he figured it was just as good to leave me there to freeze to death. So he gunned the motor and skimmed down the field for a take-off.

The plane had skis in place of wheels for landing gear. What the Chinese didn't know was that I was balancing on one of those skis as he took to the air. I began climbing up the strut supporting it as he leveled off.

It was touch and go, but I managed to pull myself to the top of the fuselage. I inched along it until I was just over the cabin. I grabbed the wing with both hands and swung sideways into the cabin, feet first, breaking the window and slamming into the face of the Chinese with the heels of my boots.

He was fast. I'll say that for him. He rolled with the kick, let go of the controls, and came up with the sub-machine gun from the seat beside him. I slammed the barrel with my arm just as he fired. He blew off the top of his own head. It splattered messily over the ceiling of the cabin.

Now I was in a fine mess. I was umpteen thousand feet up in mid-air and I had no more idea of how to fly a plane than the man in the moon. I hadn't meant for the Chinese to die. I'd just wanted to get the drop on him and force him to fly me to something approximating civilization. But he was dead now, and there was no sense crying over spilled won-ton soup.

I pushed his body out of the plane and sat down in the pilot's seat. The controls meant nothing to me. So far the plane seemed to be flying itself. Seemed to be? It was flying itself!

Then I spotted the radio. I may not know anything about planes, but I do know how to work a radio. When I was a kid, I had a ham set. Me and Barry Goldwater. Except that he knows how to fly a plane.

I turned the radio on for an all-stations alert. I picked up the hand mike and cleared my throat. "May Day!" I hollered. "May Day! May Day!" I wasn't sure what it meant, but it was what they always yelled when they were in trouble in all those old war movies I'd seen on the Late Show. "May Day! May Day!" I caught a sudden reflection of myself in the glass covering the instrument panel. It was a surprise to see my face and not Jimmy Cagney's. "May Day! May Day!" Oh, Pat O'Brien, do you read me? I thought irrelevantly. I switched over and a voice sounded in my earphones.

"This is the United States Weather Station in Greenland," it said. "Identify yourself. Identify yourself."

"Steve Victor," I told him.

"Identify your craft."

"It's an airplane."

"Identify your craft," the voice repeated.

"That's all I know about it," I told him. "This is an emergency."

"What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency?"

Just my luck to get a redundant radio operator at a time like this. Or maybe he just stuttered. "The nature of the emergency is that I don't know how to fly a plane," I told him.

"Are you in the air? Are you in the air?"

"Yes. Yes."

"How did you get there if you can't fly? How did you-"

"It's a long story," I interrupted. "The fact is that I'm here and I don't know how to fly this thing."

There was a long pause. Then – "We have advised Air Traffic Control of your predicament," the voice said. "We are cutting you in on their frequency. We are turning you over to Air Traffic Control now."

"Hello," a new voice said. "This is Air Traffic Control. We have been advised of your May Day. What is your altitude?"

I looked at the instrument panel. "Two-fifty," I told them.

"That is your speed. Look at the dial on your extreme left. What is your altimeter reading?"

"Thirty gallons."

"That is your fuel gauge." The voice sounded disgusted. "What we want is the reading on the gauge beside it."

"Oh. Eight thousand."

"Good. Maintain that altitude."

"How?"

"We do not read your last transmission."

"How do I maintain that altitude? I mean, doesn't this plane have to come down sooner or later?"

"Roger. We understand your predicament. Do not touch any of your instruments. Repeat. Do not touch any of your instruments. Now, reply to this. Reply to this. What is your destination?"

"Anywhere!" I said fervently. "Anywhere I can put my feet on the ground."

"We have picked you up on our radar and must advise that you are over Russian territory. Repeat, you are over Russian territory. The United States government takes no responsibility for your unauthorized flight. This message is being broadcast over all frequencies now. The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flight over Russian territory."

"Well, how do I get away from Russian territory?" I wailed.

"Your current course on our radar will take you deeper into Russia. If your fuel holds out, you may make it to the Chinese border if you continue on that course. But must warn you that Russians will undoubtedly fire on your unidentified flying object before you reach China. Also, the Chinese will fire if-"

"Hold it!" I shouted into the mike. "I can't hear you. There's some kind of an explosion outside the plane." I craned my head out the window. There were small puffs of black smoke all around me. I knew what they were. I smiled a Cagney smile and said the word to myself out loud: "Flak!"

The mike was still on, and it picked up the sound.

"Are you being fired upon?" the voice in my earphones asked.

"Yes."

"The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flights over Soviet territory."

"Whose side are you on?" I asked. "Can't you tell me how to turn this crate around and get the hell out of here?"

"Turn your wheel until the reading on your compass shows thirty-five degrees. That will take you out of Russian territory and back toward Greenland."

I did as he said. A few moments later I was out of the flak-storm. After that, it was duck soup. They just told me what to do and I did it. I followed their radar beam straight to Greenland.

"Stand by for landing instructions," I was told. "All air traffic has been cleared for May Day landing. Now press your throttle forward so that the plane will lose altitude."

I did as he said and left my stomach somewhere up in the clouds. "I'm diving!" I shrieked.

"Pull back on your throttle. Do not panic. Do not panic."

"Who's panicking? It's just that I forgot to buy an insurance policy before I took off."

"Now, we are going to start you on a glide path. But before we do, keep in mind that your wheels and tail should touch ground at the same time so that you don't nose over."

"I don't have any wheels!" I remembered.

"Last transmission not understood. Repeat last transmission."

"I don't have any wheels. There's skis on this plane."

"Oy!"

"Can you talk him down, Irving?" I heard a new voice ask.

"I don't know how to ski," the first voice, Irving's, replied.

"Well, do your best."

"Yes!" I echoed. "Do your best. My bones break easy."

"Very well. Start your glide-path. Now, lower your flaps."

"What?"

"Your flaps! Lower them!"

"I wear jockey shorts. I can't-"

"The lever beside your knee. Pull it!" I pulled it.

"Now pull back on your wheel so that you're level… That's it… Up on the nose a little so you can skid right in and – Look out! You're heading right for this transmission tower! Look out! Look -!"

I shielded my face against the crash. The impact of it hurled me from the plane. I landed right in the lap of a guy sitting in front of a large radio and radar setup.

"I told you to look out," he said disgustedly. "Now look what you've done. You wrecked the control tower."

"Sorry, Irving." I'd recognized his voice. "I'll try to see that it never happens again." My eyes lit on an object which had been hurled out of the wreckage along with me. I hurried to retrieve the four-foot bejeweled phallus.

"What's that?" Irving asked.

"What does it look like?"

"What happened to the rest of it?" Irving peered into the wreckage with worried eyes.

"There is no rest. This is all there is. And it isn't even scratched. That's what I call luck," I enthused.

"What are you going to do with it?" Irving asked.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know." He edged away. "Nothing would surprise me. Not after today. Now, you may not believe this," he added as he paused in the doorway before taking flight, "but this is the first time a man with a four-foot long golden dingus has ever crashed a plane into my conning tower!"

I hadn't time to chase after him and explain. I hustled over to the office of the man in charge and persuaded him to let me put in a call to Putnam in London. Putnam put the wheels in motion fast. I was saved from explanations and investigations. He arranged for a plane to fly me to New York immediately.

Just before take-off I spotted Irving walking across the airstrip. A voice called out to him as he passed the hangars. "Hey, Irv, coming to the New Year's Eve party tonight?"

"No," Irving replied.

"Why not?"

"It would be anti-climactic," Irving told him.

I chuckled to myself, hefted the phallus, and climbed aboard the plane. It was quite different from my last flight. It was good to be a passenger again and leave the driving to somebody else.

It was New Year's Day when I landed in New York. Putnam had arranged a room for me at a motel adjacent to the airport, and I went straight to it. I slept for twelve hours straight. The phone ringing beside my bed woke me. It was the room clerk. I had a visitor – "a friend of Mr. Putnam's."

I told the clerk to send him up to the room. A few moments later I was shaking hands with Singh Huy-eva. "I understand you have something for me," he said when the greetings were over.

"That I do." I opened the suitcase and produced the jeweled phallus with a flourish. "Gonads and all," I told him.

"Now my quest is over," Singh said. "But my instructions are to continue to help you if I can."

"I think you can," I told him. "Has S.M.U.T. discovered you're a spy yet?"

"No. Crampdick seems to believe I'm as legitimate as ever. He's back from Toronto now. I don't know why he was recalled. But I suspect something's up."

"Something is," I assured him. "Do you know if that blonde chick from the brothel is back, too?"

"Yes. I saw her up at the S.M.U.T. offices only yesterday." He looked at me curiously. "Don't tell me that she's-"

"Dr. Nyet. Right. Do you think you can find out where she's staying?"

"I can try. I'll get on it right away. I'll call you back when I have anything."

Singh left then. There was nothing for me to do but wait. I waited. Another day went by before he contacted me.

"I followed the young lady," he said over the phone. "She's staying at one of the S.M.U.T. branch offices in Forest Hills. People by the name of-"

"Highman." I finished the sentence for him.

"That's right. But how-?"

"Never mind that. Can you meet me over there right away?"

"As quickly as possible. But I'm afraid that won't be very quickly. Traffic's jammed up all over the city."

When the cab I'd called pulled onto Queens Boulevard, I saw that Singh hadn't been exaggerating. The transit strike had traffic tied up for miles. It was ridiculous in the direction I was going, and it was absolutely impossible coming from the other way. It was the evening rush hour, and cars coming from the city were averaging about a yard a minute.

We were doing a little better, but not much. Finally I couldn't take it any longer, and I got out and walked. I trudged some twenty blocks before I came to Highman's apartment house. Considering the transit mess, I figured it might be hours before Singh got there. I was just about to go it alone when my figuring was proved wrong.

Singh came pedaling up on a bicycle, his face quite composed under his white turban. "It's the only way to travel," he told me as he parked the bike.

"You are truly a unique eunuch." I grinned at him fondly. "Come on. The lion's den awaits."

The same acne'd faggot answered the doorbell. He hadn't changed since my first visit. He was still sweating for S.M.U.T. Singh waved his sharp, curved kukri under his nose, and we kept going through the S.M.U.T. offices back to Highman's private quarters.

"Look out!" Singh cried out, shoving me aside.

He'd seen them before I had: two gorillas behind the half-opened door, ready to pounce. They sprang out with guns blazing, but thanks to Singh's warning I was too fast for them. Using a table in the hallway for cover, I had time to aim more accurately. I fired twice and they both went down.

My gun was still smoking as Singh and I stepped over their bodies. I knew them both – though from different places. The first was one of the hoods who'd tried to kill me in the bordello. The other was the fellow who'd packed the violin case back in Salisbury.

"So I was right," Singh murmured, looking at the first.

I remembered then that he'd guessed the vice ring hooligans were really taking their orders from the same people who ran S.M.U.T. He'd guessed it that morning after the blackout in his hotel room. Now, with them playing watchdogs for

Highman, there could be no doubt. Only these watchdogs were through woofing for good.

"Those shots," Singh said. "They'll know we're coming."

"No," I disagreed. "This place is all soundproofed. It's a good bet that those shots were never even heard."

We continued cautiously into the interior of Highman's apartment. I led the way through the living room to the kitchen door. I shoved the door open and plunged in gun-first.

And there was Dr. Nyet!

She was perched on the kitchen table, a steak knife in her hand. The tip, of the knife was black with caviar. Dr. Nyet was smearing it on Ritz crackers.

"Steve Victor!" she exclaimed, surprised.

"Dr. Nyet." I returned the greeting.

"Then you know."

"That I do."

"Oh." She considered it a moment. "Well, would you like some caviar?" she offered.

"No, thanks."

"It's really delicious. I love caviar." She smiled. "Ethnic will out, I suppose."

She was wearing a low-cut peasant blouse and a skirt that was carelessly high on her thighs. She looked as blonde and sexy as she had the night we'd fanned the flames with our passion. Now my eyes gave me away, and she was amused at what they said I was thinking.

"Remember, Mr. Victor?" she said sultrily. "How could I forget?"

"It was a glorious blaze, wasn't it?" There was mockery in her sigh.

"But very out of character for Dr. Nyet," I remarked. "I was told the name came from your reluctance to have sex."

"That was before I became a victim of my own experiments," she explained. "You see, I tested the formula out on myself before I was forced to hide out in the brothel. Later, while I was actually working there, I did ust the opposite, of course. But the side effects of my formula must have lingered."

"What side effects?"

"The side effects which make it strongly aphrodisiac. They can't be done away with – not if it's to counteract birth-control pills."

"Steve Victor!" It was an exclamation coming from behind me.

I swung around fast, sure that I'd find Highman with a gun in his hand. Singh turned with me, but we were both wrong. Highman had been so shocked to see me alive in New York that he'd spoken my name without stopping to think. If he had stopped to think, he might have gone away silently and fetched a weapon. Now it was too late. He stood there with – of all things – a baby in his arms!

"Hello, Oscar." Dr. Nyet made a kitchy-koo motion toward the child.

"What are you doing with a baby?" I blurted out to Highman.

"He's my son. Since his mother's demise, he has no one but me. Don't look so surprised, Mr. Victor. All kinds of people become parents. And I'm a good father, too. You should see me change a diaper."

"I'll bet. The question is, how do you find time between changing diapers and making formulas to go about taking over the world?"

"Fatherhood keeps few men from their work, Mr. Victor."

"Okay then, back to business. Hand over that formula."

"All right," Highman agreed.

"All right?" Dr. Nyet broke in. "Just like that? You're just going to hand it over to him?"

"The man is pointing a gun at me, Dr. Nyet. I never argue under such circumstances."

"But what about S.M.U.T.? Are you going to throw away everything we stand for just like that?"

"I don't believe in being a martyr," Highman told her. "I owe it to my child to survive as best I can." He set the baby down on a chair and reached inside his jacket pocket for the formula.

Singh and I were both looking at him, and Dr. Nyet made her move before we could stop her. She shot off the table with the steak knife in her hand and plunged it into Highman's chest. It left a nasty smear of black caviar on his white shirt. She grabbed the papers from his hand as he fell, pulled out the knife, and scooped up the baby.

"Victor," Highman said, blood bubbling to his lips. "Look out for Oscar." He pitched forward on his face. He was dead.

That dying request was going to be hard to grant. Dr. Nyet held the squalling orphan slung over one arm now. In the other hand she held the steak knife poised at the infant's throat. "Stay where you are, Mr. Victor," she said. "Or I'll kill the baby."

"Isn't it enough that you've made him an orphan?"

"That was only half my doing. You can blame his father for the other half."

"Surely you wouldn't hurt an innocent baby. Where are your motherly instincts?" Singh asked.

"S.M.U.T. comes first. Highman may have forgotten that, but I haven't. Either this baby and I go out of here together with the formula, or neither one of us goes out alive. Don't cry, Oscar," she added automatically, rocking the child.

"See. You do have womanly instincts." Singh pounced.

"Of course I do. But S.M.U.T. is more important to me."

She was standing alongside the stove now, and I had a sudden inspiration. I put the gun down and slapped my hands together sharply. The gamble paid off. A frypan shot out of its niche in the wall and dropped on the stove. En route it clipped Dr. Nyet's wrist and sent the knife flying from her grasp.

She darted out the kitchen door and into the living room, still holding the baby. She opened the French doors and poised on the small balcony outside them. But Singh was right behind her, and he grappled with her there. He wrested the infant from her just as I came to his aid. He stepped backward as I stepped forward, bent on grabbing the formula from Dr… Nyet's hand. She pulled away from me violently.

Too violently. The motion carried her over the edge of the balcony. Her scream seemed to echo in the air long after the splattering sound that said she'd hit the sidewalk fifteen stories below.

Singh and I bundled Oscar up and got out of there. Downstairs I elbowed through the crowd starting to gather around Dr. Nyet's body and removed the formula from her death-grip. Then Singh and I took Oscar back to my motel.

I called Putnam from there. He said he'd make arrangements for the child to be looked after in New York. He was pretty sarcastic about it. "I send you after a Russian scientist, and you come up with a baby," he snorted. "In all my espionage experience, you are the only man I know who could be depended upon for something that outlandish. Come back to London immediately. I'll want a full report."

I caught a plane the next morning. Singh and I said goodbye at the airport. He was going back to Nepal with his jeweled phallus. The eunuch returns with golden gonads, I thought to myself as I watched his plane take off. A few minutes later I took off myself.

I didn't call Charles Putnam immediately when I set down in London, though. I had some unfinished business to take care of first. I dialed Gladys' number from a booth at the airport.

"Well, fancy 'earin' from you, Yank. Hi'd given you hup for fair."

"Can I come over?" I asked.

"Not now. Hi'm hoccupied now. Han holder gentleman. A real toff 'e his too. But you might drop by lyter hon. Say hafter midnight. Hi'll leave the latch hoff so you can just let yourself hin."

"All right," I agreed. "It'll give me a chance to check into my hotel and get spruced up, anyway."

"See you lyter then, ducky." She hung up.

I did as I told her and arrived at her flat in Soho a few minutes after midnight. I let myself in as she'd suggested and headed straight for her bedroom. Gladys was lusciously nude and sound asleep on the bed. She was sleeping on her stomach.

"Gladys, I'm here." I shook her shoulder gently.

She opened her eyes and looked at me without moving. "Oh, hullo." She was still half asleep.

What's that?

"What, luv?"

"That." I pointed, but she couldn't see what I was pointing at. I had spotted a neatly folded sheet of paper sticking out from between the luscious globes of her derriere. I removed it, opened it, and read it.

"Oh, hisn't 'e ha caution." Gladys giggled. "Such ha gentleman, hand so much henergy for ha man 'is hage. Knocked me out properly, 'e did. Just like 'im to leave ha note hin a place like that. Wondrous frolicsome, 'e his. What does hit siy?"

"It says you were great," I lied, folding the paper up again and sticking it in my pocket. "Just great."

"Aow, hisn't that nice."

She may have been pleased, but I wasn't. I was pretty damn miffed at the note. You see, what it really said was, S.M. U. T. on rampage again. Come immediately. And it was signed,Putnam!

Damn him! I tore off my clothes. I grabbed Gladys. I did what Putnam said. Immediately! Both times! Then – and only then! – I left to report to Charles Putnam.