Another few moments of silence, and Napoleon spoke again. "There's a road here, all right. About fifty feet of it next to the county road has been filled in, but from where I'm standing I can see it going off into the woods. I'm going to work back towards Lee; you and Kerry get over here."
By the time Illya and Kerry had arrived, Napoleon had his plans worked out. He handed his communicator to Kerry and showed her how to use it.
"All right, now. Kerry's car is already driven off the road and hidden. You two girls take Lee's and drive back to Richland Center." He quelled the outburst from both girls by raising his hand. "We are not playing cops and robbers; this is serious business. If you want to help, follow instructions. All right?" There were sullen nods and Napoleon continued.
"Illya and I will investigate. If everything goes well, we'll return to Kerry's car and drive back to join you. If everything does not go well, you"—he gestured to Kerry—"will press this button on the side of my communicator, say the magic words 'Open Channel D,' and make a full report to Mr. Waverly in New York. You will then follow his instructions. In the meantime, you, Lee, will prevent
anyone
from entering your house. That includes mail carriers, milkmen, your next-door neighbor, and your best friend. Anyone in this county could be a Thrush agent, and several people probably are. There are also innocent people about, so try not to kill anybody out of hand. But keep them out. Understand?"
Lee nodded.
"Fine. Now, we'll try to report at least every half hour. If two hours go by without a report, assume we're out of action and report to Mr. Waverly."
After seeing the girls safely off, Napoleon and Illya began to follow the track into the woods. It obviously wasn't a well-used thoroughfare; even where no effort had been made to hide it, there were times when the agents had difficulty following it in the waning light. Eventually, however, they rounded a final thicket and found themselves facing a large steel gate, set in the middle of a wire mesh fence that stretched off into the woods on both sides.
A large sign was fastened to the middle of the gate. WARNING! PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. Beneath this, in smaller letters, was the name TOTAL HARMONY REALTY UNDERWRITERS SOCIETY OF HURICON.
Illya pointed to the name, spelling out the initial letters. "T.H.R.U.S.H. They certainly advertise their presence, don't they?"
"Probably not expecting anyone but an occasional hunter and wanted something that sounded impressive," Napoleon responded. "Well, I suppose we have our choice: do we pick the lock or simply blast through a section of fence?"
"I wouldn't recommend either," Illya said, pointing to another sign to one side of the gate: WARNING! ELECTRIC FENCE. "You'll note the lock is wired into the electrical system; I suspect that failure on the part of either fence or lock rings an alarm somewhere." He pointed to a push-button set in the gate above the lock. "If you're in a hurry, I suppose we could ring the doorbell and see who answers."
Napoleon careful examined the lock and gate, and stepped back. "All right, mastermind; from the tone of that last remark, I assume you have something in mind."
"Of course. A good secret agent is prepared for any emergency." Illya removed a small package from his jacket pocket and began looking up and down the length of fence. "First, however, we need the proper setting—down that way would be best, I think."
Illya strode off to the left of the path, Napoleon following closely. About a hundred yards from the path, he halted and stared thoughtfully up into the branches of a large oak tree.
"This should do it. They've kept the brush trimmed back from the fence, but they didn't get all the tall trees in the area." He unwrapped his package with proved to be a length of heavy monofilament line with a miniature grapnel attached to one end. Swinging this around his head, he cast into the branches of tree. On the fifth cast, the grapnel caught and a careful test of the line showed it to be hooked solidly.
Napoleon had watched the proceedings with interest. "What's next, kimosabe?" he asked, although he had developed a strong suspicion and his hands were smarting from only the thought.
"Next we go up the line," Illya confirmed, suiting action to words.
When both agents were well up among the branches, Illya unhooked the grapnel. "Now for the hard part," he murmured as he cast the line toward an equally large tree thirty feet away on the opposite side of the fence.
It took patience, and it was almost totally dark by the time he had the line hooked to his satisfaction. Carefully, he tied the end around the trunk of the tree they were in. "Now," he explained cheerfully, "we swing across, hand over hand."
Napoleon felt the thin line again and winced. "There must be an easier way, Tarzan."
"Nonsense, Napoleon, a little exercise is good for you. Tones up the body. Come on, or it'll be so dark we won't be able to find the path again."
Inside the fence, Napoleon rubbed his aching palms. "When I go back, I'm going through that gate, one way or another. Let Thrush sue me for property damage."
By the time they had located the path again, the only light was from a half moon that tended to duck behind small clouds at just the wrong times. The path continued for another quarter of a mile, winding through scrubby woods and up and down hills.
"Looks like something up ahead," Illya said, squinting into the shadows.
Hurrying forward, they came to a large and rather battered shed, with windows knocked out and a roof that sagged dangerously. Here the trail apparently ended. They stared at the shed.
"It doesn't look like my idea of a dirigible hangar," said Illya.
"Let's check it out," Napoleon suggested. "
Something
made those tracks."
They circled the building warily. It remained enigmatic in the moonlight. The only positive result was to prove that the road definitely ended here at the shed, although the woods didn't.
Holding his U.N.C.L.E. Special ready for action, Napoleon cautiously approached the sagging door of the shed, and kicked it open with a sudden motion.
Nothing happened.
With Illya covering him, he stepped inside. Feeling a little foolish, he lowered his pistol. The shed was empty.
A moment later, Illya entered, and they stared about the interior. There was not even a partition to block the view. The inside of the shed was a large single room, containing nothing but a little dirt on the floor. A scrap of paper on one wall proved, when examined under Illya's flashlight, to be a page from a 1927 calendar.
Napoleon shook his head. "There's something wrong about this. We
know
this is a Thrush installation; the sign on the fence told us that much."
"You don't suppose there could really be such a company as the Total Harmony Realty Underwriters Society of Horicon, do you?" Illya asked. "What's a Horicon, anyway?"
"A marsh somewhere in the state—a sort of rest stop for geese during migration, I think. And probably a town, too. I remember seeing it on our list of part-time agents. But I somehow doubt the existence of the Society, at least this far from Horicon. No, we're missing something here."
Illya rapped his knuckles on a convenient wall, muttering, "Horicon, Mukwonago, Baraboo, Black Earth—don't we have agents in any normal-sounding towns? Like Minsk, or Pinsk, or Vladivostok?"
"Do that again," requested Napoleon, suddenly intent.
"Do what again? List our agents' addresses?"
"No, hit the wall."
Obligingly, Illya rapped the wall again. Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. "Notice anything?"
"Well, it sounded pretty solid."
"Exactly." Napoleon gave his section of wall a resounding kick. "See that? No give to it; like kicking a brick wall. Now at all in keeping with the rickety appearance of this shed. Maybe we're at the right place after all."
Illya was now peering more closely at the walls. "Notice something else? Look carefully at the walls and roof. See any cracks?"
"You're right. Solid joints everywhere. This place is built much more strongly than its appearance indicates." Napoleon removed a ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, pressed a concealed stud which opened it, and rearranged its contents into the form of a compact drill. "Got the idea from a TV commercial," he commented as the bit bored rapidly into the wood.
After penetrating about an inch, the quiet hum of the drill changed to a shrill whine, then jammed. Napoleon withdrew the drill and looked at the battered tip.
"
Very
solidly built," he said. "At a guess, I'd say the walls are quarter-inch steel plate, covered on both sides with native lumber to give the appearance of a rickety shed. And since not even Thrush would go to all that expense and trouble for an isolated warehouse, this place is important. Now, if we can just find the proper key..."
Illya was eying a knothole in a board near the top of one of the windows. Suddenly he reached up, inserted his thumb in the hole, and pushed. With a quiet whir of machinery, a steel shutter slid into place across the window opening.
"That's it, then," he announced. "The knotholes are concealed pushbutton controls. I noticed there was one near each window. I think there are a few others."
They found a total of six, scattered at random points throughout the building. "Now, if we just knew what each of them controlled," Illya mused.
"Only one way to find out," said Napoleon, reaching out to press the nearest one.
There was the same quiet hum of well-oiled machinery, and a twenty-foot section of the floor began to descend into the earth.
"Jackpot!" said Napoleon, leaping onto the descending elevator with Illya close behind.
With his U.N.C.L.E. Special in his hand, Napoleon waited as the elevator slowly descended. Illya took out his communicator and brought Kerry and Lee up to date.
When the elevator finally stopped, Napoleon estimated that they had dropped at least two hundred feet. They stepped off into a well-lighted underground passage that traveled only a few yards and then opened into a huge cavern. The cavern was apparently empty of dirigibles, but several pieces of machinery stood about and a huge pile of empty packing crates were pushed against the wall a few feet from them. A small stream trickled across the cavern floor.
Illya had put away his communicator and was drawing his gun. "But how do they get the dirigible out of here?" he asked. "It wouldn't fit in that elevator."
Napoleon stooped and began examining the rocks at their feet. After a few seconds, he straightened and nodded with satisfaction. "This isn't a natural cave," he said.
Illya looked around. "It will do until one comes along."
"No, this is a ravine. Thrush has built a roof over it and apparently covered the roof with dirt and planted grass and trees on it."
"Amazing," Illya murmured; "I never realized Hunding was a Thrush."
"Richard Wagner,
Die Walkuüre,
and it was a tree
inside
his house, not on the roof." Napoleon tossed off the identification and returned to speculating on the hanger construction.
"They must have blocked up this end with real ricks and dirt, brace by a steel wall. I wonder how they managed the other end, though. They must have something pretty elaborate in order to get the dirigible in and out."
"Right you are, sonny," came a cracked voice from behind them. "Just drop those guns and I might tell you about it."
The two agents dropped their pistols and turned slowly to face the speaker.
The man was wrinkled with age, but still ramrod-straight, with fierce eyes and a grin revealing broken teeth. Held firmly in the old hands was a weapon Napoleon recognized with respect, even though he had never before seen one outside of a museum: an Ithaca 12-guage double-barreled shotgun with twelve-inch barrels and a hand grip like that of an old dueling pistol.
"They outlawed those thing forty years ago," Napoleon said. "Too convenient for bank robbers."
The old man chuckled. "Well, they were advertised for home defense, and this one works right well. Don't either of you make any sudden moves, or I'll splatter you all over this side of the hanger. Now then, what brings you here?"
"Why, we received a message from Forbes, saying all agents were wanted here," Napoleon improvised smoothly. "We're from the Dubuque Satrapy, but we've been working with the Milwaukee group. I'm afraid we're a little late; we had trouble finding the place."
Napoleon was thinking furiously. This must be the Thrush caretaker. If he was alone here, then the dirigible was either being moved or was out on a trial run. Only one man—surely he and Illya could overpower him. Have to do it carefully, though; at this range, a double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot was the deadliest possible weapon.
The caretaker snorted. "You'll not take in old Ezra Sanders that easily. If you belong here, what were you doing with those guns?"
"Nobody answered the gate, and we had to crawl over the fence. We thought something was wrong."
Sanders appeared to be considering the statement. "Might be. Been something wrong with that call button on the gate these past few days; I think Andy pushed it too hard."
Napoleon sighed with relief and shifted position, then stiffened as the Ithaca was jabbed in is direction. "Might be ain't is!" the caretaker snapped. "You two just stay put while I think a bit."
"While you're thinking, could you tell us how they get the dirigible in and out of here?" Illya asked. "They surely don't slide the roof aside."
"Nah, that roof's solid. What we got is a big overhead door at one end. You know, one of them sectional things that slides up on tracks. Camouflaged real nice on the outside; looks like rocks and stuff. Had a hell of a time getting one big enough. But that roof, now that's real rock, with steel below. You could graze cattle up there," he said proudly.
Illya shifted position to ease an overburdened leg, and was rewarded by having the gun swivel to cover him. "Sonny, when I tell a man to stand still, I mean for him to be still," Sanders said.