[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. - Страница 7

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Still in the pilot's compartment, Napoleon Solo was in contact with Mr. Waverly in New York. He made a hasty report of the unusual storm.

"Yes," Waverly said. "I have just received a report from Weather Central. Everyone is dumfounded by the sudden appearance of the hurricane."

"Was it really artificial?" Napoleon asked. "It seemed like the real McCoy to us in it!"

"There is a real curious thing about this storm, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied. "It is so strange that Weather Central is flabbergasted. They can't understand it. To me that is proof positive that the storm was created."

"What is that, sir?" solo asked.

"The storm is turning in the wrong direction!"

"What?" Solo asked. "I don't understand."

"Hurricanes and typhoons are the same," Waverly said. "They are most monstrous circling storms, revolving about a calm eye. The difference is that the hurricane is in the Atlantic and the typhoon is the name given to Pacific Ocean storms. There is one other difference and that is what concerns us here."

"And that is, sir?"

"The direction of rotation of these storms are always from right to left on the north side of the equator. On the south side of the equator they revolve from left to right."

"Ours didn't?"

"It did not. You were south of the equator when you were struck. Radar planes from the international weather service have picked up the storm on their scopes. It is circling from right to left. This is the first known case of this ever happening in the history of the weather service."

"That seems to indicate that this might be an artificial storm after all," Solo said.

"Yes," Waverly replied. "Other storms we caught which we feel may also be THRUSH tests behaved normally. The only explanation is that this storm was generated to destroy you and Mr. Kuryakin. I suspect your attempt to contact Dr. Santos-Lopez made THRUSH suspect you knew something about these experiments."

"Do we have any kind of lead as to where these things are generated, sir?" Napoleon asked. His brow creased with worry. If THRUSH had so mastered the elements that it could create a storm of such cyclonic fury, the evil organization was close to being ready to launch a stormy attack as a prelude to destroying the world's governments.

"There is only the smallest possible lead and it may prove false," Waverly said. "A sea-going yacht was spotted off the fringes of two Pacific typhoons. It may be a coincidence or it may have something to do with generating these monstrous things. We are investigating."

"There may be something else," Napoleon said. "We got out of this because of a girl—a rather odd young lady. She showed a surprising knowledge of the storm."

Waverly had his chief enforcement officer describe the girl minutely.

"Hang on a moment," he said. "I want to see what the computer has to say about anyone with that description."

Solo waited impatiently. In U.N.C.L.E. headquarters the giant computers, storing a fantastic amount of criminal and scientific data ground out Waverly's request in forty-five seconds.

"The description you gave me could fit a young woman names Lupe de Rosa," Waverly said. "Does she have a Spanish look about her?"

"Vaguely," Napoleon said. "But she does not speak with an accent."

"Miss de Rosa has no accent. She was born in California. She was a brilliant student, specializing in meteorology. A paper she wrote brought her to the attention of Dr. Santos-Lopez. She was his assistant until about eighteen months ago. She quit after a quarrel. The quarrel seems to have had something to do with her belief that she was providing all the genius in his experiments while he was taking the credit."

"That could well be this lady," Napoleon said positively.

"If so, please cultivate her," Waverly said. "She could be very important to us. She should know all of Santos-Lopez's secrets. She could be extremely important in helping destroy THRUSH's storm maker."

"Much as I hate to mention it," Napoleon said, "but you may have to call in Mark Slate. This lady is under the present impression that Illya and I are first class bums."

"Well, whatever you have done to give her that impression, undo it at once!" Waverly snapped. "I have a horrible vision of a series of those killer storms striking the United States. Our situation is desperate!"

ACT IV: VANISHING LADY

The plane kept spiraling up, circling inside the still eye of the hurricane. It was growing lighter outside by the minute. Slowly the big jet climbed above the boiling clouds, breaking out into the clear air above the storm.

Several times Illya Kuryakin tried to engage the girl in conversation. She ignored him and kept staring out the window. After about an hour of this, he got up and went back to see Napoleon Solo. The two men walked up forward, where they could talk without being overheard. Solo quickly filled him in on Waverly's hunch that the girl was the dead meteorologist's former assistant.

"That means she is probably in danger herself," Illya said.

"That is right," Napoleon replied. "And we must do a better job of taking care of her than we did her former boss."

"She has the same opinion of us that he did," Illya said wryly.

"Mr. Waverly will have some people at the airport to help us keep her under surveillance," Solo said. "She is our best lead. If THRUSH strikes at her, we must be prepared."

Illya nodded. But I wish she would say something to me," he said. "I don't expect a kind word, but she could at least curse me. Anything is better than that frigid silence."

"Try a new tack," Napoleon suggested.

"What?"

"How do I know? Am I supposed to do your romancing for you?"

"Just go back to your seat," Illya retorted. "I'll win that drink from you yet!"

When Illya slipped back in the seat beside the girl, he decided the best thing was a direct, honest approach. The girl was obviously no idiot. Her record as a meteorologist showed that she had brains to match her beauty.

"Miss de Rosa," he said. Her shoulders jerked unconsciously at the mention of her name, but she still did not look around at him. He knew, though, from her unconscious flinch that the name struck home.

"Miss de Rosa," he repeated. "I am sure you heard just before we took off from South America that Dr. Santos-Lopez was killed."

She did not answer, but she started breathing harder. The rapid rise and fall of her breast showed clearly that what he said was having an effect upon her, even though she continued to ignore him.

"We have reason to believe that you might be in similar danger," he said. "Dr. Santos-Lopez was killed because of work you shared with him. We would like to protect you from a similar fate if we can."

She turned then and looked at him. There was an odd light in her deep dark eyes. It wasn't exactly anger, but it was partially that, plus a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"Mr. Solo—or are you the one they call Kuryakin?"

"Illya Kuryakin, I—"

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin, I do not care to be protected by you or Mr. Solo. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself! Perfectly capable, thank you!"

She turned to her absorbed study of the morning sky. He did not get so much as a glance from her the rest of the flight in to New York.

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