Legs straight, kicking from the hips, the two men drove for deeper water. Somewhere out and down there was their only passage home. Solo had a wrist compass built into his suit, and by it he steered them through the inky water on a course due east. The depth gauge beside it crept downward—sixty feet...seventy feet...They hugged the coral-crusted bottom and squinted ahead for the lights of the sub.

Something bubbled faintly behind them, and he turned his head. A green glow filtered down along the slanting bottom, weaving as it approached. Napoleon snapped his fingers twice, and the muffled clicks caught his partner's attention. He gestured with his light, and saw Illya react as he saw the signs of their pursuers.

Napoleon directed his light at his free hand and began finger-spelling. Go to sub. Wait five minutes. Illya nodded and swam off down the slope again. In a moment he was lost in the darkness.

Napoleon snapped off the light and wriggled around, opening the zipper on the front of his suit and letting the sea water flow in around him, and found the lump tucked in his waistband. His secret weapon. He hadn't had a chance yet to use it with his unbelieving partner as witness, and it was a little frustrating. But the job came first, especially if it was a question of survival. Illya had the pictures, and he had the rocket pistol. And now was the time to use it.

He relaxed consciously, and slowed his breathing. No sense making a lot of bubbles that would attract the enemy's attention before it was inevitable, if indeed it was. The rocket pistol made very little flash underwater, and the direction of its bubble-exhaust would be practically impossible to trace under these conditions.

As the light approached, its green color grew more yellow and he could begin to see three swimming figures against and about it. He lay very still, holding to a clump of coral and steadying himself.

They were about thirty feet away as he pulled the cocking lever forward and down and raised the pistol.

The first shot made quite a roar for something so small. It sounded something like a torpedo being launched, as it was; and it had a similar effect on one of the swimmers—he stopped swimming and began thrashing about.

If he had started bleeding immediately, his associates might have got an idea of what was happening. But the one with the light directed it at the bottom, scanning for a stingray or sea urchin which might have given the victim a dangerous sting. And while he was looking, he too was stung.

The light, released from his grip, drifted slowly down to rest on a branch of coral. The third Thrush looked about wildly, and saw a dark cloud beginning to ooze from the small tear in the suit of his friend. He couldn't have guessed what was attacking them, but he knew enough to head for the surface.

As the range opened, Napoleon's next two shots tore the water on either side of the fleeing diver, and his third was spent before reaching him. It was a split-second decision whether to follow him and prevent his alarm from getting to the land.

His knowledge of the abilities of their minisub made his decision for him. If they had scuba guards ready, Thrush must have reasoned that underwater would have been the only possible access to this island. Therefore, they would have a full-sized submarine which would probably be prowling the off-shore waters within minutes, whether their frogmen came back or not. And the U.N.C.L.E. sub could probably swim faster, diver deeper, stay down longer, and come up drier than anything Thrush could muster on such short notice. With his other hand he let the hammer-lever up gently.

He retrieved the dropped underwater light, and started back down the long slope into darkness.

It was less than a minute before the lights of the minisub began to be visible ahead of him. He extinguished the light he carried, and swam directly to the porthole and looked in.

There was Illya, lounging in the pilot's seat, feet up on the control panel, looking at his wristwatch. Napoleon tapped on the glass, and waved. Illya looked up and gestured over his shoulder towards the hatch. Napoleon nodded and swam up around the bulge of the hull to where the circle of white marked the entrance to the airlock.

Fifteen seconds later he was inside, and with practiced touch hit the buttons sealing the hatch and starting the electromagnetic pumps that replaced the sea water with air. He'd only been underwater some six or seven minutes—surface pressure would be safe for him.

Illya was still in the same position as Solo came out of the lock into the control sphere, but he spoke as the dripping suit slipped to the floor. "Steam is up, Captain. Fasten your seat belts and we'll be off."

"Excellent," said Napoleon, climbing into his contour couch and hooking the nylon straps about himself. "Head for home, James—it's been a long, tiring night!"

Section IV: "Is There No Way Of Stopping It?"

Chapter 13: "The Highest Con In The History Of The World."

Alexander Waverly leaned back in his chair and stared at the smoke rising from the other end of his pipe. He nodded slowly, as if considering something he didn't like. After some time he spoke, and his voice was tired.

"Of course it had to be Thrush. But none of our sources indicated they had any actual space potential beyond orbiting small single units. Something this large..."

A pneumatic tube coughed near his elbow and he reached for the message cylinder. A sheet of yellow paper was rolled up inside it. He unrolled it in silence and gave it a glance which committed every word to memory. He leaned forward and handed it across to Napoleon Solo.

"Report from Section Five," he said. "Complete analysis of that scrap of material you brought back with you."

Napoleon looked over the paper, and Illya read over his shoulder. "Hundred and fifty pounds per cubic foot, very high reflectivity, low tensile strength .. ."

"Seems kind of flimsy to build a spacesuit out of," said Illya.

"That's what Section Five thinks," said his partner. "Too thin, too light. No radiation protection at all. And the backing is not one that could be laminated onto a sturdier spacesuit—wouldn't be practical."

He stared at the report for a while, then set it resignedly on the table. Finally he looked up at Waverly. "So we can't do anything to the Monster Wheel anyway," he said. "We know where the base is. There were enough plans and other materials lying about to prove the Monster Wheel was launched from there. We could simply let the government know what we've found, and have a flight of bombers level the island."

Waverly shook his head slowly, and his face was worn. "They wouldn't be able to." He leaned forward and rested both hands on the table. "There is absolutely no reason to destroy that base. They have done nothing legally or morally wrong. The Monster Wheel has made no aggressive moves, and there is no law in the world against launching a space station without a license." He smiled slightly. "I seem to be repeating this statement twice a day."

"Are the voice broadcasts continuing?"

"Yes—regularly. Nothing new in the material, though. The view is always wonderful, the radiation level is quite acceptable, the life support systems are functioning perfectly, no trouble with micrometeorites. Nothing about observations of ground installations in any countries; nothing about solar fluctuations; nothing about any astrophysical observations. In short, nothing at all of value to us. And they still refuse to acknowledge any ground transmissions."

Napoleon Solo thought, and looked at his partner as he did so. A bell was ringing insistently somewhere in the back of his brain, reminding him of something he had seen but not noticed during those few busy hours inside the Thrush base on Dauringa Island. No—it was something he hadn't seen, and had not missed...until now.