“How do you like The Little Ease, Mr. Solo?” the man said, his death’s-head face looming in the half-light of the cavern. “The Medieval cultures had their interesting torments, did they not? You can neither sit nor stand. Nor can you lie down. Fortunately for you, I have strapped you so that you cannot accidentally electrocute yourself. The same for the lady, of course. The electricity is, of course, a refinement we’ve added to the original specifications. We like to keep up to date.” The eyes in the awful face seemed to glow. “You will recover the use of your voice in approximately ten minutes. If you have recovered your hearing, as I suspect you have, please nod your head.”

Napoleon Solo nodded, trying hard to swallow.

“Good.” The mans voice was as spectral and unreal as his appearance. It was brassy and hollow…like the clang of a metal door in a vault. “We must talk even though I have reduced you to these unpleasant extremes. Do not confuse the exotic nature of your torment with any wish on my part to be glamorous and occult. Nakedness is a powerful depressant, a humiliation to the feelings of the modern, so-called civilized man. It can be used as a psychological weapon, therefore.” He paused. “Do you feel any physical pain as yet?’

Solo shook his head.

“Splendid. The drug always performs as desired. You would find it useful in your role as enforcement officer for U.N.C.L.E., but I’m afraid you will never see America again. At least, not unless you consent to certain articles of behavior. The same code applies to the lady. I appreciate her beauty, I assure you, and there will be much done to her before she finally ends her usefulness…but we were talking about the drug. It is called anakalinine. One tablet induces paralysis of the vocal cords for as long as two hours. You could imagine the purpose it could serve with prisoners and people one wouldn’t want to have talking all about the place. You are extremely fortunate, as it is. Anyone else would have perished in that plane crash.”

A dull, gnawing sensation of pain began to work along Solos racked body. It began with a series of faint, hot flushes starting down from his shoulders. The cage swayed above the stone floor, adding to his sense of unreality. It must be suspended from the ceiling, Solo decided—and twisting with effort to look at Jerry Terry’s cage, he saw that this was true.

“Actually, anakalinine also serves as a pain depressant and seems to affect the hearing as well. There are several qualities of the drug which we haven’t quite explained even to ourselves as yet. No matter. Oh, forgive me. My name is Golgotha. You will appreciate the beauty of the title, considering the fact that you must be acquainted with the Christian mythos. Golgotha was the hill shaped like a skull, was it not?” The death’s-head might have leered, but it was impossible to tell.

“Now, to particulars. Since a kindly fate did not allow you to die in the crash—you and the lady were thrown from the plane, since you seem to have worked the side door open even in your semi-conscious state—I have granted you a respite from death. Your fine organization cannot hurt us now. We are on the march. This time Thrush will succeed totally. Do you feel any pain now, dear Mr. Solo?’

Beads of perspiration had formed on Solo’s face. From behind the tall shadow came a whimper of agony from Jerry Terry. The death’s-head turned to look at her and there was a strangling noise of terror.

Golgotha laughed his metallic laugh.

“She’s fainted,” he said without bitterness. “Women always do at first sight of my magnificent ugliness. Rather like your Phantom of the Opera movie, I imagine. I saw that many times as a child in Ujpest. Little did I dream that one day I would most certainly resemble your Mr. Chaney—” He broke off, as if he had betrayed himself in a moment of revelation. “No matter. Your friends are on their way back to America with Mr. Stewart Fromes’ body. They will learn nothing from it. His corpse will be nothing but a skeleton by the time they reach the coast and your scientists will never trace the impossibly perfect drug which brought it all about. It leaves absolutely no trace. Think of it, Mr. Solo. A catalyst which vanishes once it does it work. Something your medical science has never encountered before and of course, since it will have ceased to exist, cannot encounter now. Try saying something, please.”

Solo made a strangling sound in his throat. It was the barest croak of sound.

“You see? A few minutes more and you will wonder why you couldn’t speak when. you wanted to. So let me tell you my offer. As I say, you must die. But everything has two sides, even the matter of dying. You may die swiftly and without pain. Swallow a simple tablet, lie down, and it is ended. Or you can die by degrees, so slowly and with such monumental agony that you will scream and beg for the peace of death which I will not give you. Unless, of course, you agree to the conditions of my proposal.”

Solo closed his eyes. The pain had begun to rise in waves of agony, washing down his back and thighs. He bit his lips. Golgotha would not have the satisfaction of seeing him come to heel.

“Do you hear me, Mr. Solo? Nod if you do.” Napoleon Solo nodded.

“Good. My request is simple. I want the names and locations of each and every agent known to you in the entire U.N.C.L.E. organization. This will be extremely valuable to us, as you must realize. When Thrush assumes its role as world leader, we of the Council must be certain that there are no small pockets of resistance left. It is imperative that we destroy U.N.C.L.E. You should feel flattered. We respect your organization. We regard it as our greatest threat. Do you understand? Tell me what I want to know and I will inject you with a pain-killing drug which will nullify the effects of anakalinine. You have only to draw up a chart containing the names and whereabouts we require.”

Solo’s mouth worked. He gasped for sound. The drumming fiber of Golgotha’s voice was sending rivers of agony into his ears. Another minute more of this would be too much.

“W—wh—what—”

“Try, Mr. Solo. You should have voice by now.”

“The—the—” It was impossible. Solo could feel the tautness of his throat.

“Breathe deeply. Shout if you must. Hear yourself.”

“The—girl—same thing—”

Golgotha’s eyes glittered coldly.

“Of course. I will even spare her the amorous natures of my colleagues, Mr. Solo.”

“I’ll do it,” Napoleon Solo whispered. “But first—sleep. Must sleep—I’m out of my mind with pain—” The cage seemed to shiver with vibrations.

Golgotha stepped in closer, peering into the eyes of the man crouched before him. His voice was a menacing murmur now.

“Good. You will not be sorry. But please remember this—if you have agreed now only to say no later, you will be more sorry than I can possibly suggest. You may fool me now. But my wrath will make the gods cry out in pain.”

“I promise—damn you—the needle—I can’t stand this—”

Golgotha studied him intently for one second, he dug into the folds of his dark cloak and produced a flat, black medical case. Fanning it open expertly, he selected a long hypodermic needle from a velveteen bed of similar objects. Napoleon Solo’s eyes followed his every movement.

The bareness of the room was still unreal. It was as if there were no door, no window, no sound from anywhere else in the wide, wide universe.

Golgotha came closer, pointing the needle at Napoleon Solo’s bulging right bicep. His tongue clucked approvingly. His face, like a distended Halloween mask, was horribly near, bobbing through the metal bars of the cage.

“Your arm is like stone. I will loosen your bonds and open the door of your cage. You must flex your arm, Mr. Solo, to restore the blood circulation.”

Solo nodded quickly, his eyes almost pleading now. With grim speed, Golgotha stepped before the cage and unlatched a fitted section of bars. Magically a door swung outward, showing freedom. The skull-faced man began to unwind the leather wrappings which bound Solo’s right arm to a cross-work of bars. It took a mere ten seconds to loosen the cuffs. Like a dead fish, Solo’s right arm fell to his side. His fingers were as senseless as if they had never been alive. Golgotha stepped back as Solo’s body sagged through the narrow opening of the cage, half-in and half-out, his left arm still fastened by a thong to an iron bar.