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He shot a contemptuous glare down at Solo’s prone body.
“And,” he went on, “I think you will have company for your journey to hell!”
“I’ll get up to the transmitter and report to THRUSH,” Peters said.
“Help me tie them up before you go,” Griffis said hastily. “I can’t afford to take any chances with these U.N.C.L.E. rats. There’s some cord in the bottom desk drawer.
Peters pulled it out.
“It’s pretty light,” he said doubtfully.
“It’s all we have, but it’s strong,” Griffis replied. “I’ve been using it to tie the boxes of film. Take care of Solo. I’ll bind the girl.”
Napoleon Solo stiffened. He knew that it was now or never for him. As he recalled there had been two men who brought him down. The other man was an unknown factor. He could not place him in the room. But still Solo could not afford to delay his break for freedom. He would have to face the problem of the third man when it came.
He half opened his eyes. He could not see Griffis, but Peters was bending down to pass the binding cord around Napoleon’s body.
Napoleon jerked his foot up in a lightning kick. It caught Peters in the belly. The THRUSH man staggered back, gasping. He collided with Griffis, who jumped up from trying to bind the girl.
Both men went over in a tangle. Griffis dragged a THRUSH gun from his shoulder holster. Solo could see his own U.N.C.L.E. gun behind Griffis. But it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Griffis was between him and the gun.
With a fast sweeping motion Solo kicked the overturned editor’s chair into Griffis. The THRUSH division chief fell. Before he could recover, Solo grabbed Peters, who was still doubled up in pain. He slammed the groaning man into Griffis.
At that moment the lights went out. Marsha Mallon had thrown the room switch. Griffis’ gun boomed in the total darkness. Napoleon Solo crouched low. He started for the door he had seen behind the desk. Then he suddenly crashed into a wall. It knocked him to his knees - and saved his life. Griffis fired straight at the noise. His steel jacketed bullets ripped into the wall above Napoleon’s head.
The man from U.N.C.L.E. prudently did not straighten up. He realized what had happened. He was in a corridor leading to the processing darkroom where the Million Monsters films were developed.
In the excitement he mistook the darkroom door for the one leading into the hall.
He could hear the grind of gears as the film ran over a multitude of rollers as it looped in and out of the developing solutions. He knew that Griffis would follow and he started fumbling his way down the length of the room. He wondered where Marsha Mallon had gone.
From what he knew of photography he realized there would be an identical light trap in the opposite end of the room. The exposed film must be developed in total darkness for its first step. Since this was color reversal stock, it must be flashed to white light and bleached and redeveloped. But the succeeding steps could be carried out in room light.
He kept feeling his way down the length of the room. He could hear the grind of the processing machines beside him, but could see nothing.
Behind him Griffis’ voice bawled: “They must have come in here. Hit the light switch there on the wall to your left, Peters!”
“It - it’ll ruin the film!” Peters gasped.
“Damn the film!” Griffis snarled. “It is only one run. We can reprint. Getting those two before they ruin us is more important than anything in the world right now!”
Solo had no idea how long the room was. He only knew that he was within seconds of being exposed to Griffis’ gunfire.
He dropped to his hands and knees, hugging the side of the long row of processors. The entrance was on the opposite side of machines. He hoped to make the other light trap before they saw him.
The light flashed on. Napoleon Solo saw with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t have a chance to reach the exit.
In sheer desperation he threw his full weight against the water tank, where the film ran through a wash bath after coming from the developing tanks.
The tank teetered, hung for a moment on its outside legs, then crashed over. Nervously Griffis cut loose with his gun. The crash of the shots were almost lost in the din of metal and film rollers striking the concrete floor. Developing solutions sloshed against the wall.
Solo bent almost double and ran for the light trap in the back. Griffis, unable to get a clear shot, ran forward. His feet slipped on the wet floor. He sprawled flat. Peters leaped over his prone body and came after Solo.
But Napoleon had too much head start. The next room was lighted. Here the negative-developed color film came out of the first dark room and went into a powerful bleach bath. Napoleon overturned one of the tanks, splashing the highly corrosive acid on the floor between himself and Peters.
Peters realized the danger to himself. He drew back. Unopposed, Solo ran through the second dark room into the next, where the dried film was spun into reels.
He saw Marsha Mallon struggling to get a door open. He ran to her aid. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the overturned acid had effectively blocked pursuit in that direction.
However, he realized that he was not safely out of the trap yet. He was sure that Griffis and Peters were circling around through the hall to cut them off.
“Is it locked?” he asked breathlessly.
Marsha shook her head. Her face, a mirror of combined anxiety and stubborn determination, had a wildness that enhanced her natural beauty.
He thought at that moment that he had never seen so beautiful a woman. Something about their extreme danger heightened her natural beauty.
“No!” Marsha gasped. “It is stuck!”
Napoleon Solo pushed her back. He grabbed the knob, wrenching hard. When the door failed to open, he threw one foot against the facing for support. He jerked with all his strength.
The door shivered, but held tightly. Solo heaved again. It came open with a creak of seldom used hinges.
As he started through the door, Marsha caught his arm. The unexpectedness of her movement caught Solo off balance. She moved so swiftly that he was hurled backward in a savage judo throw. He bounced off the wall and sprawled flat.
He leaped up, but was too late. Marsha slammed the door in his face. He heard the noise of a bolt sliding into place on the opposite side.
Solo was shocked by bewilderment. “But why? We’re supposed to be on the same side!”
Solo grabbed the door knob and jerked with all his strength. After the one abortive try he gave up, knowing that he could never break the bolt. He had been wrong in thinking there was another light trap at the end of the processing room. Since operations here in the drying room were in the light, none was necessary.
He leaned against the wall. There was no way out. Marsha Mallon had condemned him to a THRUSH death!
TWO
AT THE PARIS airport Illya Kuryakin collided with Inspector Moreau as he ducked to escape being fried in the tremendous belch of flame blasting out from the exploding airliner.
The fireball mushroomed over their heads, raining fire. Illya Kuryakin threw his light top coat over his head. A ball of fire as large as his fist hit his leg. He shook it off and broke into a stumbling run. Inspector Moreau was just ahead of him - cape over his head.
Suddenly a large section of burning wing crashed out of the sky in front of them. Fire splattered wildly. The two men ducked, changed courses and ran through the gate.
“Look out, Inspector!” Illya yelled.
He grabbed at Moreau’s shoulder, catching the Frenchman just as he was about to plunge into the path of an onrushing fire truck.
As soon as the truck passed the two men staggered on to the protection of the air terminal.