The Mind-Twisters Affair

THE MIND-TWISTERS AFFAIR

CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC in mid-Manhattan was stalled, the normal state of affairs for the daylight hours. The large black sedan inched its way forward through the sweltering afternoon heat, working resolutely toward the East River. The driver, his jacket off and tie at half mast, was sweating and muttering under his breath. The second man in the front seat was swiveled around, his eyes on the younger man sitting directly behind the driver. The younger man sat stiffly, with a look of quiet desperation in his eyes. He was being watched intently by the other back-seat passenger, who sat with his jacket draped across his lap, his right hand hidden beneath the jacket.

A horn blasted from a few yards away, and the driver jumped slightly and glanced around. Another horn sounded, the driver swore but didn't bother to look for the source of the noise. He stared belligerently ahead while voicing his opinion of all New York drivers except himself.

Suddenly there was a crash and the car lurched forward. The four men were jerked backward into the seat cushions, then tossed forward as the car was stopped suddenly by the rear end of the sports car in front of it. Three of the men turned automatically and angrily toward the rear. The younger man in the back seat lunged for the door. Before any of the others could turn back, he was out of the car and ducking through the stalled traffic.

"Get him!" the driver ordered, and the other two men leaped out of the car. More horns blared as traffic tried to move forward another few feet with three pedestrians ducking through it. The driver pulled an object resembling a cigarette box out of his jacket pocket and began speaking into it.

The younger man snaked his way between the cars and shoved through the crowds on the sidewalk. An alley opened in front of him and he plunged into it and ran. He knew without turning that two of his recent captors would be pursuing him. He had just reached the intersecting alley when the pursuers burst through the crowd and entered the alley. He raced around the corner before they could fire, plunged the length of the alley, and disappeared into the crowd. Now he had a chance; even the vast resources of his pursuers would be taxed to locate a single man in downtown Manhattan when that man didn't want to be located. He didn't know the exact location of the place for which he was heading, but it couldn't be far. The fact that an opportunity had come when it did, after days of patient waiting, was surely a good omen.

He moved rapidly through the crowd; he had a chance, but he was the last person to underestimate the pursuit. There was a commotion in the crowd behind him as someone fried to force his way through the press. He speeded up, noticed that traffic was stalled again, and cut across the street, going through another alley on the opposite side. There was a policeman at the next corner. He thought momentarily of seeking police aid, but discarded the idea. He'd be shot down while the police were still trying to decide whether or not to believe his story. There was only one group which could help him - if he could locate it in time.

Glancing back, he saw no sign of pursuit. His brief elation was stilled by the thought of the number of reinforcements his hunters could pour into the area. He hurried on, winded now and beginning to breathe heavily.

Minutes later, he rounded a final corner and spotted the sign he had been looking for. "De1 Floria – Cleaners" it read. He raced for it and staggered as he entered, gasping for breath. His recent enforced inactivity was beginning to tell on him. Del Floria, a little man in his fifties, looked up from behind the shop counter at the sudden intrusion.

The fugitive lurched across the floor to the counter. Between gasps for breath, he spoke. "Let me in! I can help you! Let me in before they catch me!"

Del Floria looked puzzled but unperturbed, as if he was used to strange men coming into his shop and shouting at him. "Let you in? As far as I can see, you are in."

"No, no! Into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. You have to trust me. Thrush is after me; they know I'll come here and they can't be far behind. They'll kill me if you don't let me inside!"

"I told you…" Del Floria began again, this time surreptitiously pressing a button recessed under the counter.

"You don't understand," the man rushed on, beginning to regain his breath. "I was a member of Thrush, until I found out the truth about them. I can tell U.N.C.L.E. all sorts of things."

"The truth about Thrush?"

"They're a bunch of international gangsters!" A look of fanaticism came across the man's face. "They're evil; they must be destroyed! I'll do anything to help U.N.C.L.E. against them. I did their terrible work for ten years! I must get in! I must have a chance to make up for those years!"

Del Floria preserved his air of incomprehension while pushing the button a second time. Where was that security detail? The man was close to sobbing now, pounding his fist on the counter.

Suddenly the door burst open again. This time two men in their shirtsleeves pushed their way through, the man in the lead pulling a pistol from his pocket as he entered. The man at the counter whirled around, terrified. He screamed at the sight of the two men, then dashed blindly toward the rear of the shop.

"It's somewhere here, it has to be!" he cried, pounding at the walls around the dressing booths.

The man with the gun stood just inside the doorway, watching both Del Floria and the fugitive. The second man, a huge individual, approached the fugitive, a black jack gripped in one beefy hand.

As the pursuer approached, the fugitive turned from his futile pounding of the walls and swung a fist at his opponent. The man with the blackjack avoided the blow and grabbed the smaller man's wrist. With a quick twist, the fugitive broke free and darted for the doorway. With a speed amazing in so large a man, the pursuer was on him. The blackjack swung once, and the victim crumpled to the shop floor.

Quickly and efficiently, the two men carried the unconscious form from the shop, the leader eyeing Del Floria all the time. However, neither man made a move toward the shop's proprietor, and as they reached the street, the large man even reached back to carefully close the shop door.

A moment later, when the security detail came hurriedly out of the dressing booth which served as an entrance to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, the shop was peaceful.

CONTENTS

Section I: "Put On His Most Cynical Sneer"

Chapter 1 : "Our image Appears To Have Become Tarnished"

2 : "The Hardest Part Is Finding A Rose With Hips"

3 : "What's Your Excuse For Starting This Riot?"

4 : "Habit, Nothing But Habit"

Section II: "Harass The Foe From The Rear"

5: "How Does One Lose A Helicopter?"

6: "What Is All This Stuff Under Here?"

7: "The Thing To Do Is Work Out A New Questionnaire"

8: "A Powerful Figure Of Evil Indeed"

Section III: "You're Anxious To End Your Career?"

9: "If I Didn't Know Better, I'd Say This Was A Chain"

10: "You're Developing A Very Creditable Mean Streak"

11: "Who Ever Heard Of A Flying Saucer With A Parachute?"

Section IV : "Likewise, Give The Victor A Cheer"

12 : "I Don't Care If They Flapped Their Wings And Flew"

13 : "How Does 'Whateley For President' Strike You?"

14 : ."This Isn't Exactly What I Had In Mind"

15 : "Clumsiness Pays Off Again"

16 : "It's A Little Late To Call Mr. Waverly"

Section I: "Put On His Most Cynical Sneer"

Chapter 1

"Our Image Appears To Have Become Tarnished"

NAPOLEON SOLO and Illya Kuryakin walked respectfully into the office. Alexander Waverly stood at the window, puffing on his pipe and staring contemplatively at the U.N. building a few blocks away. An elderly gnome of a man with an Einstein-style bush of gray hair paced nervously behind Waverly and looked up suddenly as Illya closed the office door.

"Dr. Morthley," Napoleon said, holding out his hand. "It's nice to see you again. How are you coming with your invisibility device?"

Dr. Morthley's welcoming grin faded. "Terrible," he replied. "I haven't been able to make any progress at all since you got me away from Thrush last spring."

Napoleon shook his head sympathetically. "Getting kidnapped by Thrush and spirited away to Central America in an invisible dirigible can be an unsettling experience. Perhaps it's simply taken you a while to recover from the shock."

"Yes," Illya agreed. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make the device practical."

"My feelings precisely, gentlemen," Waverly said, moving toward his large, circular desk. "Dr. Morthley has indicated the need for a fresh viewpoint, which is why I've called you here."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid that science was never my strongest subject, sir," be said, looking questioningly at Illya.

"And invisibility wasn't mine," Illya added.

"No, no, gentlemen; you misunderstand. The man we want is Dr. Richard Armden. Unfortunately, we seem to be having some difficulty in acquiring his services."

"Armden?" Illya looked thoughtful. "I seem to have beard that name before."

Waverly smiled as he replaced his pipe in its rack. "Correct, Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Armden has worked with us before, though always in a minor capacity. That is the fact which makes our present predicament particularly puzzling."

The two agents watched Waverly patiently as he motioned them to sit down. He would explain things in his own time and way, and further questions would simply delay him in his selection of another pipe from the well-stocked rack in front of him. Waverly was one of the few individuals who chain-smoked pipes. After a minute of tamping and puffing, during which time Dr. Morthley resumed his pacing, the U.N.C.L.E. Director resumed.

"You are both familiar with Dr. Morthley's device, and the fact that there are certain problems still to be, ah, conquered, before it can be made practical for our use. Approximately a month ago, Dr. Morthley felt that he could benefit from a fresh viewpoint on the problem. He suggested that we contact a former colleague of his, Dr. Armden, from Indiana. Since Dr. Armden had worked with us previously, this struck me as a splendid idea."

Dr. Morthley stopped pacing and flopped down in a chair. "I don't understand it," he said querulously. "I always considered Richard to be a brilliant man, and he was one of my closest friends when we were both on the Purdue faculty. I simply don't understand his reaction to my phone call, and now this letter…"

"Letter, sir?" Napoleon asked, looking inquiringly at both Morthley and Waverly.

Dr. Morthley pulled a crumpled envelope from the pocket of his equally crumpled coat and handed it to Napoleon. Waverly held up a hand and resumed his interrupted lecture.

"Before you read the letter, gentlemen, let me give you the proper background. You see, when we wrote to Dr. Armden, he ignored us completely. We wrote two letters and sent a telegram, with no reply to any of them."

"That just wasn't like Richard," Dr. Morthley broke in, getting to his feet and beginning to pace again. "I became concerned and telephoned him. His wife answered the phone, and at first he refused to speak to me. It sounded as if she had to plead with him before he came to the phone. And when he did…"

Morthley broke off, shaking his head sadly. After a short pause, he continued. "I'm positive that he's in some sort of trouble. He wouldn't act that way if he wasn't. I've worked with him; he's one of these men who is completely dedicated to his work. I was even a little surprised when he got married, but this! Why, the man never had a political thought in his life!"

Napoleon looked faintly surprised. "I was under the impression that U.N.C.L.E. was above such mundane activity as politics. Disinterested international group, and all that."

"Oh, we are," Mr. Waverly assented. "But our image, at least in the Midwest, appears to have become tarnished. What Dr. Morthley started to say was that Dr. Armden refused to help on the grounds that be would never again work for a - I believe the exact words were 'thieving, communistic, war-mongering' organization like U.N.C.L.E."

"Exactly," said Morthley, "and then he heaped abuse on me, just for associating with you! And he hung up on me."

Napoleon reflected that this might be the major source of the scientist's outrage; probably no one else had ever hung up on Willard Morthley since he had achieved his reputation as one of the finest scientific tinkerers since Edison.

"That was last week," Waverly continued. "Then, just yesterday, Dr. Morthley received that letter which you have in your hand, Mr. Solo. It's from Mrs. Armden. She appears quite concerned about her husband's mental state."

Napoleon glanced quickly through the letter and handed it to Illya.

"There's a hysterical tone to parts of it," Napoleon said. "There must be more to it than just his sudden aversion to U.N.C.L.E. and a general irritability. She sounds as if she fears for his sanity."