The Lost Innocence Affair
By
Loretta Ross
Red Scarf was a member of Thrush Central, one of the more eccentric of an eccentric lot. He was a big man with a shaven head who liked to dress in the style of an Oriental potentate and he traveled with a retinue that included fire-eaters and sword dancers as well as a harem consisting of over a dozen young women. The women were generally Thrush employees who had, in some way, offended their immediate superiors. They tended to change on a regular basis. Red Scarf was fond of unorthodox pleasures and often his partners failed to survive his enjoyment.
The eunuchs, of course, were minions who had failed to live up to his expectations and therefore lost the opportunity to live up to anyone else’s.
The Future History project was his special pet. From the moment Dr. Kalpur came to Red Scarf with his plan the Thrush official had been fired with enthusiasm. There was no limit to what they could do with a machine that could pull someone from the future to the present for interrogation. The good doctor, regrettably, did not live to see his vision become a reality. He made some rather sloppy calculations and had to be fed to a boa constrictor as an object lesson. Still, Red Scarf remembered him fondly as he stood above the finished device and addressed an assembly of all the scientists and technicians who had worked so hard to build it. Well, what was left of them, anyway.
“My minions,” he called out in his booming voice. “For four long years we have planned and labored and sacrificed!” This last was especially true. Only that afternoon Red Scarf himself had strangled an insolent secretary in the name of Kali. “Finally, the moment of our triumph is at hand!
The Thrush base was located in an abandoned grain elevator on the outskirts of a Kansas town that had never really recovered from the Dustbowl Days. The Future History machine occupied one of the storage silos. The harem was in another and the main building was given over to offices.
Red Scarf stood on a platform above the floor of the circular room and beamed on his subordinates as he basked in their applause and considered which of them, now that the machine was completed, were expendable. He was completely unaware that he, in turn, was being observed from above.
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, the top two enforcement agents of the U.N.C.L.E. had made their way in by climbing an old grain chute to the top of the silo and then working their way down. They had already knocked out the guards in the main part of the installation and retrieved the blueprints for the machine. All that now remained was to destroy the machine before it could be used and make their escape.
The Future History machine was on a wooden platform about eight feet below them and off to their left. It consisted of a circular metal deck surrounded by glowing spirals of various colors. The control mechanism was in front of Red Scarf on a separate platform about two feet higher and three feet closer to where they crouched. It looked like the result of an unnatural marriage between a Zamboni and a glockenspiel.
The catwalk they were on was old and rusted. As they crept cautiously along, trying to work their way into a good position from which to jump the Thrush official and take out the handful of guards who’d been stationed inside the room, a bolt popped and then another. Exchanging a look of alarm, the two agents hurried across the ancient metal. It was too late. The damage was done. With a loud groan the catwalk gave way and the two agents fell to the floor, sprawling ingloriously in the midst of their enemies.
“Ah-ha!” Red Scarf cried out triumphantly. “U.N.C.L.E. agents, just as I thought! I’ve been expecting you to try to steal my new toy. But you’re too late! Observe, my pathetic little U.N.C.L.E. men, the instrument of your destruction! Behold the future!”
With a dramatic gesture he pulled the handle that controlled the machine. The glowing spirals began to spin and a low pitched whine filled the room, starting out barely audible and quickly growing to deafening proportions. A diffuse glow seemed to gather from nowhere and form a sphere in the center of the room. As the glow increased in brightness it began to revolve and as it revolved it coalesced into a human figure. There was a final, intense flash and suddenly the light was gone and they all stood looking in amazement at the figure of a woman from a distant era.
She had blue hair and an eyebrow ring and there was glitter on her face.
That is, she had blonde hair streaked with blue. It was cut short and she wore it in two tiny ponytails. She was wearing, of all things, blue denim bell-bottoms and a tight, revealing halter-top in psychedelic tie-dye. She stood maybe five foot three, but that was counting the six-inch soles of her platform shoes. There were moons and stars painted on the legs of her jeans and her shirt said, “I lie to boys,” in shiny gold letters. She popped her gum and looked around at the gathered minions and the captive U.N.C.L.E. agents.
“Okay, this is, like, so totally weird!”
While the Thrush minions were staring in awe at the woman from the future, Napoleon and Illya exploded into action. Napoleon dropped a smoke pellet from his cuff link into the midst of the Thrush contingent and he and Illya dived apart, splitting the opposition between them.
Napoleon came up nearest the door and dived through, then immediately turned back, using the doorway for protection as he tried to provide covering fire for his partner. Illya was in the thick of the fight – instead of splitting up like a good little coordinated bunch of Thrushies, each man had individually decided to go after the smaller agent. The Russian turned and shouted back to Napoleon.
“Go on! Get the plans to safety! I’ll get the girl!”
“I wanted to get the girl!” Napoleon protested.
“Will you just go?”
“All right,” Napoleon agreed reluctantly. “But if you don’t come out, I’m coming back.”
“I’m counting on it!”
Napoleon took careful aim and managed to wing two of the guards, hoping to draw some of them into pursuing him, then turned and ran. Illya was left alone, surrounded by four functioning security guards and two dozen technicians. He jabbed his hand into the first guard’s throat, crushing his larynx, then shattered the second’s kneecap with a swift kick. The third guard fell unconscious among his fellows when Illya delivered a roundhouse punch. Evading the fourth guard, Illya leapt up to the platform where the vision of tomorrow still stood bewildered.
“Pardon me, miss,” he began politely. Whatever he was going to say, though, was lost forever when Red Scarf, leaning down from the control platform, wrenched loose the power lever and whacked him on the back of the head with it.
* * * * *
Illya awoke slowly with a blinding headache. “Ah,” he thought, “it is always nice to wake up in familiar circumstances.” He blinked his blue eyes and the bright light in the ceiling was blocked by a most unusual vision. Memory came flooding back as he recognized the girl from the future looking at him upside down.
His breath caught in his throat as he considered the woman crouching over him. He knew enough about the workings of Thrush’s machine to know that she was from the next century at least. The Russian agent was awed thinking about the history she must have witnessed, the scientific advances she must be privy to, all the things she must know that he did not. She seemed to him to be an oracle and he waited anxiously to see, when she spoke, what she would say.
The girl peered down at him uncertainly and chewed nervously on her lower lip. Finally she reached out one delicate, well-manicured fingernail and poked him in the shoulder.
“Yoo-hoo! Excuse me! Mr. Man?”
“Ungh?” he responded articulately.
“You got any gum?”
“Ehngh?
She did a dainty imitation of a cat with a hairball. “The water in this place tastes like rotten eggs. I need to get the taste out of my mouth.”
Illya sat up and shook his head, then instantly regretted it. “No, I’m sorry. I am not carrying any gum.”
She took this calmly. “Got any candy then?”
“Ah . . . no.” He pulled himself up and staggered over to sit on a cot. They were in an ordinary cell. Two bunks were attached to one wall, there was a small sink and a toilet in the corner, and a solid door with only a small barred opening. The girl followed to sit beside him.
“You know something? You’re kind of cute. You know what you oughta do, though? You oughta let your hair grow out some and dye it in a – maybe a nice pink leopard pattern.”
Illya reminded himself that she came from a different culture and answered in a carefully non-committal tone. “Perhaps. However, right now what I must do is find a way to get us out of here.”
“Oh. Well, duh!” The girl reached into a little purple handbag and produced a little purple cube. She split it open and Illya stared, fascinated, at the interior of the object. Folded out it consisted of a small screen, a pad of numbers, like the buttons on a calculator, and a small grill at each end. “I have my cell. We can call 911.”
She put it to her ear and a perplexed look crossed her glittered little face. “Okay, this is so totally bogus! I have minutes left! I know I do!”
Illya leaned over to look at the “cell” when she took it away from her ear to glower at it. “Excuse me, Miss . . .?”
“Huh? Oh, McCarthy. Innocence McCarthy.”
“Innocence?”
She glared at him. “SOOO don’t go there!”
He looked around and considered that they weren’t going anywhere in the immediate future, but he didn’t want to discourage the girl. “What I was going to say, Miss McCarthy, is that perhaps the support network required by your device is not yet in existence. How does it work?”
“How does what work?”
“Your, um, ‘cell’.”
“Oh.” She grinned at him suddenly. “Boy! You are a blond!” She held the cell in front of him. “You push this button to turn it on . . .”
“No, no.” He held out one hand to forestall the explanation. “I meant, what are the principles behind its operation?”
Innocence gave him a deadpan look and spoke very slowly. “You push this button . . .”
* * * * *
The plans for the Future History machine were contained on a small microdot. Napoleon hid it in a telephone directory, masquerading as part of a large apostrophe, and called headquarters for an U.N.C.L.E. courier to come and pick it up.
“Negative, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said at once. “You will bring the plans in personally.”
“Well, yes, Sir, I would, of course, but unfortunately I need to return to the Thrush base.”
Waverly harrumphed. “Mr. Kuryakin is a trained agent. He will have to fend for himself for the time being. When the plans are safe we will consider the feasibility of a rescue mission.”
“Yes, Sir. However, there is still the matter of the young woman.”
“Young woman?”
“Ah, yes. Thrush, you see managed to make use of their machine. They have a young woman from the future with them now. The longer she’s there, the greater the chance that she will tell them something they should not know. I just thought that it would be a good idea to rescue her as soon as possible.”
“Hmm. I see. And of course, you would like to retrieve Mr. Kuryakin at the same time.”
“I’m sure Illya would appreciate the gesture.”
Waverly’s sigh carried over the transceiver. “Very well, there is a courier on the way. Do try not to give me cause to regret this.”
* * * * *
Illya Kuryakin, hardened U.N.C.L.E. agent, who’s ability to withstand torture was legendary, stood at the door of the cell holding onto the bars and peering out between them with the air of a martyr. A chirpy little voice came from the interior of the cell behind him.
“And number 47 is the Lone Ranger song.” There was a cute little electronic “duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh, duh-da duh-da duh-da duh-da. Deedle-dee dee de-dee!”
“No,” Illya said with an air of strained patience. “That’s ‘Charge!’ Number three was the William Tell Overture, which you refer to as ‘the Lone Ranger song’!”
“Are you sure?” The little electronic music played again, first the William Tell Overture and then Charge. “They both sound the same to me.”
“I’m sure! Tell me,” he turned and spoke quickly, trying to forestall her before she could proceed to number 48, “how did we get here?”
Her eyes – they were purple and he had already determined that she was wearing colored lenses to make them so – her eyes widened and she grinned at him suddenly. “Well, once upon a time your mommy and your daddy . . .”
“No!” he interrupted firmly. “I mean, how did we get to be in this cell? What happened after I got knocked out?”
“Oh, that. Well, the big ugly guy in the red dress started yelling and then everybody ran around a lot and then they dragged you away and then the guy in the dress made all nice and gave me some yucky, disgusting coffee that was all sweet and syrupy and tasted like rotten eggs and I asked him for Starbuck’s but he didn’t have any and then he asked me a bunch of questions – duh! Like, I know that stuff! – and then he started getting mad and then he asked me about the big showdown between America and Russia and I said I don’t know anything about hockey and then he told them to feed me to the crocodile and get him a new one (whatever that means) but they told him they couldn’t ‘cause he broke the machine when he hit you with part of it so they threw me in here and . . .” she finally stopped to take a deep, gasping breath, “that’s that.”
Illya stared at her in bemusement for a long moment. “Ah.”
He turned back to peer through the bars. After a minute the little electronic noises started again. Fwee-op! Fwee-op! Fwee-op! Deedle deedle deedle! Chiu chiu! Ba-doom!
Innocence sighed. “Dang it! They got me again.” Illya didn’t answer her. “Do you wanna play Space Invaders?”
“No.”
“Wanna make out?”
“No.”
“Can I put a Powerpuff Girls tattoo on your arm?”
“No.”
“It’s only a fake one.”
“No.”
“Can I paint your toenails?”
“No. You need to sit still and be very quiet. Your life is in imminent peril!”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yes!”
“What’s inniminimate peril?”
“It means if you don’t you’re going to die.”
* * * * *
The grain elevator sat on a tiny island in a slough lake. Napoleon Solo crouched on the shore and studied it though a pair of high-powered binoculars. On the western side the island sloped down to a boat dock. Neighbors, had there been any neighbors, might have wondered at the craft tied up there. A modern speedboat and a tiny rowboat sat on either side of an Egyptian barge.
On the east the ground rose and then fell away sharply into the lake. It was only about an eight-foot rise, coming up into thick undergrowth. Napoleon considered it probable that the underbrush was booby-trapped. Still, it seemed the best place to infiltrate the island. Earlier he and Illya had crossed in a small boat, using the cover of darkness, and come up beside the dock. Now, in early daylight and with the guards presumably on alert, he felt he needed another plan.
He kicked off his shoes and tied the strings together, then slung them around his neck. One man swimming was less likely to attract attention than even a tiny boat. Once he had rescued Illya and the girl, they could always steal the speedboat and make their getaway up the river.
As he slipped into the warm, muddy water, Napoleon noticed how silent it was. No birds were singing, in spite of the hour, and there was no croaking of nearby frogs. He had seen numerous waterfowl in the area, but none of the birds came to rest on this lake. Idly wondering why, he began to swim.
He was halfway across the small stretch of water when he heard the splash. Tracing it back to its source, Napoleon was appalled to see a large crocodile lazily cutting across the water towards him.
* * * * *
Three guards came for them. Two of them covered Illya with high-powered rifles, backing him into a corner of the cell, while the third went to collect Innocence.
The girl gave a short shriek and backed away in alarm. She dug into her purse and came up with a small cylinder.
“You better stay back! I’m warning you. I’ve got mace!”
The guard sneered at her and advanced.
“Okay, I told you.”
Innocence held the cylinder out at arm’s length, squeezed her eyes closed and pressed the button. A fine mist shot out and filled the small cell with the overpowering scent of raspberries.
Innocence’s violet eyes blinked open in surprise and she peered at the cylinder. “Oh, crap. That’s body spray. Hang on a second, I’ve got mace in here somewhere.”
Sticking her nose into her purse, she came up with an even smaller cylinder and read the side. “Ooo! Binaca!” She squirted a couple of sprays into her mouth and went back to rifling the contents of her purse. Her eyes lit up. “Hey! I have gum after all!”
The guard turned and gave Illya a look of disbelief. Still covered by the other guards’ guns, hands held high, the Russian could only shrug.
The third guard picked up Innocence and slung her over his shoulder. The other two, keeping Illya well covered with their guns, herded him out into the hall. The main building of the grain elevator was a big, shed-like structure which Thrush had partitioned off into smaller rooms. The whole place still retained the musty, dusty smell of stored grain and assorted fertilizer. Even after years of abandonment a fine haze hung in the air.
Illya, knowing well the explosive properties of dust, wondered how they had managed to accomplish anything electrical here without blowing the whole place up.
They came out in a larger area at one end of the building. A rusting cash register still sat on a counter by the door. A pot-bellied stove lurked in the corner and a picture window looked out over the lake and the woods beyond. In the corner opposite the stove there was a cage, rather like a birdcage except that it was large enough to hold a man. Each vertical bar was set into a groove in the floor. The grooves spiraled inward, meeting in the center.
Illya, noticing this as he was shoved inside, had a very bad feeling about it.
In the center of the room were a small table and two chairs. A control box sat on the table. The third guard set Innocence down at the table and ordered her to stay there. He turned away to double check that Illya was locked in and Innocence stuck her tongue out at him.
“Now, now!” a voice boomed out. “At least try to pretend that you are a lady.”
Even the guards jumped as Red Scarf strode out and took the chair across from Innocence. The third guard, rattling the door to Illya’s cage, sneered at the U.N.C.L.E. agent.
“Glad I’m not you!” he hissed.
Illya sniffed. “You smell pretty.”
The guard scowled at him and stormed away to take a stand beside the outer door. One of the others remained beside Illya while the third posted himself beside the door that led back the way they had come.
Red Scarf turned to Innocence. “Young lady,” he said, “and I use the term loosely . . .”
“Hey! How. Rude.”
The villain ignored her outburst. “Many people died building this machine so that I could learn about the future in order to restructure it to fit our needs.”
“Why did many people die?” Illya interjected.
“I killed them, of course. And I will not have their sacrifice be in vain. Miss McCarthy, either you will answer my questions about your world or I will kill Mr. Kuryakin. Behold! I will demonstrate!”
“Um, excuse me,” Illya interrupted. “You know, if you demonstrate that part now it’s going to make the rest of this interrogation singularly pointless.”
“Silence!” Red Scarf bellowed. He turned to Innocence. “I am going to ask you a series of questions. Each time that you refuse to answer, or fail to answer, Mr. Kuryakin is going to find himself a little more pressed.”
The Thrush official pushed a button on the console in front of him. With a loud rasping sound, the bars of Illya’s cage slid along their grooves an inch, making the cage smaller around him.
Red Scarf turned to leer at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. “Are you claustrophobic, Mr. Kuryakin?”
Illya stood rooted to the center of his cage in dismay. “I have the distinct feeling that I’m going to be,” he said.
* * * * *
Napoleon swam for the island, acutely conscious of the fact that he was not going to be able to outrace the crocodile. The monster bore down on him and he pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster and treaded water, waiting for it to open its mouth preparatory to seizing him in those massive jaws.
His gun was loaded with sleep darts. The darts wouldn’t begin to penetrate the reptile’s thick hide, but if he could shoot several inside its mouth he might just have a chance to walk away from this encounter intact.
The crocodile approached him, mouth infuriatingly closed. Just as it came up to him it ducked beneath the surface of the muddy water. Napoleon’s heart rose into his throat and his stomach turned over as he waited for it to rise up and attack him from beneath. Crocodiles, he knew, killed their victims by latching onto them with their powerful jaws. Then they would wrap their short legs around the victim’s body and use their tails to propel them and their captive underwater, rolling them over and over until they had driven the breath from their lungs and drowned them.
There was a sudden commotion beneath him, a rush of movement, and suddenly the crocodile’s massive form passed beneath him. The animal re-surfaced on the other side and swam lazily over to the shore of the island.
Napoleon stared after her and tried to will his breathing back to normal. The crocodile crawled out onto a narrow shelf at the foot of the rise. Turning her head, she peered at Napoleon from beady little eyes, then opened her mouth wide and emitted a dismal groan.
“I know,” the agent sympathized. “I’m not a morning person either.”
Giving her a wide berth, Napoleon climbed the short rise and began making his way through the thick underbrush, heading for the grain elevator where his partner and the girl from the future were being held.
* * * * *
Illya Kuryakin stood up straight and tried to make himself thinner.
Things were not going well.
“It’s not my fault!” Innocence protested. “I have attention deafness dis-something or other.”
There was an ominous creak and the bars slid inwards. ‘Wonderful,’ Illya thought. ‘Death by Stupidity. What a way to end a brilliant career.’
“Um, excuse me!” The Russian had decided it was time to intervene. “Can I . . .” he waved to get Red Scarf’s attention and pointed at Innocence. “Can I have a word with her, please? Just for a minute? I think perhaps I can convince her to work with you.”
Red Scarf peered at him suspiciously. “You want to convince her to work with me? Why?”
“Well,” Illya said, “I do seem to have a vested interest in the matter.”
The Thrushman snorted. “Yes, you do at that. I’ve always said that you U.N.C.L.E. agents were weak-kneed when it came right down to it. Very well.” He turned and snapped his fingers at Innocence. “Mr. Kuryakin wants a word with you. Go!”
“You don’t have to be so rude,” she protested, but got up and shuffled over to Illya, her purse dragging on the floor behind her and her features set in an unhappy little pout.
“Miss McCarthy,” Illya said, “listen to me. I need for you to start answering his questions in order to buy me time to figure out how to escape.” The guard, standing just within earshot, snorted derisively. Illya ignored him.
“But Illya I don’t know that stuff,” Innocence said miserably. “I really do have that attention thingy. Besides, there was this really cute boy who sat in front of me in class and he had a nice butt . . .”
Illya leaned as close as the bars would allow and whispered in her ear. “Red Scarf has no means of establishing the veracity of anything you disclose.”
Innocence stared at him. The Russian fancied he could hear his own words ricocheting around inside her head.
“You have pretty eyes,” she said. “Oh, don’t close them! What are you counting?”
Illya took a deep breath and swallowed his temper. He leaned in close and tried again, speaking very slowly.
“He will not know if you’re lying.”
The last word penetrated her brain first. “Oh, I am SO not like that!” she protested. Her eyes glazed over and her face took on a far-away look as the rest of the sentence sank in. “Oh, yeah,” she breathed, a wondering look in her eyes, “he won’t will he. That’s so cool! I can’t get caught!” She looked directly at Illya for a second. “I always get caught!” Looking away again, her face suddenly turned grave as she tilted her head and peered off into the distance. “I don’t know why . . .”
I occurred to Illya suddenly how very avian she was. A chirpy voice; quick, darting little movements; a bird brain . . .
“So,” the Russian said, giving Innocence a tight, encouraging smile, “will you do it?”
“Oh!” She blinked a couple of times as she caught up with his train of thought. “Yeah, sure. Here, you hold my purse.”
Nonplussed, he took her purse and she turned away and skipped back across the room to take her place at the table.
“Why am I holding your purse?” Illya called after her.
“Guys just look so cute when they do that.” She turned to Red Scarf and popped her gum. “Okay, Mr. Guy in the Funny Dress, ask away. I’m going to answer all your question.”
Red Scarf peered at her suspiciously. “Very well. What did Mr. Kuryakin say to make you decide to cooperate with me?”
Innocence blinked twice, then turned and gave Illya an evil grin. Turning back, she answered the Thrushman straight-faced.
“He promised me sex.”
* * * * *
The Thrush guards, moving in among the underbrush to plant tripwires and booby traps, had broken off twigs and crushed the ground cover. Weeks later there was, to Napoleon’s trained eye, a clear trail of dead brown vegetation to mark their passage. He crept through a maze of deadly devices, stooping here to avoid an infrared beam and taking care, there, to step over a wire. Finally he came to the edge of the woods and peered across the open expanse of ground to the main building of the old elevator.
The rising sun was behind him, slanting in through the picture window in the front of the building. He took his binoculars from their pouch in his belt and studied the interior. The girl from the future was sitting at a small table in the center of the room, talking animatedly to Red Scarf. There was a guard by the door and another in the back of the room. His partner was not visible, but this angle didn’t allow him to see the entire room.
A sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that the Russian was in trouble. He knew his duty was to go for the girl immediately, but he and Illya hadn’t survived this long in this business without learning when to balance duty with loyalty.
Edging back into the cover of the trees, Napoleon began to creep around the base’s perimeter, looking for some sign of Illya Kuryakin.
* * * * *
Illya had been in mortal peril in Thrush deathtraps before. And he had been bored before. But never before had he been bored while in mortal peril in a Thrush deathtrap.
The cage he was in was now smaller than a phone booth, but it hadn’t moved for some time. Innocence was answering Red Scarf’s questions with an eagerness and imagination that went a long way towards explaining why she always got caught when she lied. Amazingly, the Thrush official was taking it all in. Illya knew, though, that it was only a matter of time before she said or did something to give the game away.
“So your president . . .” Red Scarf began.
“Dave Letterman,” she supplied.
“Your president, Dave Letterman, felt that it was necessary to have a special force to defend the base?”
“Yup!”
“But,” he leaned forward and looked at her cunningly, “what sort of weapons do Iolaus and the Powerpuff Girls use to defend the Death Star from the Teletubbies?”
Innocence looked him right in the eye.
“Ray guns,” she told him. “Biiig ray guns!”
Illya stopped listening and turned his attention idly to the contents of her purse.
There was a set of car keys attached to an inordinate number of key chains, their text ranging from one that said “Miss Informed” to one that said, on both sides, “How do you amuse a chimpanzee for hours? Turn over.” He came up with a small vial labeled “mace”, which he pocketed discreetly, and the one that said “Binaca”. Experimentally, he squirted a little in his mouth and almost choked. He peered more closely at the label and his blonde eyebrows rose.
“Mmm. 150 proof.”
The scent of raspberries warned him of the approach of the other guard, who had gotten suspicious. Illya held up a little bottle.
“Would you like some body glitter to go with your perfume?”
The guard growled at him in disgust and stomped back to the front door just as a sudden change in Red Scarf’s tone warned the agent that he was about to be in trouble all over again.
The talk had centered around weapons for several minutes now and Red Scarf was beginning to get irked. Thrush had just developed a new super weapon that he was certain was going to take the world by storm and the fact that she hadn’t mentioned it was giving him cause to doubt her story. He decided to simply ask.
“So tell me, Miss McCarthy,” he said, “what do you know about . . . microwaves?”
Innocence blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Microwaves?”
“Yes, microwaves.”
“Well, I have one.”
“You have a microwave?”
“Sure. Everybody has a microwave.”
“Really?” Red Scarf’s tone was dripping with sarcasm, not that Innocence noticed. “And what does everybody do with a microwave?”
“Well, duh! They make popcorn!”
Red Scarf drew in a sudden deep breath, stood up, leaned over the tiny woman and bellowed in her face. “You LIE!”
Innocence cowered back but recovered quickly and wagged one finger at him. “You know something? You have issues!”
“I’ll tell you what I have,” he snarled. “I have . . .”
‘Don’t say it,’ Illya thought fervently. ‘Please don’t say it!’
“. . . ways of making you talk!”
Illya sighed.
Red Scarf signaled to one of his minions and they came forth with a small canister that had a mask attached to it with rubber tubing. A second minion took Innocence by the arms and held her while the first fitted the mask over her face.
The Thrush official, meanwhile, crossed to a weapons cabinet and removed a fantastic gun. It looked something like an old-fashioned musket save that the barrel was all in shiny chrome and the stock was ringed with concentric shields. Red Scarf carried it over and addressed Illya.
“And now, Mr. Kuryakin, I’m afraid your usefulness has come to an end. Don’t feel too badly, though,” he said with mock pity. “I was going to kill you eventually anyway. I think, perhaps, while we wait for Miss McCarthy to fall under the influence of the sodium pentathol, I will show you what Thrush does with microwaves.”
He stepped back and raised his gun while the guard beside Illya’s cage edged nervously away. The Russian was left with only one option and he played it immediately. Snatching the canister of mace from his pocket, he discharged it in Red Scarf’s direction. A cloud of noxious chemicals shot out, dousing the Thrush leader and causing him to howl with dismay.
Sticking his hand through the bars, Illya swung Innocence’s purse by its over-long strap. His aim was true. The strap wrapped around the muzzle of the microwave gun and he yanked it out of Red Scarf’s hands. He had no time, though, to maneuver it through the bars, reverse it and use it against his enemies.
With an enraged bellow, Red Scarf came after his weapon. Illya let it fall to the ground, reversed the swing of Innocence’s bag and belted the Thrush leader on the side of the head. Napoleon Solo chose that moment to appear at the entrance, gun drawn. Quickly he put sleep darts into the guards, then looked askance at his partner.
“You know, I was coming to rescue you. You didn’t have to hit him with your purse.”
Illya scowled fiercely and Napoleon grinned as he came over. The guard by the door was holding the key to the cage and in a moment Illya was free. They had no time to stage a reunion, however, for another group of guards was coming up from the back of the building while a second was heading for them from the front. Illya snatched up the microwave gun.
“This way!” Napoleon shouted, heading out the door. “Bring the girl!”
“Do I have to?” Illya groused, but he took Innocence roughly by the arm, wrenched away the mask that she was now holding to her own face, and pushed her ahead of him out the door.
Napoleon had gone on ahead and taken up station about twenty feet away, between two huge, close-growing trees where he could cover them as they made their dash across the open ground in front of the office. He could not, however, do anything about the guards who were coming up from inside the building. Illya turned the microwave gun on them, but it proved to be ineffective at a distance. Napoleon unhooked an egg-shaped object from his belt.
“Illya, catch!”
His aim was true but Innocence, with a surprising athleticism, jumped up and intercepted the throw. Giggling, she turned to Illya with mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Ha! I got your ball!” she said, and then, in a different tone, “I got your ball! Ha!”
“You idiot!” he hissed furiously. “That isn’t a ball, it’s a hand grenade!”
Innocence’s eyes got big. She tossed it straight up, put her hands over her mouth and screamed. “Aaaaaaa!”
Illya snatched the grenade out of the air, pulled the pin with his teeth and flung it through the doorway. Then he grabbed Innocence by the arm and ran, dragging her along with him. The explosion knocked them both off their feet. It set off the grain dust that was still in the air and was followed by a fireball that shot straight up from the roof of the old elevator. Illya crawled forward on his elbows and covered Innocence with his own body to protect her from the flaming debris raining down on all sides.
As soon as the fireworks died down Napoleon left the shelter of the trees and ran back toward them but Illya climbed to his feet, pulled Innocence up after him and motioned that they were both okay. The exposed skin on his arms and the back of his neck was peppered with burns, but fortunately the larger debris had missed them.
Innocence looked down at her jeans and frowned furiously at Illya. “You got me all dirty!”
The Russian growled low in his throat and pushed her ahead of him after Napoleon.
They met no further resistance as they climbed into the speedboat. Innocence wanted to take the barge and “play Cleopatra” but Illya simply picked her up and put her where he wanted her, in the back of the speedboat. Napoleon was at the wheel. Illya took the seat next to him and the American hot-wired the motor and guided them away from the tiny island.
At the spot where the lake met the river there was an underwater fence, undoubtedly built to hold the crocodile. It protruded a few inches above the water line. Napoleon gunned the motor and jumped the boat over it and they were away and free.
Innocence was lying back in her seat giggling helplessly. “What,” she gasped, “what do you do if a blond throws a pin at you? Run! He’s got the grenade in his mouth!” She collapsed into giggles again while the two agents glanced at one another in confusion. Innocence’s giggles slowly died away, to be replaced by a puzzled look. She sat forward and slapped Illya on the arm.
“Hey! You did it backwards! You’re supposed to throw the pin and keep the grenade in your mouth. Then it’s funny!”
Illya stared at her in disbelief. “For you maybe!”
Napoleon cleared his throat. “So, IK, aren’t you going to introduce me to the charming young lady?”
“Enh?” Illya glanced over at him, distracted. “What charming young lady? Oh. Napoleon, this is Innocence McCarthy. Innocence, my partner, Napoleon Solo.”
Napoleon’s eyes danced. “Innocence?”
Illya glared at him. “SO don’t go there!” the Russian said grimly.
* * * * *
“. . . said, ‘duh! Big red truck?’”
Illya scowled. Napoleon chuckled.
“That’s very funny, Miss McCarthy. I don’t think, though, that Mr. Kuryakin appreciates your ‘blond jokes’.”
“I’ll bet I find one he likes,” she said. “I know lots more. Lots and lots and lots and lots.”
They had been on the river for almost an hour. A call to headquarters had been enough to arrange for a helicopter to meet them in the nearest town, but that was still forty-five minutes away.
“What kind of clip are you carrying in your gun?” Illya asked his partner.
“Now, Illya, you know I can’t shoot her.”
“Could you shoot me?”
Napoleon laughed. “Just be glad we were able to retrieve her.” Brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “After all, we wouldn’t want to have to tell Mr. Waverly that we lost our Innocence!”
Illya groaned. Innocence cackled.
“Oh, don’t worry about me! I lost my innocence a looong time ago!”
Pasting a phony smile on his face, Illya turned in his seat and addressed the girl with an air of polite interest.
“So, when and where, exactly, did your parents meet, do you know?”
“Illya,” Napoleon growled warningly.
“Please, Napoleon! It’s for the good of mankind!”
Innocence leaned forward and slapped the Russian on the arm. “You’re cute but you’re an awful fuddy-duddy! Did you know that, Mr. Man With the Funny Name I Can’t Remember? He’s cute, but he’s an awful fuddy-duddy!”
“It’s Napoleon.” Napoleon leered at her good-naturedly. “You know, Miss McCarthy, I’m not a fuddy-duddy.”
This earned him an evil grin.
“I know,” she said, “but you’re not cute!”
The senior agent’s mouth tightened and one corner turned down in a frown. He scowled at Illya, who was trying to choke back a snort of laughter.
Innocence repented at once.
“Ohhh,” she said, in a tone of voice that suggested she was addressing an infant or a small animal. “I was only teasing. Of course you’re cute! I mean, you’re not cute to me, but I’m sure somebody would think you were cute. I know my mom would. Or maybe my grandma . . .”
Napoleon glared at her. “SO don’t go there!”
* * * * *
They reached New York without further incident. As they took Innocence in through Del Floria’s and past reception, Illya thought thankfully that at least the women in his world were nothing like her.
Halfway to the elevator they met April Dancer. April and Innocence gave each other the once over and then exclaimed in unison, “Oh! I want your shoes!”
“They’re so sparkly!” April said.
“They have goldfishies in them!” Innocence chortled.
April handed Napoleon the files she was carrying and Innocence handed Illya her purse and the two women sat down on the floor of the corridor and exchanged footwear.
Illya edged over closer to his partner. “You see, Napoleon? She’s catching!”
When they had finished and the men had helped them to their feet, April reclaimed her files and went her way and Napoleon and Illya took Innocence up to meet Mr. Waverly. As he often did in the presence of young women, the U.N.C.L.E. chief was exercising his old-world charm.
“Innocence? What a delightful name! Would you like a cup of tea, my dear?”
When they were all settled around the big round conference table Waverly went over their report. “Well, done, all of you,” he said approvingly. “And how very clever of you, Miss McCarthy, to keep Thrush occupied with your stories long enough for Mr. Solo to arrive. What a vivid imagination you must have! Using microwaves to make popcorn indeed!” He chuckled and his two agents, now that the danger was passed, laughed along with him.
“But I wasn’t lying about that!” Innocence protested. “That part was true. That is what we use them for!”
The three men laughed. Illya shook his head gently.
“You must be mistaken,” he said definitely. Innocence pouted.
“Ah, well,” Mr. Waverly said, “that’s neither here nor there. Our technicians have managed to duplicate the Future History device and, if you’re ready, my dear, it’s time to send you home. There is one more thing that concerns us, though.” He waited until he knew he had the girl’s full attention. “There is a chance, however slight, that we have in some way altered the future. Since we don’t want to leave you stranded somewhere you don’t belong, we’re going to send you with a, well, a return ticket, of sorts.”
He signaled to one of his assistants and she brought him a small device, about the size of a credit card only thicker. The surface was crossed with wiring in intricate patterns and there was a clip attached to one side.
“This device,” he said, “acts as a direction finder for the Future History machine. If you find things out of place when you get back, simply wait and in one hour we will use the machine to retrieve you. If everything is as it should be, just take off the device and leave it somewhere out of sight. When we bring back the card and find that you are not wearing it, we will know that you got home safely. Do you understand?”
“Duh! Of course I understand.” She looked pointedly at Illya. “I’m not the blond in this conversation, after all.”
They trooped together down to the tech lab where the Future History machine had been constructed. It looked much like its Thrush counterpart, excepting the U.N.C.L.E. logo in the middle of the deck. Waverly pinned the direction finder on the strap of Innocence’s halter-top and she stood on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek.
Turning to Napoleon, Innocence gave him a quick kiss as well, then turned and threw her arms around Illya, pulling him down to her level and kissing him passionately. When she finally let him up she reached up to pat his cheek affectionately.
“You really are cute, you know. But you should consider that pink leopard pattern idea. Okay?”
Illya was blushing furiously. “I’ll consider it,” he told her insincerely. “Innocence.” His voice stopped her as she started to turn. “Are there many people in your time who know you well?”
She blinked in confusion. “Yeah. Lots. Why?”
“In that case, please be careful. Your life may still be in imminent peril.” He smiled at her almost gently and she turned away with a puzzled frown on her face and shuffled onto the machine’s platform, dragging her purse across the floor behind her.
She blinked at the room in general. “I think he just maybe insulted me,” she said uncertainly. Her expression suddenly cleared and she smiled down and blew them kisses. Mr. Waverly beamed at her in a grandfatherly manner, Napoleon waggled his fingers in a tiny wave and Illya, with a small smile, nodded to her. The technician threw the switch, the machine hummed to life, and Innocence was gone.
“Well,” Napoleon said, “That’s the end of our Innocence.”
“Oh, it’s not quite ended yet, Mr. Solo,” Waverly corrected him. “First we must make certain she returned all right. John?”
“Yes, sir,” the technician answered. “I’ve set the controls for one hour further in the future and locked onto the direction finder. Ready when you are.”
“Very well,” the old man said, “energize.”
The machine hummed to life, but only a tiny glow formed on the platform. It resolved itself into the direction finder, but it was not alone. It was clipped to a small flat package. Illya went over and picked it up. A funny look crossed his face and he rose very slowly, studying it.
“Well?” Waverly asked impatiently. “What is it, man?”
The young Russian swallowed hard and looked at his partner. “Napoleon, do we still have that new Thrush gun?”
“What? Well, yes, of course we do. Why?”
He held up the package so they could all see it. It was a bright colored paper envelope wrapped in cellophane and labeled “Microwave Popcorn”.
“Would you like to go down to the rifle range and have a snack?”
THE END