The Light-Kill Affair Read online

The guard turned and stalked toward the door.

  Bikini jumped up. She ran to Solo and pressed herself against him, tears in her eyes. Solo closed his arms about her, comforting the miserable, frightened girl.

  The guard was barely at the door when Joe, Nesbitt's Indian assistant, brushed past the door sentry.

  He caught the guard by the shirt front and pushed him against the wall, as if forgetting Solo and Bikini in a sudden savage fury.

  Joe switched on a wall light, marched the guard to it, forced him to stare into its brilliance. The man gazed at the bulb, unblinking. His dry eyes did not even water.

  Joe spoke urgently but quietly to the man with the light fixed in his eyes. The Indian's voice was low, controlled, almost kindly. "The summons was for Napoleon Solo. The summons was for Napoleon Solo."

  Solo watched Joe, fascinated. He forgot the misdelivered summons. This didn't seem very important right now. He was seeing one of Nesbitt's mindless slaves being programmed, by light. The programming was much like that done to computers, Solo thought, except that the computers' were memory tapes and transistors, and here the scientist was dealing with a man driven mindless by some sort of exquisite torture.

  FIVE

  THE INDIAN assistant moved toward Napoleon Solo. The man's dark face was impassive.

  "We've come for the girl," Joe said.

  Solo flinched, looking down at Bikini's dark head pressed on his shoulder. She was deeply asleep. She had been able to relax because she trusted him. She felt secure in his arms, even in this place.

  "She's asleep," Solo said, his chilled voice warning Joe flatly to keep his hands off of her. The Indian merely smiled coldly, spoke sharply, and the two guards entered, armed with small rifles. They stood ready at Joe's side.

  "You'll still have to take her," Solo said.

  The Indian bent forward, catching Bikini's arm. He shook her. The girl came awake slowly, protesting.

  Solo set himself. Joe shook Bikini again, lifted her. As Joe rose, Solo came up on the balls of his feet. His fist caught Joe on the jaw, staggering him.

  He released his hold on Bikini and fell backwards. He struck hard against the glass wall. It trembled under his weight.

  Beyond the glass the huge leaves and thick limbs quivered, set into motion by the vibration.

  Solo came up, moving, crouched toward Joe.

  A rifle butt caught Solo in the forehead. Bikini screamed,

  Solo staggered, his legs buckling under him. He landed on his knees. Vaguely, he saw Joe pull himself up, shake his head and then order the guards out of the cell with the girl.

  Solo saw it as if from a great distance, and he knew Bikini was screaming, but he could barely hear her.

  The guards half-dragged Bikini to the corridor entrance of Hothouse One. Behind them, Joe tested his jaw, his face twisted.

  The guards thrust open the doors. The giant plants inside set up a rustling, waving motion at the movement.

  "Inside," Joe ordered.

  Bikini shook her head, staring wide-eyed at the long writhing green tentacles, the huge crying leaves.

  Joe jerked his head. The guards caught Bikini's arms, thrusting her through the door.

  Bikini toppled on the walkway. She sprang to her feet and ran to the doors. They were closed in her face. She beat against them.

  The sound set up a wild reaction among the plants. The snake-like limbs reached out, the leaves waved, the thick trunks seemed to quiver.

  Bikini pressed against the door, staring in awe at the giant green plants.

  From an intercom Dr. Nesbitt's voice seemed to fill the room, setting the plants in violent motion again.

  "You must fight to live, my dear. You don't have a chance. As you see, some of the walks are wide. Some are almost grown over. But the wide ones are open only be cause the plants are pulled back. Any movement in them and the plants will crowd in, reaching out, even growing in the direction of the sound. It's the way they live, my dear."

  Bikini pressed her fist over her mouth to keep from crying out.

  "Perhaps if you run, my dear," Nesbitt's voice suggested. "Run. You may find a place to run. You may break free from their tentacles. You must offer some challenge to the plants, my dear, or your unfortunate death will serve no useful purpose."

  Suddenly Bikini screamed.

  As Nesbitt had talked, long green tentacles had struck against the walls, holding as if with suction cups, and now reached out swiftly toward her.

  They approached from both sides of the door.

  "You're not safe there, my dear," Nesbitt's voice taunted. "I suggest you run."

  Bikini did not move. Petrified with fear, she remained pressed against the door until the slimy, serpent-like tentacles clapped against her arms from both sides.

  Screaming, she broke free and ran again.

  Ahead of her the center aisle seemed wide and clear. But as she ran along it, the motion of her body stirred the plants on each side into frantic action. Trunks bent, leaves shook and tentacle limbs grasped out.

  A huge arm-like limb struck her across the head and sent her reeling.

  Toppling to the floor, Bikini slid along it. She remained there stunned for only a few moments, but smaller limbs, nearer the ground, sprang out, clutching at her legs, arms, dress.

  "Run. Run. Run." Nesbitt's voice commanded loudly from the intercom speakers.

  Bikini leaped. She realized in sudden horror that Nesbitt was like a cat playing with a mouse. When he shouted at her to run, it wasn't advice he was interested in. His voice, any sound, caused violent reactions in the plants so that they swung out, reaching toward the sound. And when she moved, this activated them even more violently.

  She ran a few steps. Tentacles struck out like snakes. One closed about her throat. She caught at it, tearing it free.

  Her movement brought newer limbs grabbing at her. In horror Bikini screamed, and more bushes leaned toward her, closing in upon her.

  She broke free, falling away from the writhing tentacles.

  She stumbled and fell to the floor on a narrow walk. The plants near her trembled, sending out eager feelers.

  Holding her breath, she inched forward, and the bushes quieted behind her.

  The exhausted girl laughed, on the verge of hysteria. Plants reacted, snagging at her. She lay still for some moments. The plants quieted.

  When Nesbitt spoke over the intercom, they roused again, but seemed to subside.

  She told herself she must lie unmoving where she was. These plants reacted to noise, lay quiescent in silence.

  She lay still. For some moment nothing happened. From the intercom, Nesbitt spoke, his voice loud, taunting.

  The plants quivered, rustling, unfurling long green limbs.

  Bikini remained unmoving. She drew only shallow breaths. Perspiration stood on her forehead, burned into her eyes, but she did not stir, even to wipe it away.

  She wanted to laugh in exhausted triumph. But she made no sound. The plants around her seemed quieted. They barely stirred, even when Nesbitt's voice rattled the intercom.

  She did not know how long she could remain in this position., but she was alive, and this was all Bikini was thinking about.

  Suddenly she screamed, the sound spewing from her.

  She lunged upward to find green branches closed on her ankles and her legs, like ropes.

  Bikini fought wildly at the limbs, breaking free. But her movement set the nearest plants in wild motion.

  She leaped to her feet, trembling, and stared quickly around, her face rigid.

  Then she ran, fighting the limbs around her.

  Dr. Nesbitt's voice taunted her. "That's better, my dear. That's the kind of challenge that's worth while. Run, girl, run!"

  ACT IV—INCIDENT OF THE TRIAL BY LIGHT

  SOLO WAS LED into the circular, fantastically illuminated room by two guards.

  They pointed to a bare, highly polished table, told him to sit on it. When he did they stood at attention at his si
de.

  The room was not large, perhaps like a surgery amphitheatre, with a judge's bench on a raised dais, with six judge's chairs behind it. The desk glistened and reflected; lights.

  Near the table where Solo sat was another one similar to it, and as completely bare.

  Above him, and around the room in an elevated semi-circle, looking down on the bench and the two tables in the cleared area were rows of empty chairs. But after a few moments three men entered from behind the bench and took their places in the center chairs.

  Solo stared at them incredulous. Action of light from the desk blotted out their faces to him. The heads were blanked out, almost as if they were headless bodies.

  When the three judges had taken their places, two men entered from each side of the room. One came to the table where Solo sat, the other went to the similar table near it. Lights blotted out the faces of these two men, too, no matter where they moved.

  One of the guards touched Solo's shoulder, ordering him to place the 'death summons' before him on the bared table.

  This folded sheet of paper was the only materials of the trial in evidence.

  A voice from a speaker in front of the judges' bench droned, "Seated are three supreme justices of the highest court. The Highest Referendary of Unquestioned Supreme Hearings is now in session. All proceedings of this court are voice recorded. Seated with the accused is his defense attorney, appointed by the Court of Supreme Hearings."

  One of the judges spoke. "The prosecution may open the case of World Order versus Napoleon Solo."

  The man seated at the table near Solo got to his feet. The light, blotting his face from Solo's view, followed him.

  The prosecutor stalked before the bench. "Prosecution will show that the defendant is guilty of all charges listed against him before this court."

  A judge said, "We will dispense with the reading of those charges."

  "I'd like to hear them read," Napoleon Solo said. His defense counsel shook his light-struck head at him, warning him to be silent.

  A judge said coldly, "Defendant is permitted to speak only when it is time for him to admit to the charges proved against him in this court. Until this time he must remain silent and allow his defense attorney to speak for him. Only the defense attorney will be recognized by this court."

  Solo shook his head, staring up at those light-blotted faces.

  The voice from the speaker said, "Defendant will step into the witness chair."

  A small chair inside a cage was eased out before the bench, suspended there. When Napoleon Solo protested, his defense attorney touched his arm warningly again and the guards placed Solo inside the cage. He sat down in the low chair so that his knees were almost up to his chest. The cage door was locked.

  The defense attorney sat back at the table, apparently checking over the charges in the death summons.

  The prosecutor said, "Do you admit that you came to this place with the avowed purpose of violence against the people herein?"

  Solo started to answer, but the judges commanded him to silence. If an answer was required, they reminded him, his defense counsel would make it.

  This gentleman remained silent at the defense table.

  Solo sweated in the cage, raging against this mockery of justice. Still, he knew these men were deadly serious, listening to the further charges against him shouted by the prosecutor.

  "You advocate the overthrow of our way of life by force?... You entered illegally?... You attacked and assaulted the person of two of our guards... You would destroy all that we here in this room hold dear?

  "Are you not guilty of these charges? And are you not guilty of the further charges of planned murder? Treason? Spying? Are you not guilty?"

  The defense attorney rose then, and spoke, for the first and only time during Napoleon Solo's trial. He said in a low, sad tone, "The defendant admits guilt to all these charges. He repents of his crimes against you. He is heartily sorry for his misdoings. But he understands there can be but one sentence in accord with justice; his crimes do not permit of even the recommendation of mercy.

  "He throws himself upon the mercy of this court and asks only that he be allowed to die in the manner which will serve the cause of humanity under our great system most fully."

  Solo stared. A judge spoke calmly. "There will be no need to hear from the defendant. The sentence is death, to be executed in a way most benefiting our inquiries into science."

  TWO

  SOLO WAS led to his cell. He felt nothing as far as the sentence of the strange court was concerned. They had never suggested the trial would be impartial. The summons had ordered him to a hearing of the treasonable charges leveled against him.

  He prowled the cubicle, less concerned about what would happen to him than for the safety of Illya Kuryakin and Bikini.

  Solo had not learned anything about Illya since he had seen him struck down by the light beam in the corridor. And Bikini?

  He shook his head in anguish, not permitting himself to think about either of them.

  The door opened, suddenly. Solo stared in complete astonishment, his mouth sagged open. Illya Kuryakin walked in.

  Solo shook his head, feeling ill. It was Kuryakin—or Kuryakin's body. Illya was dressed in the green fatigues that all the guards wore, and his face was rigid, his eyes empty and staring.

  Illya held a light-gun across his chest. He stared straight ahead, at nothing.

  Solo gazed at him.

  "Illya," he said.

  Illya did not even hear him.

  "No good to talk to him, Mr. Solo," Nesbitt's voice rattled the intercom. "He's gone quite beyond the reach of your voice."

  Solo did not speak again, watching the way Illya stood, like a robot, a living dead man.

  "Mr. Kuryakin is your guard, Mr. Solo. Isn't this a nice touch? Eh? I like it irony, Solo. You will die, when your turn comes, among my plants.

  "Meantime, I warn you, Mr. Kuryakin has been programmed to kill you if you attempt to escape. An ironic touch that's lovely, eh, Solo?

  "Surely you appreciate its grandeur? Guarded by your own former comrade, who is now one of my mindless slaves... Yes, if you try to escape, your own former friend will kill you. As I said, we indeed all of us have inside ourselves the seeds of our own destruction."

  The intercom crackled a moment. "And now I am busy, Mr. Solo. You will forgive me if I leave you to the mercies of your former friend? I warn you, he has no memory, no stirring of memory of your past association. If you make a move to escape, or to attack him, he will kill you."

  The intercom went dead.

  Solo passed his hand nervously across his eyes. "Illya, can't you hear me?" He stared in disbelief at his friend.

  Illya didn't move and Solo's helplessness mounted. He said in desperation, "That girl, Illya. We brought her in here—and they are going to kill her—feed her to those plants."

  It was as if Illya Kuryakin could not even hear him. He remained unmoving, holding the gun at ready across his chest.

  Solo went tense, remembering that Joe had warned Nesbitt that the mindless ones could not be reached by ordinary conversation.

  They could be reached only by light, by a voice speaking to them, programming them.

  In his anxiety, Napoleon Solo took sudden swift steps toward the door.

  Illya jerked the light-gun up, his finger trembling on the trigger. The eyes remained flat, dead.

  Solo stopped, forced himself to return to the glass window and then to walk to the other wall, slowly. During this time he planned his next move, not looking toward Illya. He kept everything, every movement casual.

  Finally Solo reached the switch which Joe had activated in order to talk to the guard earlier. Then he turned, knowing that Illya would follow.

  He kept moving until the beam of the light struck Illya full in the face.

  Illya did not blink.

  Solo drew a deep breath, forced himself to speak softly, in the kindly, gentle gray tone that Joe had used on
the guard. The light in their faces controlled them.

  Light controlled everything here. Light was the source of strength, the life giving force for the plants. It meant everything, life, death, power!

  Solo trembled with anxiety, realizing he had figured out the key that would open the doors to this place. Light was power, but light had to have a source.

  There were no power lines into this canyon. THRUSH would not want outside power. It would open too many avenues to question.

  That meant that all this light came from one source. Generators in this building.

  Sweating, Solo forced himself to remain calm, to keep his voice low, level, unhurried, gentle.

  The lights shone in Illya's eyes. Solo's gentle voice caressed him, "Generators. We must destroy the generators." He said it a dozen times, repeating it slowly, distinctly, without passion.

  Then, seeing no response in Illya's face, he began the second phase, repeating it again and again:

  "Take me to the generators. Kill anyone who tries to stop us."

  Suddenly, Illya stepped out of the direct beam of the light.

  Solo held his breath, waiting for Illya to bring the light-gun up to kill him.

  Illya Kuryakin nodded—and winked.

  THREE

  ILLYA PUSHED open the cell door, jerked his head, motioning Solo ahead of him.

  In the corridor Illya Kuryakin moved woodenly. Sweating, Napoleon Solo wanted to run, but knew better He kept his pace to that set by Illya.

  Suddenly Dr. Nesbitt's voice crackled wildly on the intercom and Solo knew the scientist was watching them on his screen.

  Nesbitt screamed. "Guard! You fool! What are you doing? Where are you taking the prisoner?"

  Indian Joe's voice crackled across Dr. Nesbitt's on the inter com. "The guard can't hear you, sir—or obey you."

  "Stop them!" Dr. Nesbitt shouted.

  From the lab-office, two guards raced, following the white-smocked Indian.

  "This is it," Solo said from the corner of his mouth.

  "Keep walking," Illya ordered.

  Behind them, Indian Joe forgot his calm image. He yelled. "Escape. Escape. Stop them. Kill. Kill!"