The Thousand Coffins Affair

TWO MORE UNFORTUNATES

Napoleon Solo had a dream.

In the dream he experienced no pain or pleasure, only a kind of concentrated euphoria. He was weightless, bodiless, airborne — in an existence which through vague distortions told him somehow that he was dreaming, that all he saw and did was in no way the slightest bit real.

Jerry Terry was in the dream, too.

He saw her as he had never seen her before. She was resplendently free and completely naked. The sight would normally have delighted him, yet for some reason, in his dream, it did not. Instead, it was somehow alarming, sinister. He fought to clear his head.

She was crouched before him huddled like some shapely question mark of damp, quivering flesh. Her long, slender arms were encircled with cuffs of some leathery kind. All of her superb figure was taut and stiff with her face lowered to the ground. Behind her, close to her naked flesh, he could make out a curious lattice of bars or rungs of some kind. With a sudden start, he realized, or rather he sensed, that the bars and rungs were before her now. He watched, through a haze, as she crouched and knelt, not standing erect or moving to any degree. It was quite as if she were frozen into this clumsy position of obsequiousness, as though she were humbling herself before some ancient idol

He could see that the terrible position had cost her. Her rib cage was drawn taut, showing muscular hollows, thrusting her fine breasts into a painful cramp of beauty. The long, coppery hair had fallen limply athwart her shoulders, dangling like the rest of her. Her thighs shone with perspiration. He could hear the sketchy, impure sound of her breathing.

The walls surrounding her were ladders of bars, crossed and criss-crossed. Damp stone gleamed from a wall behind her. Somewhere not far off, he could hear the mossy mutterings of drops of liquid. Water, perhaps.

Solo blinked his eyes. It was ridiculous but — there it was. And it would not go away or shimmer into unreality like a dream.

She was still half-bent and stooped in that terrible position when he re-focused his eyes. And now he sought to determine his own place in the scheme of his dream, or his nightmare.

He tried to stare down at himself.

He was hardly surprised to find that he too was naked; that he too was staring at his own knee-caps, performing the same weird ballet as was Jerry Terry. His own lithe body of a hundred and eighty pounds was contorted and doubled like some fantastic pretzel not of his own making.

The trouble was, he felt no pain as yet. The euphoria of his dream had not worn off.

And dream or not — he and the girl were each and separately imprisoned like some strange species of bird in awesome cages of iron. Cages large enough to hold their bodies but not big enough to permit them to stand or lie down, and so constructed that they couldn’t even maneuver into a sitting position.

There were leather thongs on his wrists, holding him away from the iron lattice surrounding him. Why?

He tried to think about the Debonair.

He could remember the MIG, the big round holes in the wings and the dizzying spin into nowhere. It was all so hazy. What had happened, really? Was he dreaming or was he dead? Was this reality or simply hell? Himself — who had always loved the ladies — staked out naked in an oval cage while the loveliest lady of his immediate acquaintance was similarly indisposed a scant but inaccessible few feet away. He laughed harshly but he did not hear the sound of his own laughter. If this was Hell, they had indeed picked the right one for him.

Why didn’t he feel pain? Surely, the leather thongs had bitten deep into his flesh. And the muscles of his body should be racked and spent from the ordeal. Instead, he felt simply puffy and lifeless, like a wad of absorbent cotton.

He closed his eyes and tried to think.

He tried to move his leg. It brushed against the bars of his cage. He pulled it back as quickly as his lame muscles would respond. The reason for the thongs was self-evident now: the bars of his cage were electrically charged and the leather bands had kept his body suspended away from contact with them. Why?

Later, he heard the door slam. It shut with a dull thump of noise. It brought him back to reality though the numbness had not left his body. He stared, twisting his stiffened neck away from his arched shoulders to see what had made the noise.

A man had come between him and the iron cage that enclosed the naked body of Jerry Terry.

A tall man, muffled in a long dark cloak of some kind, wrapped tightly about his neck. Yet if he should have hidden anything at all, he should have masked his face.

The dream-nightmare had continued.

The man’s face was a grotesque mask of outraged flesh — hairless, nearly fleshless. At some time, this man had been in a great fire that had left his face a skull-like travesty of scarred tissue. His nose was merely a pair of twin holes studding the distance between the pit of a forehead and an ugly gash of mouth. His head was an encrustation of scarred, dead tissue. Only the browless eyes showed any evidence of life. And the expression they held was not…quite…sane.

“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.

“That’s it. Work your arm up and down till the sensation returns. Otherwise the needle will never penetrate your arm, I’m afraid. Your muscles are like rock, now.”

Solo nodded, gasping for air. Golgotha saw the giant tendons popping in his neck.

“—Better now—” Solo gasped. “The needle — now, please—”

Golgotha, eyes glittering, stepped forward.

And Napoleon Solo’s free right arm came down in a murderous swath of released fury, meeting him full across the neck where it joined his cloaked shoulder.

A karate blow that hammered Golgotha to the stone floor.