"Ah, our lovely Candy," said Illya, "who makes the greatest tossed green salad in all this living world."

"Thank you," she said, but quite evidently Candy was perturbed. "I've been looking all over. Daddy, I simply can't find my keys."

"Keys?" said Craig. "Why do you need your keys?"

"I'm going out."

"Got a date?" Craig asked, smiling.

"I'm going to see that the kittens are fed, that the swing door's closed, and that the roustabouts are taking care of things."

"Kittens," laughed Craig, glancing toward Illya.

"Well, a cat when he's small is a kitten," Candy said logically.

"These cats, love, aren't small anymore."

Candy smiled a compassionate smile at the grown-ups.

"Well, to me they're still kittens."

"And with you, love, somehow they still act like kittens."

"But where are my keys?"

"Kitten on the keys," said Illya, making a joke.

"Don't worry your pretty head about keys, dear," said Craig. "Just push the button on the door so it won't lock. Mr. Fairchild and I will be right here till you come back. Won't we, sir?"

"Sure," said Illya.

"Right," said Candy.

"Don't be too long, love."

"All right, Daddy."

Candy went to the door, snapped the button, tried the outer knob to make sure the door was unlocked, waved, went out, and quietly closed the door behind her.

At the circus, she attended to the lions. Her handling of the huge cats was truly a wonder. She petted them, whispered cooingly, wrapped her arms around them, kissed them. Candy loved her lions. They had been fed; they were contented and happy. She went out again, making sure the huge doors of the yellow wagon were bolted. Then up front, through the cage, she inspected the swing door. Securely locked. Good. She had been critical of the roustabouts who had left the swing door unbolted this morning, and they had been duly penitent. She remembered poor Mr. Fairchild, standing there in the middle of the cage, frightened stiff. Now she laughed—but it could have been dangerous. She was happy she had come along in time. Well, she thought, all's well that ends well.

On her way to the roustabouts' quarters, where there were always fun and jokes and sparkling conversation, she met Mr. Parley. He was still wearing his official badge and his dart gun.

"Hi, Candy."

"Hi, Mr. Parley."

"Where you heading for?"

"The roustabouts' quarters."

"Your dad there?"

"No, sir. Why?"

"Is he on the grounds?"

"No, Mr. Parley."

"I want to talk to him. It's rather important."

"He's home."

"Oh. Good. I'll go right over."

"You won't even have to ring," Candy bubbled.

"Pardon?"

Candy laughed. "I've misplaced my keys, so I left the door unlocked. Would you take a message, please, Mr. Parley?"

"For whom?"

"Dad."

"Sure."

"Please tell him I've gone over to the roustabouts' quarters. I should be there for about—well—about an hour. I don't want him to worry. Would you please tell him?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you."

"Not at all."

"'Bye, Mr. Parley."

"'Bye."

22. Say "UNCLE"

NAPOLEON SOLO, hot and perspiring in the dark, fetid atmosphere of the sealed vault, was at first confused and distraught. His initial thought was the natural one—preservation. How long could he live in here? How long could he survive?

It was a high, wide vault. There was sufficient room for him to stand up, sufficient room for him to move about. In the closed-in darkness, hands outstretched, feeling with his fingers, he inspected. No vent, no opening, no place for air to come through. On his knees now, crawling, he repeated the inspection. No vent. No opening. No air.

He sat Indian fashion, ankles at his thighs. Hot air rises. He felt cooler, sitting down, but already he was bathed in perspiration and already the slow suffocation was beginning.

The first confusion was passing, the terror diminishing. He must think! He must think constructively! How long did he have to live? Perhaps an hour. In an hour the oxygen would be exhausted and he would die. A slow death. A choking, suffocating death. No. He comforted himself. He would not suffer. In time he would lapse into a coma; unconscious, he would not suffer; he would be unaware of the desperate, convulsive struggle of his body fighting against the suffocating death. It was small comfort, but it was a comfort.

Now. What to do? His hand crept to the pocket for the Communicator. Of course it was not there! There was no way to get through to the Old Man. And then, already gasping, in the heat, in the already foul air, he remembered!

He took the palate-plate from his mouth, clicked the switch, and put it back in his mouth. He spoke, and even in this horrible predicament, felt ridiculous. When he talked to the Communicator, he was talking to something! Now he was talking, just talking, to nothing—like an actor, alone, saying important lines but to no one, committing his lines to memory. But he was not an actor, and he was not committing lines to memory. He was talking into blackness, hoping against hope—to save his life! He spoke rapidly, fervently.

"Illya. I don't know exactly how far away you are. I don't know if you can hear me, if this darned thing works. I'm in trouble—bad trouble. You're going to have to get through to Waverly, but first I must know if I've gotten through to you. Illya, can you hear me? If so, come back to me. Give me the word. I'm waiting. I'll wait till I hear you. I'm waiting. Over."

In the comfortable living room Kenneth Craig saw the handsome young reporter from Scope magazine suddenly grow pale. Mr. Fairchild, taut, tense, stood up from his chair.

This was it, thought Illya. Suddenly the entire responsibility was right here upon him, and it had come to the point of climax. Solo's voice had been as tight as the skin of an African drum. Bad trouble, Solo had said, and had said that he, Illya, would have to reach Alexander Waverly. That meant that Solo, wherever he was, was under restraint, deprived of his Communicator, and compelled to use the newfangled mouthpiece in an effort to contact Illya. Can you hear me? Solo had asked. Give me the word, he had pleaded. I'm waiting.

And so Illya knew that their adventure was at final phase—it was down to the wire. There was no longer opportunity for the coddling of the suspect, no more time for gentle probing, no more room for further experiment. This was it! Now! Right now Kenneth Craig had to be put to the test!

Craig was on his feet, his head tilted, his eyes slitted, questioning, as he gazed uncomprehendingly at the obviously excited Mr. Evan Fairchild.

Illya positioned himself opposite Kenneth Craig. The man was armed with two heavy pistols, but now was the time of test! In his heart he believed Craig to be an honorable man, but, to paraphrase Waverly: What you feel in your heart is not enough, not evidence, not proof. One's heart can be deceiving. Hunch and intuition are not always dependable.

He stationed himself where, if necessary, he could frustrate an attack. If Craig drew a gun Illya would leap forward, and it would be a fight, possibly to the death. But that was his job and he had to face the possibilities, and the time was now! Kenneth Craig must be put to the test, but at the same time Solo must know that he had gotten through.