15 - The Utopia Affair (6 page)

"Very good. Best of luck."

"Thank you, sir."

The connection was terminated, and Napoleon turned his chair to a large microfilm file reader. He punched a combination of buttons and found DeWeese. A former guide, six foot three, two hundred and thirty pounds, IQ 175, responsible for maintaining U.N.C.L.E.'s watch over half a million square miles of desolation where, as the poet has said, the Northern Lights have seen strange sights.

One of the strangest, he thought, must be a thing as big as a mountain, with glowing red eyes, that stood still and reversed direction in a stiff and steady breeze, and had silently menaced the town of Cranberry Portage. Solo had to suppress an automatic smile at the image of the rural name, and suddenly remembered that tonight was All Hallows Eve. What a way to celebrate, he thought wryly.

He glanced at the master clock. The evening reports from Honolulu would be coming in shortly; the West Coast had been processed... and there was that repeated attempt at a coup in Tierra Caliente. Something would have to be done about the men behind it; tomorrow morning would be soon enough. Even if the revolution was backed by Thrush, the soldiers would demand their rest at night. He wished he could do the same.

He sighed. It looked as if this could become a full-time job. He tapped the intercom for the night girl— what was her name, now... Cindy? She answered and he said, "Can you dodge all my calls for about half an hour after Hawaii checks in? I think I'd better take off to close my apartment and pick up a few items. Don't bother with a driver; I can catch a taxi up First."

"I'll put a lock on your line, sir. Signal me as soon as you come back in."

"Right."

Napoleon dug his knuckles into his eyes and sorted quickly through the things he would have to do to move in here for a few weeks. His apartment could be secured in a moment; his toilet kit was always packed and ready to go, and he'd probably need a fresh shirt. It looked as if it was going to be a long six weeks.

Section II "A Principality In Utopia."

Chapter 5

"We Could Use A Man Like That."

BY THE END of his first week there, Alexander Waverly was becoming adjusted to life in Utopia. He wasn't quite used to it yet, and he was determined he would never be able to like it, but he was able to find his way around without a map and knew four of the staff on a first-name basis. He'd had six quiet days to observe the activities that were going on about him, and as a guest he had certain privileges of movement which enabled him to study the operations of "The Park" more carefully.

His data added up to a picture similar to that he had imagined, but quite a bit larger. There was a fair-sized atomic power pile under the hill which was the Park's eastern wall, supplying electric power and fresh water, steam heat and an endless supply of low-grade but marketable radioactive by-products. The brochure had mentioned a radio blanket over the entire area, but he had observed Park personnel using something which looked very much like a radio for communication. He wondered how they did it, and made that his next point of interest.

Meanwhile there was the day-to-day life of the resort to be coped with. Every effort was being made to find something to occupy his time for the next month, and no expenses were spared in Utopia to keep the guests happy. Waverly hardly felt he was unique among the clientele in being taken forcibly from a job he enjoyed; he was even reasonably certain that Utopia would be prepared to deal with a certain amount of recalcitrance among the inmates. After all, the staff members were there essentially to determine that anyone paying the appropriate fee would enjoy himself whether he wanted to or not. He gave himself credit for no more stubbornness than any top executive; if they could be won over, so could he. But the staff would have a job trying.

Meanwhile, he had to pick some kind of directed activity to occupy the next four weeks. It wasn't required, but he dreaded the idea of having nothing at all to do. Much as his inner being rebelled at the thought of joining the other overgrown children in their play therapy, it was preferable to wandering through the woods and dabbling in the artificially maintained brooks. Of all the choices he had been offered, the least distasteful was a sort of war game; he had seen a brochure on it shortly after his arrival. Apparently two total strangers acted as Generals in a series of maneuvers, rather strictly regulated, using live troops in a simulated battle situation.

He would sign up for this game and hope for the luck of the draw to bring him an interesting and challenging opponent. He had enough faith in the abilities of the omnipresent staff to pair him with a near equal so that he was not seriously concerned with the danger of boredom in the next month.

He proved correct. As Mr. Dodgson he entered his name, and in due process he received a note informing him that he had drawn a Mr. Silverthorne. Silverthorne was listed in the guest directory with the terse identification
Executive
. His residence was #12, diagonally across the residential area, a little over a mile away.

An exchange of polite notes by the pneumatic postal service, and they arranged a meeting at the Lodge. It was mid-afternoon when Alexander Waverly entered the cool dimness of the log-walled building and saw the man against whom he would soon be waging war. As he approached the table, a long dark man unfolded himself from a chair and extended a hand.

"Mr. Dodgson? My name is Silverthorne."

Waverly studied the man's face for a moment as he answered. His opponent was perhaps fifty-five or sixty, and well maintained. His black hair was touched up slightly, though it took a perceptive eye to catch it. Only his eyes seemed out of place, bright and alert, darting here and there in an otherwise impassive face. He stood almost three inches taller than Waverly.

"How do you do, Mr. Silverthorne. I'm told we are to go to war over something or other."

Silverthorne smiled. "Participation seemed preferable to inaction. This pretend-war appeared to be the most potentially challenging diversion the Park offered."

"My situation precisely. Is this your first participation in their games?"

"The war game has been added since my last visit. My company insisted I needed a vacation."

Waverly admitted the similarities in their positions, and by the time dinner was laid in the main dining hall they were fairly well acquainted. The subject of their respective backgrounds had not come up—one of the first things Waverly had observed was that they generally didn't. It was considered bad form to inquire into another guest's outside life. Some were there who could not hide—celebrities from entertainment, politics, science and industry, whose faces were known around the world. But the Prime Minister of India was listed in the directory as Politician, the star of the most popular British comedy series was listed as Artist, and the top Russian nuclear researcher was a Technician. A guest could mention his own background if he wanted to, but it wouldn't impress anyone, and the occasion to do so rarely came up.

Silverthorne spoke English with no particular accent and displayed little curiosity about his opponent, who returned the favor. The conflict began the following day.

Monday was a slow day. They put their token troops through simple maneuvers and learned the limitations of their positions and the rules of the game. They were also introduced to the gamesmaster, a genially rotund man with a very serious face and an apologetic air. His job was to interpret rules, verify the decisions of the Battle Results Computer, and hold final responsibility for the proper functioning of all the aspects of the war.

Each man was given a staff of five to act as his chiefs of Supply, Operations, Intelligence, Planning and Computer Ops. They were carefully trained as to the extent of the advice they could give while maintaining communication between the commander and the forces, five hundred strong, who executed his orders.

Utopia had outdone itself in this operation. The soldiers in this mock war were not paid by the resort, but were all trainees for several of the better-known mercenary forces. Their pay was met by their prospective leaders while the Park covered their lodging and food expenses in return for their services as part of the entertainment.

Weapons were dulled, punches were pulled, cartridges were blank, but judges circulated in the battle area noting hypothetical casualties and occasionally directing the action. Their reports were processed by a small computer which calculated the exact results of the en counter in terms of casualties, material expended and ground gained or lost.

Understandably, Waverly and Silverthorne saw little of each other for some days after their brief meeting in the Lodge. The war was fought several hours a day, and studying the results of each move in the complex game took care and precision. The game had been so designed that neither side had the least advantage, and the slightest mistake in an order could cost valuable credits in hypothetical men and supplies.

Waverly made other acquaintances, and found himself sharing a few dimly remembered anecdotes from the First World War. He was not the only veteran of the Great War, he found—an aged Prussian had fought against the English in France. The Baron Ludwig von Schtroumpf was in excellent health, he insisted, and saw no reason why his board should have ordered him sent to this place. Yes, he remembered the Somme; he had been wounded slightly there...

Silverthorne maintained his interest in Waverly, though the pseudonymous Mr. Dodgson seemed unaware of the fact. The gentleman had kept up a careful study of his opponent through a week of intense, if imaginary, warfare, and had been impressed by what he saw. His organization was always interested in ability; even though Dodgson must be about seventy, he was almost preternaturally wily and clever. He had an aura of confidence and capability about him that spoke of years of leadership, and could instill a firm loyalty in any man under his command. This was a rare and valuable talent, and was certainly worth a try to land for his own people.

Nothing could be done about offering him a new job while they were here; an executive recruiter would have to find him when he came out and contact him to see if he was at all interested in changing jobs. Top men with true ability are worth all the effort it takes to get them.

He had a reservation on the outside telephone for a weekly quarter-hour call to his Sydney office. He would utilize some of this time to give them the data on Dodgson with a recommendation that they find out where this man was presently employed and prepare a recruitment presentation for him as soon as he left Utopia. Like most of the best executives, Silverthorne had a portion of his mind permanently focused on his occupation and no medical orders could turn it off.

Illya had taken his first opportunity to plant his third bug in Silverthorne's residence as soon as he found that he would be Waverly's opponent in the war game. He expected his fourth would be placed in Baron von Schtroumpf's bungalow; though the Baron was only a casual acquaintance, he was as close to a friend as Waverly had made during his first two weeks at the resort.

His own schedule varied—one day he would be alternately clearing away the dishes from six sittings and laying out tableware; another day he would be assigned to Room Service, which job might include keys to some of the residence bungalows. Apparently harmless items in his luggage fitted together to make a small, inefficient but precise locksmith's kit, and he had been able to derive the warding of the master-key system from study of the samples he held.

This particular day he had been wheeling coffee and sandwiches around the Security Area, supplying break time refreshment for the office and maintenance staffs. Vehicle Maintenance was in a flap because a fungus growth had gotten into the lubricating oil and was I thriving on the fungicides they applied. Illya had been fascinated by the biochemical problems involved and, as Klaus Rademeyer, returned voluntarily to the area when his shift was over. He worked with four other men on a jury-rigged filtration system, and almost displayed more knowledge than his cover could justify when the discussion turned to irradiation to kill the fungus spores.

It was approaching ten o'clock in the evening when the group declared itself conditionally satisfied and went together to the commissary for coffee and conversation. Illya found himself seated next to Curley Burke, the crew chief. Curley, of course, was bald, and his features seemed to huddle together around his mouth as though lost in the vast pink expanse of his head, with only two low-set and lonely ears far away to either side. His chin was small, his nose was small, and his eyes were sparkling blue beads; only his mouth was large and mobile. It could allow an insult and a pint of beer to pass in opposite directions simultaneously, and still have room in one corner for a hand-rolled cigarette which smoldered constantly.

His hands were large and lumpy, with traces of ancient grease deep in the texture. Somehow he seemed to have twice as many knuckles as he should and his fingernails were cracked and ridged, but his large hands could move inside an engine with the skill and grace of a surgeon. He was as interested in Klaus as Klaus was in the petrophagic fungus.

"Klaus," he said, "how'd a waiter learn so much about engines?"

Illya's cover had not included this information; he took a fraction of a second to sort through it and improvised. "My first job at sea was as a stoker. I thought of working my way up to Chief Engineer, but I moved over to the White Gang after I learned what life was like a little more."

"Well, you've come to the right place. I've been fixin' trucks for the Park six years now––since they opened—and I wouldn't want to work anywhere else. I've got the best quarters, the best food and pretty good pay; and it's easy to save with no place to spend it."

Illya took a swallow of coffee and looked doubtful. "It's a long way from the rest of the world, all right. I was beginning to wonder if I could last until my vacation."