[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читать книги TXT) 📗

“Possibly a lot aren’t infected by the THRUSH madness,” Waverly said. “They saw a fight and joined in.”

“Yes, sir,” Illya put in, “and many could be previously infected. Apparently this madness comes and goes.”

“However,” Waverly said, “reports from here and abroad indicate that this film is definitely connected with this riot disease. We are now running tests and we may ask the government to ban the film if we find there is a connection.”

“I’m afraid,” Solo said, “that if THRUSH has found a way to poison an audience’s mind through one film, they can - and even may be - doing it through a hundred more.”

“That is correct, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “Also it is possible to expand it into every type of mass communications media. I suspect that this Million Monsters film is a pilot or test of a new mind slavery process. If it works, and it seems to, then it will be expanded.”

“I see,” Solo said soberly. “Then we will be confronted with ten billion monsters instead of just a million!”

“And all controlled by THRUSH!” Waverly said. “You can see how desperate our situation is. You must find out what is behind this terrible menace, Mr. Solo. What about Mallon? Were you able to see him?”

“He’s dead, sir,” Napoleon said solemnly.

“Then there was a connection!”

“It would seem so. We’re trying to find it,” the Man from U.N.C.L.E. said. “We’re at the riot now. We’re searching for a definite THRUSH connection.”

“Excellent, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “Please keep me informed, and I will pass along to you any information I receive from April Dancer in London. Will Mr. Kuryakin still be able to keep his schedule to fly to Paris and check on this film importer who saw Mallon?”

“Yes, sir,” Illya said.

“Excellent!” Waverly said. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

Wearily Napoleon Solo pushed down the antenna to cut off the pen communicator.

“Carry on!” he said, throwing a wry grin at his companion. “Easier said than done. I never felt less like carrying on.”

“Oh, you’ll feel better after you get some rest,” Illya said.

“When will that be?”

“A long, long time, I’m afraid,” Kuryakin said sadly. “I -”

He stopped as a girl came running breathlessly down the street, dodging her way through the riot mess. She came almost abreast of them.

“There’s something about her that looks familiar,” Illya said.

“You can bet your sweet life there is!” Solo cried. “That’s Marsha Mallon! Come on!”

But she was faster than they were. She vanished into the fighting mob ahead.

It was virtual suicide for anyone in their weakened condition to plunge into that seething mass of humanity again. But they had no choice. They went after her.

TWO

THEY WENT without question or second thought. Disregard of one’s own comfort and safety was the first requirement of an U.N.C.L.E. operative.

In the center of the riot those still affected by the tear gas were stumbling, shrieking and blindly striking out at everything that came within their distance.

Men and girls were sprawled in the street. Some were bleeding, hundreds injured, but like Marsha Mallon in the airline terminal, something kept driving them on.

Napoleon and Illya paused, pressed back against a store window just outside the gas area, watching closely. They needed to know everything about the reaction of people to the strange THRUSH-induced compulsion.

“They are affected by the gas just as your knockout drops rendered Marsha unconscious,” Illya observed. “But whatever is driving them will not let their bodies stop.”

Solo nodded and called Waverly on the pen communicator. Minutely he described every action of the zombie-like actions of the rioters.

“Your words are being fed directly into the computers. We will have a probability answer in about fifteen seconds,” Waverly said.

“My guess is that this film, The Million Monsters, has some sinister hypnotic affect on its audiences,” Napoleon said. “This renders them susceptible to some sort of brain wave generator that can send out impulses on the same wave length as the human mind. When their conscious mind is dormant, they react to orders from this THRUSH brain wave transmitter.”

“Is this a guess or do you have some solid evidence, Mr. Solo?” Alexander Waverly asked.

“Call it a hunch,” Solo replied.

“Hunches are for horse players,” Waverly said coldly. “We must have facts - good solid facts. We are on the verge of a complete collapse of law and order that could throw the entire world back into savagery! We -”

He broke off and then said hurriedly, “Keep tuned in. The computers are coming in with a probability report.”

“Yes, sir,” Solo said.

“But do not depend too much on this preliminary report. It will be as accurate as our limited information will permit the computer to be. But we may not know enough yet to permit the electronic machines to give us a true picture.”

A second later the computer’s mechanical voice came over the electronic beam from New York’s U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. The most likely probability, the machine said, followed almost exactly the theory that Napoleon had outlined to his chief.

Solo heard Waverly grunt.

The computer was silent for ten seconds and then a metallic voice said as it electronically scanned the algebraic computation tapes and picked out and assembled the words from its memory bank to make its report in voice:

“The probability is that some kind of subliminal suggestion is projected to the audience of the Million Monsters film. This suggestion is probably too fast and high a pitch to be consciously observed by the audience, but is indelibly impressed on the subject’s subconscious mind. This is nothing new. It has been tried on TV advertising until public complaints forced its discontinuance. THRUSH has evidently refined the process to achieve a method of enslaving minds.”

When the mechanical voice shut off, Solo heard Waverly speak into a transmitter to the chief of the computer section.

“Set up a new program,” he said sharply. “I personally viewed this Million Monsters film myself at the film exchange screening room. It had no effect on me. Nor did it affect any of the others. I want to know why as quickly as possible. I suspect there is a definite clue there.”

“Sir, if I can intrude with another hunch -” Solo began apologetically.

“Go ahead, Mr. Solo. If you are right this time, we’ll dispense with the computer and set you up with a roll of punch tape!” Waverly said.

It was like the U.N.C.L.E. chief to speak lightly when the situation was on the brink of desperation.

“Well, sir,” Solo said, “this is based on more than just speculation. I have been watching the crowd. This subliminal suggestion power seems to only affect young people. I have an idea it may have something to do with the age of the brain cells. I suspect that it would have its greatest effect upon young children and then would gradually decrease in power as the brain cells age and mature.”

“That might well explain why none of us who viewed the film came under the spell,” Waverly said. “So far as our reports have come in, everyone involved in the riots have been under thirty. You could well be right. We will need more data.”

“We’ll get it,” Solo said.

“Specifically,” Waverly went on, “we need to know how this subliminal suggestion is accomplished, how long the effects last, how THRUSH turns it off and on, and what THRUSH’s goal is.”

“I think we’re making some progress, sir,” Illya said.

“Then carry on, gentlemen - but be careful. Four of THRUSH’s most important liquidators have left Europe, April Dancer reports. It is my hunch that you two are the target. That indicates to me that you are pushing THRUSH harder than it appears to us right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said. “I think we -”

“Napoleon!” Illya broke in. “It’s him!”