The plane shuddered. It was almost as if a giant hand had pushed against it and the four-motored jet was struggling to fly through the obstruction. Solo had the awful feeling that they had stopped dead in the air.

Then the left wing dipped. He was thrown heavily against the arm rest. The old man beside him neglected to fasten his seat belt. He was thrown over on top of Napoleon.

The plane fell a hundred feet and pulled up with a sickening thud. It rose like an elevator and then dropped again, snapping the necks of the frightened passengers.

Outside, a wild fury of rain beat on the windows. A vivid crack of lightning flashed through the sky, throwing a weird blue light inside the passenger compartment of the beleagured plane. The stewardess switched on the lights to help calm the passengers.

She came down the aisle, obviously a frightened young woman but one bravely trying to hide her fear. The bucking of the plane in the super turbulent air almost threw her off her feet with each sickening heave. But she braced herself, grasping each seat back as she passed in an attempt to keep her balance.

"Please tighten your seat belts!" she cried above the noise of rain, thunder and jets. "Please be calm! There is no danger. We have just run into some turbulence. It will pass in a few minutes!"

Solo watched her in admiration, but Illya Kuryakin did not even glance in her direction. He was too busy with his lovely companion. She was neither brave nor afraid. That is what surprised him. She was furious. Her face was flushed. Her eyes flashed as vividly as the lightning outside.

"Damn them!" she cried, balling her fists and beating on the back of the seat in front of her as an outlet for her fury. "What are they trying to do to me! They should have checked to see which plane I boarded!"

Illya Kuryakin looked at her in astonishment. It seemed like a very curious time to get mad.

He put his hand over and caught her fist.

"Take it easy," he said. "Everything is going to be okay. It's just a strong front."

He raised his voice to make himself heard for the slap of rain on the metal skin of the plane was loud as hail.

But before he finished speaking there was a sudden lull between rain gusts. His loud claim that it was just a strong weather front carried halfway down the passenger compartment.

A man in the uniform of an officer in the U.S. Air Force leaned across the aisle.

"Don't kid yourself, buddy," he said to Kuryakin. "Before I went on military duty in South America I flew hurricane patrols out of Florida. This is no front. It is a genuine hurricane!"

Illya thought so too. His remark was intended to calm the furious girl beside him. Yet the weather report when they left Rio was for calm weather all the way. The meteorological reports might miss a budding storm, but this one was full-blown. Anything so large should have been discovered by hurricane hunter planes.

It was impossible for so large a storm to have gone completely undetected.

But was it?

He remembered what Napoleon told him regarding the call to Mr. Waverly.

Was this a THRUSH-made storm? That would explain its unusual sudden appearance.

Just then there was another lull in the driving rain. The former hurricane hunter across the aisle leaned over and said to Illya: "There is something very strange about this storm. I know something about hurricanes. This thing is absolutely impossible!"

"How do you—" Illya Kuryakin began, but the full fury of the storm struck the plane again. It was impossible to be heard. He gripped the armrests of his seat as the storm-tossed plane almost went into a loop.

His stomach heaved from the furious up and down motion. He hoped that he wasn't going to disgrace himself before the girl by losing his supper.

There was another short lull between gusts of rain. He heard the officer talking to himself: "It's impossible! There couldn't be a storm like this!"

ACT III: THE STORM GIRL

The pitching of the plane grew more violent. The hard driven rain was becoming hail. The alarm of the passengers increased.

Suddenly the girl unbuckled her seat belt. She stood up, bracing herself by holding to seat in front of her.

"Just a minute!" Illya said to her. "You can't—"

"Mind your own business!" she snapped. "I know what I'm doing. That fool of a pilot is going to get us all killed. I've got to do something to keep alive!"

"All you will do is hinder the pilot," Illya said. "Everything will be all right. These men are experienced—"

"Get out of my way!" she said.

She had the look of a person who knew exactly what she was doing. She stepped over Illya's legs. The plane lurched, but she kept her feet. She started making her way down the aisle, holding to the seat backs for support.

At the end of the compartment the stewardess tried to stop her. The girl brushed on past. The plane almost rolled over. She caught the knob of the compartment door.

Illya Kuryakin unbuckled his seat belt and got up. However, the girl braced her herself in time to avoid being thrown off her feet. When the plane righted itself, she opened the door and stepped into the pilot's compartment.

Illya hesitated for a second, then went after her. The wind was becoming gusty. The plane shivered and rolled between moments of comparative calm.

The stewardess half rose from her seat by the compartment door.

"Please, sir—" she began.

Illya patted her shoulder and said, "Don't worry!"

"But you can't bother the pilot at a time like this. He needs to keep his attention on the plane."

"I'm going to get that girl out of there," Illya said. "I—"

"You are from U.N.C.L.E.," she said.

The plane twisted. Every strut and rivet groaning under the strain. Illya could imagine the pilot's struggle to bring them back to an even keel.

"How did you know that?" he asked the girl when he could get his balance again.

"That woman—the one who went in the pilot's compartment. She asked me about you when you first got on the plane. She saw you coming up the ramp and she asked me to make sure nobody took the seat beside her. She wanted one of you to sit there."

"Thanks," Illya said. "Thanks for telling me."

He went on up front, fighting constantly to keep his feet. The tossing of the plane was getting worse. It was building up to the most ferocious storm he ever encountered.

He found the girl standing between the pilot and co-pilot. Both men's uniforms were stained with sweat.

Their faces were strained and tired from the constant struggle to keep the plane from tossing over and losing lift.

"You've got to climb!" It was the girl screaming in the pilot's ear. "These storms only rise about twenty thousand feet. It you can break out of the worst circle of wind, you can rise above it!"

"I've tried!" he yelled back. "I can't gain any altitude. It's taking all our power just to keep out of the sea!"

"Then turn with the wind!" she cried. "Let it carry you—"

"Lady, let me fly the plane, will you? Now get the hell back there in your seat. You're stopping me from-"

"Can't you understand!" she screamed at him. "I know plenty about these storms. I—"

"If you don't get out of here—!" he cried.

She grabbed his arm. The plane pitched to one side. He shoved her and pulled back on the wheel with all his strength in a desperate attempt to bring the nose up.

Illya Kuryakin caught the girl just in time to keep her from being thrown against the control panel. When the plane was half on an even keel again, the angry pilot switched to intercom and called the stewardess.