The ancient Etruscans used to mine iron there and the name means "Smoky Place," probably from the smelters. But I think some English wag must have exiled Napoleon there because it was as close as they could send him to Hells. But the gag would have failed for it is now a pleasant resort: the industries are tourism and Na­poleon.

The "Ogre of Europe" exile residence was right in the town, on the beach: the Palazzina di Mulini. I wandered around in it: nice place, not the least bit like a jail; my idea of prisons was more like Spiteos, not this palace. No wonder he had escaped! No electric caging.

Teenie and Madison had been there already. When I asked about them, one of the guards said, "Ah, la bellina fanciulletta Americana! L'innocente." And I thought he must be out of his mind. He had called her "the pretty little American girl" and commented on her innocence. He was holding up two joints she must have given him as a tip. It never ceased to amaze me how people failed to see through the little (bleepch).

They had gone on to Napoleon's summer resort, the Villa San Martino, four miles southwest of town where there was a museum of Napoleonic artifacts and paintings. Some exile! A palace and a summer resort yet! But the man must have been a complete psychotic to want to escape from all this. He should have seen Spiteos!

It was too far to walk, I was not about to pay a fortune for a cab, so I idled around town and drank expressos. How calm, how soothing, to sit at a sidewalk table in the sun of early May, far from the travail and turmoil of Hellers and Kraks and Hissts and Burys.

"Hello, Inkswitch."

I knew I shouldn't have hit the hashish the night before. The hallucinogenic effects were obviously recur­rent. I could have sworn that was Bury's voice.

"Mind if I sit down?"

It WAS Bury's voice.

I dared look to see if the hallucination was also vis­ual. There he was, three-piece lawyer suit, snap-brim hat, drawing up a chair.

He looked at me. "How are things going?" he said.

"What are you doing here?" I said. Maybe the hallucination would vanish.

"Oh, just seeing to an arms cache for Hatchetheimer. He had some idea of blowing up the Vatican and needed supplies. I came in by hydrofoil." He made a gesture toward the harbor.

I put it to the test. I could hallucinate Bury easily enough but not a type of vehicle I had never seen before. I craned my neck. Yes, there was an odd kind of vessel at the landing: it looked like an aircraft fuselage on stilts without wings. It had Octopus Oil on the side of it.

"So, how is everything?" said Bury.

"Oh, fine, fine," I said, wrenching myself out of it. "That fellow with the fuel threat all handled?" said Bury.

"Oh, yes!" I said. "Absolutely."

"That's a nice yacht you have there," said Bury, looking out to the anchored white and gold ship. "I haven't seen the Golden Sunset since a conference the Man and I had aboard her with the Morgans. How's Madison?"

"Oh, he's fine, fine," I said. "Never better. Wrecking people's reputations all over the place. Splendid man."

"And you handled the fellow with the fuel?" said Bury. He certainly was carping on it.

"Utterly," I said. "Smashed, mangled and dismem­bered. Incapable of even lifting his little finger."

"I see," said Bury. He rose. "Well, I've got to be pushing off. Time, tide and court calendars wait for no man."

He gave his snap-brim hat a tug, looked at me and then walked off to the hydrofoil. Very shortly its engines started up. It moved away from the landing and then suddenly it surged forward in a cloud of white spray, stood up on its stilts and went skimming out of the bay at a hundred miles an hour.

The thunder of its engines died and the town went back to sleep.

I sat there with my skull spinning, my expresso long since cold. I couldn't figure it out. Had Bury known I was here or had it just been by accident? He could have gotten a description at the harbor office-all Italians talk too much. There weren't too many foreigners in town, for the season was quite early.

Marseilles! I had identified myself to that port director as a Rockecenter Family Spi. He must have blabbed that I had been there in the Golden Sunset!

The warm sun turned chill. I just then began to realize that I had told Bury an awful lie. Far from ceasing to be a fuel threat, Heller was more a menace than ever!

(Bleep) Heller! He was always getting me in trouble. Intentionally and with malice aforethought!

It was not duty alone anymore that dictated the necessity of getting rid of Heller. The universe was simply too small to hold the two of us!

I consoled myself that Bury would not find out Heller was free as a bird now to wreak his evil will upon this planet. Bury would probably think that Madison and I were taking a well-earned breather....

And then it hit me. If challenged, we could say that if Heller raised his ugly head again, we were just doing research to find new ways to stop him.

Yes, that was it. We could say that while we realized the man with the new fuel was, to our best knowledge, incapacitated, we also realized he could resurge and if he did, we must have ammunition.

I wished I had thought of that while Bury was sitting there. But I had been too startled. One doesn't think well when his heart is beating five feet above his head.

Maybe I should send Bury a radio and say, "While to the best of our knowledge and belief the new-fuel man is out of the running, our dedication to duty is such that we are diligently pursuing new ways of blackening his name and impeding his progress...."

No, Bury might misunderstand. The right thing to do was get a grip on this: (a) to actually find data to help make Heller into an outlaw, and (b) think, think, think of some way to throw a terminal explosive charge into the heart of the Heller operation. Then if the matter came up with Bury, to be able to say blandly, "Oh, there was no reason to worry you: we have it all under control." Yes, that was the best plan.

I felt much better. I pushed any nagging doubts to the back of my mind and returned to the ship.

I was even more relieved when a glance at the viewers simply showed Heller boning away for his exams: he was going over Army G-2 lecture notes about "Psychological Warfare for the Intelligence Officer." The Countess Krak was out shopping-the condo butler, Balmor, in tow-apparently trying to find a graduation present for Heller and, amongst all the items offered, which she seemed to feel were "primitive artifacts," not having much luck. No threat there.

Teenie and Madison came aboard in time for din­ner. All the exercise had made them very hungry and they were demolishing roast turkey au Philadelphia at an appalling rate but it didn't detract from their intense interest in their day.

"Actually," said Madison, "Napoleon didn't get very far at that. You can look from Elba, where he was exiled, straight over at Corsica where he was born. He killed several million people and yet it only got him that short distance."

"Well, he wasn't a real outlaw," said Teenie learnedly, around a mouthful of turkey. "They didn't hang him."

"I can't really understand why he's a national hero to the French," said Madison. "He wasn't French. He was a Tuscan, an Italian. But there's something to be said in his favor. He sure was a great PR. Here he was, a foreigner, attacking the French from the inside while disguised as their general, killing millions of them, and they made him their emperor for it. Now that puts him up into PR ranks pretty high. What a genius to pull one off like that. I'm sure glad we followed this up. Gave me lots of data on what people will fall for."

Teenie had gotten a banana split and was attacking it. "So you think this was pretty successful, do you, Maddie? All right. You gimme your outlaw list and I'll get right to work on it with my research staff."