He said, "If you get into trouble, we'll do what we can unofficially, but officially we never heard of you: Good luck."

All of this, some of it quite beside the point, went through my mind as I stood there holding the phone. The person behind me had made no real sound, but I knew quite well that I had company. I didn't turn, but casually stretched out a foot, hooked a chair within reach, and sat down, as a woman's voice came over the wire.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Taylor?" I said.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Taylor."

Well, it wasn't the woman with the blue hair. This was a much deeper voice than the one I'd heard at the railroad station. I got an impression of a brusque and businesslike female who didn't approve of wasting time with idle amenities. Perhaps I was prejudiced by my knowledge that Louise Taylor had been a journalist's wife and had done some writing herself. On the whole, my experience with literary ladies hasn't been encouraging.

"This is Matt Helm, Mrs. Taylor," I said.

"Oh, yes, the photographer," she said. "I've been expecting you. Where are you now?"

"Right in the hotel," I said. "The train was late; I just got in. If you have some time to spare, Mrs. Taylor, I'd like to discuss the article with you before I fly north to do the pix."

She hesitated, as if I'd said something surprising. Then she said, "Why don't you come to my room, and we'll talk about it over a drink? But I must warn you, Mr. Helm, if you're a bourbon man, you'll have to bring your own. I'm hoarding my last bottle. They never heard of the stuff over here. I've got plenty of Scotch, though."

"Scotch will do me fine, Mrs. Taylor," I said. "I'll be down as soon as I put on a clean shirt."

I hung up. Then I turned from the instrument casually. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do, and I was careful to move slowly enough, I hoped, not to startle my unknown roommate into precipitate action.

I could have saved myself the trouble. She was just standing there, empty-handed and harniless-if any pretty woman can be called harmless-with her expensive tweed suit and severe silk blouse and soft blue hair. Well, I'd told myself that if she really had some reason for wanting to talk with me, she'd turn up again.

WE FACED each other for a moment in silence, while I dropped my jaw and widened my eyes to register the emotions proper to finding myself-surprise, surprise- not alone. It gave me a chance to look her over more carefully than I had hitherto done.

The hair was really blue, I saw; it had not been an optical illusion, and it was not merely that vague rinse that gray-haired women often apply for reasons incomprehensible to the male of the species. This was, as I'd judged, prematurely white hair, very fine in texture, meticulously waved and set, and dyed a pale but definite shade of blue. When you got over the initial shock, it looked smart and striking as a frame for her young-looking face and violet-blue eyes. But I can't say I really liked it.

It was an interesting effect, but I'm not partial to women who go in for interesting, artificial, calculated effects. They arouse in me the perverted desire to dump them into the nearest swimming pooi, or get them sloppy drunk, or rape them-anything to learn if there's a real woman under all the camouflage.

Having registered surprise, I let myself grin slowly. "Well, well!" I said. "This is real nice, ma'am! I think I'm going to like Stockholm. Is there one of you for every room, or are you just a special treat for visiting Americans?" Then I hardened my voice. "All right, sister, what's the racket? You've been trailing me around ever since I set foot on shore, trying for a pickup. Now you listen carefully. It would be a bad mistake for you to rip that handsome blouse and threaten to start screaming, or have your husband charge in, or whatever similar stunt you have in mind.

"You see, ma'am, all us Americans aren't millionaires, by a long shot. I don't have enough money to make it worth your while, and if I did have I damn well wouldn't pay off anyway. So why don't you just run along and find yourself another sucker?"

She flushed; then she smiled faintly. "You did that very well, Mr. Helm," she said, rather condescendingly. "Just the slightest tension in the shoulders when you realized I was standing here, almost imperceptible. The rest was very convincing. But then, they'd be bound to send a pretty good man after so many had failed, wouldn't they?"

I said, "Ma'ani, you've sure got your signals- crossed somewhere. I don't know what you're talking about."

She said, "You can drop that phony drawl. I don't think they really talk that way in Santa Fe, New Mexico. You're Matthew Helm, age thirty-six, hair blond, eyes blue, height six-four, weight just under two hundred pounds. That's what it says in the official description we received. But I don't know where you hang two hundred pounds on that beanpole frame, my friend."

She studied me for a moment. "As a matter of fact, you're not really a very good man, are you? According to our information, you're a retread, hauled out of retirement for this job because of your ideal qualifications with respect to background and languages. A trained agent with a genuine record of photo-journalism and a working knowledge of Swedish isn't easy to come by. I suppose they had to do the best they could. Your department warned us that you might need a little nursemaiding, which is why I made a special trip to Gothenburg to keep an eye on you." She frowned. "Just what is your department, anyway? The instructions we received were kind of vague on that point. I thought I knew most of the organizations we might have to work with."

I didn't answer her question. I was reflecting bitterly that Mac seemed to have done a fine job of giving me the reputation of a superannuated stumblebum. Perhaps it was necessary, but it certainly put me on the defensive here. The identity of my visitor was becoming fairly obvious, but it could still be a trick, and I said impatiently:

"Now, look, sister, be nice. Be smart. Go bother the guy in the next room for a while; maybe he likes mysterious female screwballs. I've got a date. You probably heard me make it. Will you get the hell out of here so I can wash up a little, or do I have to call the desk and have them send for a couple of husky characters in white jackets?"

She said, "The word is Aurora. Aurora Borealis. Your orders were to report to me the minute you reached Stockholm. Give me the countersign, please."

That placed her. She was the Stockholm agent I was supposed to notify of my arrival. I said, "The Northern Lights burn brightly in the Land of the Midnight Sun." I must have memorized half a thousand passwords and countersigns in my time, but I still feel like a damn fool when it comes time to give them. This specimen should tell you why-and at that, it isn't half as silly as some I've had to deliver with a straight face.

"Very well," said the woman before me, crisply. She gestured toward the telephone I had recently put down. "Now explain, if you please, why you chose to approach the subject before contacting me as instructed."

She was pushing her authority very hard, and she didn't really have much to push, but Mac had been explicit about what my attitude should be. "You'll just have to grin and bear it," he'd said. "Remember this is peace, God bless it. Be polite, be humble. That's an order. Don't get our dear, dedicated intelligence people all upset or they might wet their cute little lace panties."

Mac didn't ordinarily go in for scatological humor; it was a sign that he felt strongly about the kind of people we had to work with these days. He grimaced. "We've been asked to lend a hand, Eric, but if there's a strong protest locally, we could also be asked to withdraw. There's even a possibility, if you make yourself too unpopular, that some tender soul might get all wrought up and pull strings to embarrass us here in Washington. Every agent must be a public relations man these days." He gave me his thin smile. "Do the best you can, and if you should haul off and clip one of them, please, please be careful not to kill him."