Mark heard the Aston roar past. He had a busy ten minutes, dropping one guard and wounding another, when the gun jammed. He couldn't reach his U.N.C.L.E. gun from under the gown, so he lifted the wounded man and flung him at the group emerging from the driveway, before speeding out of the hail into the opposite wing.

He reached an office where a woman in a white coat was peacefully sleeping.

"Pardon me!" he said as he stripped off the gown. He looked at the woman again, and shrugged. "Methinks you met the lovely April!"

He heard the guards crashing open doors, left the office, reached the room with the racks full of assorted items and whistled softly. Ideas clicked into his mind, but he had no time to formulate them. He missed the exit door and turned down the slope into a long, glow-lighted basement. It was full of Noddy bikes—little putt-putt scooters beloved by teenagers—and some older types. Clamped above each petrol tank was what appeared to be a reserve oil tank.

Mark recognized this as a container of K.S.R.6. A pipe ran through the bike frame from the container to a plastic water bottle, such as long-distance cyclists carry for glucose, fruit, or even plain drinking water.

"Pressure-filled," he muttered. "One little touch of this button and a solution of K.S.R.6 is sprayed sideways." He smiled grimly. "Imagine a gang of dolly-chicks in K clothing riding through a shopping centre pressing little buttons!" He touched the button. A fine mist spray squirted out. "Oh Gawd! There goes me flipping cash again!"

He spied another slope at the side, checked it, saw that it led up to the rear of the house. The up-and-over door wasn't locked. He swung it open, raced back, grabbed the first Noddy bike, then paused as he heard voices above him.

"It's Miss Ingrid! Looks like she's been drugged! You two—carry her to where Sam and Greco are. We'll get them all out of here."

Mark inspected the ceiling. The floorboards were old nine-inch-thick oak, part of the original house. Wide gaps between them let the sound of voices carry, yet the stoutness of the planks helped muffle footsteps. "We'll get them all out of here," the man had said. Mark glanced around him. "Why not?" he whispered. "What better way?"

Action sped on the heels of thought. He raced around the rows of Noddy bikes, turning on the petrol-tank taps. Soon the odor of loose petrol grew strong, and small iridescent pools oozed over the floor to join with others. Mark tested the compression on the bike he had selected for himself, cast around for a suitable fuse, and found a wad of cotton waste on a workbench.

He kick-started his machine at the foot of the slope, flicking his lighter to the waste. As it flared he threw it as far as he could among the Noddy bikes, then roared up the slope, to emerge into a courtyard. He braked, skidded wildly and went, bucking-bronco fashion, legs lashing air, twice around the yard before he got the surprisingly fast little bike under control. As he passed a doorway, a man in a metal suit came out.

"How do!" said Mark, thrusting out a foot as he went by. The man fell back. Mark zoomed the Noddy bike through an open gateway and on to the moor. The track was actually no more than a footpath and Mark had driven some way along its curving length when he realized it led back to join the main track leading to the driveway. Through the trees he glimpsed silvery figures dashing from the house towards a Land Rover.

He swung the Noddy bike around and headed across the moor to a high section past two of the K.S.R.6 "ranges". He got past these okay, but the little Noddy didn't seem to care for heather, grass and peaty mud jamming up under the mud-guards of its tiny wheels. With a mechanical moan the drive-gear sheared, the engine seized. Mark shot gently off the saddle, to land on his ear.

He glanced back, and saw the Land Rover heading from the driveway and turning in his direction. He raced up the slope towards a large rock outcropping. As he climbed higher he could see down to the road, and for precious moments watched the speed duel between April's Aston Martin and the Jaguar.

"Good girl!" he muttered. Then he heard the helicopter. "Good old Sama!" He glanced back again. "And the hell with you lot!" he said, as the Land Rover bumped over the moor.

With his back to the rock he waited, gun ready. No sense in running any further. This golden light would fade soon, for already the moor was dark with shadow. Once beyond the rock on higher ground, he'd have as much chance as a pheasant against five or six guns. And not only guns. The moors looked lovely in this golden light. Like a woman full of promise, beckoning you to her scented embrace. And two men friends waiting behind the curtains with coshes. Shot, lost, stuck in a bog, or lying with a busted leg. Mark preferred the solid rock at his back and the gun in his hand.

He saw the helicopter sidle down to hover above the Aston Martin, saw the car jerking and slowing. He loosed a few accurately directed shots at the men who were now fanning out to surround him, having stopped their Land Rover on a hummock of soft ground. The range was almost at limit, but one of the men appeared to be hit in the arm.

A burst of fire from four guns spattered bullets near Mark. One or two spanged off boulders, but their range also was difficult. Suddenly came a bonanza! An orange-blue glow from the house basement sent eerie light waves over the darkening moor.

Mark's attackers turned as one man. The Jaguar careered off the road and turned over. The helicopter, ladder swaying, came tilting down towards him. The guards turned again in Mark's direction. The ladder swung down—end trailing backward.

Mark leapt, caught the third rung up, trapeze-spun his body to counteract the whip-lash effect of sudden weight, using the chopper's lift to climb swiftly up the rungs. In these seconds, the guards below him let loose a swathe of gunfire which pitted the rock face at what would have been stomach height. They swung to aim upward, but Sama Paru quickly dipped the chopper out of range.

As Mark reached the open hatch he looked down and back. The house on the moor was alight from end to end. An open truck was speeding away from it.

April had the night glasses to her eyes as Mark clambered into the chopper.

"They got her out," said April. "Sam and Greco too. Poor Ingrid!"

"I love you too," said Mark.

She grinned at him. "Firebug! I presume it was you?"

"Me and a few Noddys."

"A few what?"

"Forget it. Hi there, Sama!"

Sama Paru waved a hand. He was busy with radio contact as the chopper cleared the English coast.

"Where away?" said Mark.

"Le Havre." April tapped the bag.

"Ah! This is where we lose you to the boys in the back room. Do we recap about this little lot on yonder moor?"

"Not now. I'll see you in New York. This thing's only just begun. Sama wants to go to the help of Count Kazan."

"Without me?"

She patted his cheek. "You little boys go play while Momma does some homework."

"When Sama has finished his relay, I'd like to let Jeff know his Auntie's car is safe."

"You know the strangest people. I thought that super car was laid on by your British Special Branch friends?"

"So it was. Jeff's Auntie lives in Exeter. The old lady is a little mean. She doesn't like buying petrol. Did it run dry?"

"It did. Old Lady?"

Mark nodded. "The Duchess—they call her. I think she was a chum of Mata Hari. Jeff likes to make her feel she's wanted. The British S.B. boys don't run to Aston Martins. Besides, Jeff is a favorite nephew and Auntie can't last forever."