"You told me not to call you," said the London link man, "but just after you reported in, we received information that Karadin seldom drives to the west. He picks up a helicopter outside London, flies to Exeter and takes his car from there. New York is a little annoyed. We cannot raise Mark Slate, and Mr. Waverly considers you are taking an undue risk."

"Tell him it's a matter of comparison," said April. "All risk is undue—if you see what I mean?"

The link man grinned. "I do, but will he?"

"That's up to you," said April, smiling sweetly. "But if you say it the wrong way—I'll have your guts for garters. Over and out."

In the hotel lobby Dr. Karadin, who had changed into country tweeds which gave him a chunky and less suave appearance, said cheerfully: "I have decided to use the helicopter. The roads are very crowded and I am anxious to reach the west country as soon as possible. You do not mind?"

April contrived to look surprised. "My! But you must be an important man around here! Your own helicopter service!"

He smiled. "A small matter of effective organization. The chauffeur-driven car is parked around the corner from the hotel. I will join you in a moment." As she left he was heading towards the toilets.

Through an angled mirror Karadin saw April Dancer leave the hotel. He at once changed direction and went past the curving reception desk into a small corridor. He leaned through an open window to where the hotel telephonist sat at the switchboard and passed her a slim fold of money.

"The lady made no calls," said the girl, pushing the money under a phone pad. "Nor did she receive any."

"Good," said Karadin. "And Slate?"

"No messages either in or out. He hasn't returned to his room since he left this morning."

"You will phone my London number should any calls for either be received?"

The girl tapped the phone pad, smiling. "As long as this lasts."

"You are being overpaid," Karadin snapped.

The girl shrugged. "That's a matter of opinion. You'll get your money's worth."

"Pah!" snarled Karadin as he hurried away.

As a journey to benefit a tourist, it was a dead loss. The car whizzed through the dense traffic of Knightsbridge, Kensington and Chiswick, occasionally darting along side streets to escape jams, so all that April Dancer saw were rows of parked cars, grubby houses and fume-belching red buses.

"Good grief!" she exclaimed. "How do they ever sort out this tangle on these horse and buggy roads? Why don't they have a heliport in central London?"

"They have," said Karadin. "But as yet we have not succeeded in filing up enough forms to defeat the red tape which binds private operators. So we cannot use it. We have not long acquired permits to land a helicopter near our house on the moors. I have to fly to Exeter and drive by road from there."

They chatted about the ways of bureaucrats in various countries and the difficulties of filling forms and obtaining permits and licenses. April Dancer purposely kept the conversation at this inane level. In some ways it was a natural conversation for a tourist, but with her usual insight she had detected a change in Karadin. He too had been acting a part and, if her own hunch was correct, had many more important things on his mind right now than the subject they were discussing.

There is nothing so infuriating as having to listen to a constant flow of trivial chatter when one is trying to assess the dangers, difficulties and other aspects of a problem. She had forced herself upon Karadin after that lightning hunch hit her, leaving him only two courses to follow. To exchange pleasantries, give a brief explanation of why he was in town and leave her; or to stick with her until he'd made certain she really was a holiday tourist. What else could he think she was?—and why? If any other thought entered his head, then he'd proved her hunch to be correct. Slightly illogical reasoning, but then, for all her talents and efficiency as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, April Dancer was still a woman. Which was why Mr. Waverly often gave her a latitude he would not allow the men. She had a flair for being right before logic could prove her to be.

By the time they had almost reached London Airport it was obvious that her companion was becoming edgy. The car took a side road, then drove along a track which led to a small field where a helicopter was parked. The chauffeur took her overnight bag and Karadin's luggage. The pilot stowed them away. In less than five minutes they were airborne. April began chatting again.

"Please," said Dr. Karadin, raising a protesting hand. "Please do be silent for just a little while. I have a severe headache."

"Oh dear, I am sorry," April gushed. "Now you just lean back in your seat and I'll look out of the window. Have you been overworking? Yes, you do look kind of tired. I had an uncle once who suffered from headaches. Nearly drove him mad. But he had a wonderful cure... ." She giggled and launched into a long and impossible explanation.

This was a weapon not issued to U.N.C.L.E. agents—the weapon of the female mind linked to the female tongue. Stronger men than Karadin have taken to their heels to escape it; in the close quarters of a helicopter there was no escape from the strident, high-pitched voice April Dancer purposely adopted. It even got on the pilot's nerves, for he kept stabbing venomous glances in her direction.

Nor did surveying the patchwork-quilt panorama of south-west England make her silent, because soon after take-off they ran into heavy rain and low cloud so that she couldn't see much anyway. So she jabbered on and on, hoping her voice wouldn't crack under the strain. Karadin cracked first.

"Blast you, woman!" he yelled. "Will you keep quiet?"

"Well, really!" April screeched indignantly. "I don't call that very polite. Fancy speaking to your guest like that! After all, you invited me to see your precious West country and this house on the moors. You know, I always did think you were too good to be true—now listen to me, Professor. I guess you've been out of this world too long. Women have rights now, you know... ." And off she was again, in a long tirade.

At last Karadin reached for the first-aid kit, turning away from her to open it.

"That's right," she said. "You take a handful of aspirins. They'll settle your nerves."

"My God!" Karadin exclaimed. "I'll settle yours!" He whirled in his seat, a Beretta automatic pointing at her navel. "Keep still," he said huskily. "Very still or I'll blow a hole right through you." He moved swiftly and slapped a piece of sticking tape over her lips. When she brought her hand up he slashed the gun across her knuckles, grabbed her hand, forced it down and lashed it to a seat strut with more tape.

April could have taken him then by one swift action, but this outcome was what she had wanted. She'd been prepared to have to wait until they reached the house, but when she guessed he was under strain she hoped he'd be forced to make his first move.

Karadin leaned back in his seat. "Okay," he said to the pilot. "Radio ahead for the car and two attendants. Use the code."

He turned to April Dancer. She glared at him, still maintaining her role of outraged innocence.

"U.N.C.L.E. made a mistake in sending you to London," he told her. "You are a little too famous to be ignored. I did not want to be bothered with you, but once you had made contact with me I had to take you out of circulation. I don't know whether you are a very foolish or brave young woman to make yourself so obvious. There were other means available to me, but I could not take them. We Europeans are still rather hidebound by tradition. We cannot truly accept that a woman who does a man's job should also take the same risks." He shrugged. "And anyway, violence against a woman always attracts more attention. For that, you should be thankful."