Zorki leaned out of his chair, his arms resting on the lip of the desk. His small eyes were angry. "What is this nonsense about my health?"

Waverly's eyes met his, a slight smile tugging his mouth.

"Don't you notice anything peculiar in the air? A bit of a chill—?"

Zorki frowned, his nostrils curling. Suddenly, a look of dawning wonder flooded his bull face. He gazed about wildly, then he tried to rise. Too late, he sensed the subtle, cool fragrance about his chair. It was then and only then that he managed to push up from the chair. He cursed, clawed at his throat briefly and fell over backwards, missing the chair. His heavy body thudded to the soft carpet of Mr. Waverly's office.

Waverly hardly gave him a glance. He thumbed the yellow button on his desk. A female voice, issuing from seemingly nowhere again, abruptly crackled with sound.

"Section Six, Mr. Waverly."

"Send Mr. Wilder in, please."

"Yes, Mr. Waverly."

He pressed another button on his desk. The green one. This activated an air current that issued from the edge of his desk and kept the gas that had knocked out Zorki from reaching him. Waverly steepled his fingers, sat back in his chair, and waited.

A door on his left, cleverly merged with the pale umber color of the wall, opened with a slide of panel, and a man stepped into the office.

Mr. Waverly spun about in his chair and scrutinized the newcomer carefully. As if by prearranged signal, the entrant to the office stood at attention and said nothing.

Yes, Wilder would most certainly do. Only Zorki's mother could have told them apart.

Security and Enforcement Agent James Wilder was the spitting image of Alek Yakov Zorki. It was more than the similar costume of rough tweed suit, gray turtleneck sweater and plain, scuffed shoes. The bull head, massive shoulders and the artfully made-up face, would definitely serve to fool anyone coming as close as five feet. The Lab had once more performed one of their highly specialized tricks.

James Wilder turned around for Mr. Waverly's benefit, walked a few paces and then paused, cocking his head. As his chief studied him for defects, he too scarcely paid any attention to the man on the floor.

"Good, Mr. Wilder. You'll do. Concentrate a bit on that flinging of the head. Our dear Zorki's bullishness is one impression he leaves with the most casual acquaintance."

"Right, sir."

"Now I suggest that you find our sleeping friend a cell to sleep it off in. Continue to study him until eleven tonight. All details, all physical mannerisms. Using a glass mirror, of course. By that time, we will have formulated our plans for the midnight rendezvous with our other friends from Thrush."

Wilder came further into the room and bent over Zorki. He rolled the heavy agent over on his back. Zorki made not a sound. Wilder's smile was bleak.

"Sleeping like a baby."

"Yes," Waverly nodded. "The depression of the cushion on that chair he sat in is rather unique, I think. Harmless enough but most effective in releasing the gas. Took a bit longer to work this time. Have the Lab check out the formula for possible flaws. It took nearly five minutes to incapacitate Mr. Zorki."

"Right, sir." Wilder paused, as he slung Zorki to his shoulder. "Any word on Slate and Dancer?"

"No. That will be all, Mr. Wilder."

Mr. Waverly turned to look out the picture window. The panorama of the East River and the shore beyond was always a pleasing sight. It had a soothing effect on whatever strain he experienced in his duties for the organization known as U.N.C.L.E.

He was upset now, though his headmaster's manner indicated no such thing to observers like James Wilder, who was already removing Zorki's bulk from the office. It was one thing to dupe the enemy and prepare a fine plan to rescue two valuable agents, but he was all too aware of the duplicity of THRUSH.

What if April Dancer and Mark Slate were already dead?

For one tiny second, he wistfully wished that Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were not thousands of miles away in Rangoon on that infernal ray affair.

He tried not to think about that as he watched the sun's rays dance off the numberless windows on the opposite side of the river.

April Dancer and Mark Slate were a team, too. As such, they would have to play the game. The game that can be lost just once.

The deadly game of Spy, U.N.C.L.E., Spy.

Don't Blow Your Top

The corridor was empty.

Behind them, the fused, crumpled door, a twisted testimonial to the effectiveness of X-757, now revealed the glowing chamber, their recent cell. The hallway stretched ahead, long, dark and unknown. No light gleamed. In the shadowy gloom, April Dancer could see the pale blur of Mark Slate's half-naked body. The woman in her made her grin wryly, despite the situation. There was something indecent about having to operate without a full set of fig leaves.

Silken panties and bra were not exactly the standard uniform for U.N.C.L.E. assignments, either.

"Where to now?" Mark Slate whispered.

"Let's wait till we hear a noise. No sense in playing blindman's buff."

It was a good idea. No hue and cry had been raised since the muffled explosion of the door. A cemetery silence filled the corridor. A silence more discomforting for the noisy blast that had preceded it.

A darkened corridor was ideal for the onslaught of sudden attacks. Especially when one had not the faintest notion which way led to freedom.

They didn't have a weapon between them. THRUSH had seen to that. Good old reliable Mark, who seemed to think of everything sometimes, had had the good sense to secrete a tiny blasting cap in the hollow of his armpit. It was that and that alone which had triggered the wadded clump of X-757 in the door jamb. But what now?

"Mark—"

"Yes?"

"Listen—"

From somewhere at one end of the corridor came a click of noise. April tensed, clutching Mark Slate's forearm in warning. They both froze where they stood. No door had been opened that they could see; no telltale light lit up the darkness. Yet they both knew from long experience that someone was in the corridor with them. Perhaps, more than one—

April felt the barest influx of air playing over her flesh. It had to come from an opening of some kind. Then it was gone. The trickle of wind came from the gloom just ahead of them, no more than fifteen feet away. April flattened against the wall, straining to listen. She pushed her long dark hair back, away from her ears. She kept herself from trembling, concentrating on the source of the sound. This was a typical THRUSH maneuver, this baiting-in-the-dark. She remembered ruefully the way they had bottled up poor Donegan in Granada. The abandoned air shaft of an old apartment house. Donegan hadn't had a chance, either.

She was dimly aware of the sound of Mark's breathing. Or was it the enemy's? Too hard to tell. She couldn't risk a whisper now. She had almost lost sight of the pale blur of his body. Where exactly was Mark?

Had someone decided to traverse the width and length of the corridor with scathing bursts of machine-gun fire, they wouldn't have had a chance in a million. Either of them. Therefore, that could only mean one thing. The enemy was in the corridor with them. And they were wanted alive. That was worth knowing, but—

Far too late, she sensed the rush of bodies. She tried to scuttle back in the darkness. And then a hard knee rocketed from nowhere, ramming into her stomach. The air shot from her lungs. Tears sprang to her eyes; a fierce stab of agony filled her middle. She staggered, only to feel herself vised by a pair of arms which should have belonged to a gorilla. She shook herself violently, trying to dissolve the waves of shock. But it was too soon. She allowed herself to fall forward against her assailant, smelling the sweaty nearness of an enormous, muscular body. From somewhere, she heard Mark Slate's clipped voice blurt something. Then there was a savage series of smacking, thudding noises, suggesting a terrible fight at close quarters.