Their faces and figures wavered before her, tilted alarmingly and then blackness rolled in. It was in this negative state of mind that her eyes closed and she toppled on the stairs, unconscious. The black tam on her head rolled down the steps.

"Quickly," the Sikh barked. "There is little time left." The apache and the Chinaman galvanized. They clambered up to April like agile monkeys, straightened out her limp figure. The Chinaman hurriedly produced a roll of poster-size paper from beneath the folds of his purple robes. Arnolda Van Atta rose stiffly from the floor, evened out her skirt and sweater and red hair with quiet, almost majestic satisfaction. A hard, cruel light shone in her green eyes.

"I thought I'd never get the chance to needle Miss Uncle," she remarked tersely. "She never let me get close enough."

The Sikh glared at her. "How is that? You could have hidden a dozen places in that apartment."

Arnolda Van Atta's eyes glinted with fury. "Small matter of a snake nobody mentioned to me, my friend. This woman saved my life."

"Snake?" The Sikh was too busy with the manner in which the Chinaman and the apache were preparing April Dancer for the street. "Speak plainly."

"No time now," the redhead snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Wah, Missy Sahib," the Sikh boomed, no courtesy evident in his tone despite the title of honor. "Hurry, you two!"

So it was that five minutes later, passersby on East Twelfth Street were treated to one of the odd sights of the day. People stopped to stare, gawk and wonder, shake their heads and move on about their business. It was the sort of thing one could expect in these sickening times of national crisis and world unrest. What with young men burning their draft cards, civil rights mobs picketing City Hall, anything could happen in New York, and very usually did. What could this be but one more way to state an opinion—or advertise a theatrical enterprise.

Still, it was a lulu, all right.

A Chinaman and a French apache character carrying the body of a very American woman. As though she were a corpse. Her body was as stiff as a board. Ahead of them, stalked a majestic Hindu, turban, beard and all. At his side walked a strikingly beautiful redhead. Tall and proud. The body of the American woman was tented with one of those sandwich-board posters so that the same message could be read from either side of the street:

WAKE UP, AMERICA!

OUR BOYS ARE DYING IN VIETNAM

SO ARE CIVILIANS!

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?

The curious quintette, boldly proclaiming the presence in town of ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT, but not saying exactly when or where, turned down a side street and approached a large blue panel truck which was parked in front of a store that sold typewriters. The flat sides of the truck also advertised the fact that ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT was an enterprise on wheels.

Within seconds, just scant strokes of time away from the advance of one very inquisitive cop on the beat, the group had entered the truck and driven off. The redhead and the Hindu were seen to sit in the cab of the vehicle while the Chinaman and the apache entered the rear with the woman who was playing the role of the corpse.

The driver of the truck was an enormous Negro with visored chauffeur's cap and tremendous brown hands that dwarfed the steering wheel.

"You took your time, snake charmer," he rumbled crisply to the Hindu. "We may get a lecture about this delay."

"Drive," the Sikh commanded coldly. "We have succeeded and no one will quarrel with that. Not even Riddle."

Arnolda Van Atta flung him a sideways glance. "Riddle? When did he get in?" Her lovely, classical face became a mask of surprise.

The Sikh laughed hollowly, pleased that he had piqued her interest.

"Riddle is the answer to everything."

Romeo's blue panel truck merged with the flow of traffic on the East River Drive and headed North. The water lay like unbroken glass in the pale sunlight.

The driver hummed a Dixieland tune as he played with the wheel.

On the hard wooden floorboards of the van, April Dancer lay inert. The powerful drug which Arnolda Van Atta had injected into her hand via the platinum wrist watch, kept her drugged and unconscious. Her lithe figure was as supine as a felled tree.

The apache had relieved her of her handbag, personal effects, and even her bra (without having had to undress her). The bra had proven to be of black silk with a curious flexibility. The apache was certain that it was as innocuous as the other secret weapon. There was no telling until certain tests could be made.

The Chinaman was industriously examining a hand grenade—an American make, U.S. Army M-1. He handled the grilled, egg-shaped object deftly as his slanted eyes regarded the shapely beauty at his feet. A flicker of male interest shone in his expression. The apache leered at him, and pushed an expressive thumb ceilingward. Both men smiled at each other and continued with their own private business, and thoughts. On both sides of the panel truck, a veritable arsenal of weapons stood on view. More grenades, Thompson submachine guns, land mines and an amazing amount of drums and ammunition bandoliers. The blue panel truck was a veritable armory on wheels.

In the cab, the Negro driver still rumbled his disapproval aloud to the Hindu leader of the operation.

"Riddle, huh? Then you'd better make your story twice as good, Swami boy. Riddle doesn't like to be kept waiting on everyone to make his next move. You know what a fanatic he is on Chess. Knight to Queen Three and all that jazz."

"My name is Bora Singh," the Sikh said caustically. "You will do well to remember that. I do not care for nicknames."

"Sure, sure," the driver chuckled, winking at Arnolda Van Atta. "Bora Singh. That and fifteen cents will make you head of THRUSH some day."

Arnolda Van Atta folded her arms and stared straight ahead. She said nothing. Her green eyes were far away and remote. Bora Singh lapsed into a hostile silence. The driver hummed his Dixieland tune again.

The blue panel truck whipped on toward the Bronx.

Mr. Waverly controlled his nearly feverish impatience and studied the teletype streamer once again. The yellow ribbon of communications felt like a hot potato in his lean fingers, and was more indigestible for a man in his position to swallow. Section IV, Intelligence And Communications, had rushed the message to his office as soon as it had come in.

It was decidedly unpleasant reading matter:

IF YOU WISH MARK SLATE BACK ALIVE, WE AGREE TO EXCHANGE HIM FOR ZORKI. A FAIR TRADE IS NO BARGAIN. CONTACT GRAND CENTRAL STATION, LOCKER 705, FOR FURTHER DETAILS. NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT TODAY.

MISS EGRET

There it was. No doubts about it. A plain black and white swap. Agent for agent. A valuable agent like Mr. Slate for the Great Zorki. The information about Slate had come over the teletype thanks to a suit of brown clothes being left by the pressing iron in Del Floria's tailor shop downstairs. So THRUSH knew about that too.

And Miss Egret was involved again. The mysterious Miss Egret. Sometimes, Dr. Egret, many times, a mysterious, faceless woman who could assume a wealth of disguises. The range of her operations and triumphs for THRUSH was simply incredible.

Egret. The most dangerous bird in the wide spectrum of the THRUSH aviary of espionage.