Illya looked surprised. "Napoleon, this is the capital city of Hungary. There is more night life here than in Madrid, Athens or Amsterdam. And I have never heard you complain about their quiet." He thought. "Dinner at the New York, and probably a show at the Budapest Night Club."

The secretary looked up. "The New York? Where is that?"

Illya considered. "That's right. It's the Hungarica now."

"Oh!" she said happily. "If you can drive me home, I can be ready in fifteen minutes."

Illya looked at Napoleon, who grinned and shrugged. "Certainly," he said, and smiled. "You will be our native guide."

* * *

The food at the Hungarica was as good as Illya had promised, and they were on their way to catch the last show at the Budapest. Napoleon felt ill at ease among the deserted streets—the broad boulevards almost empty of cars, and pedestrians scattered along the sidewalks bundled like stuffed dolls against the freezing air. The streets were well enough lit, but seemed quiet. He missed the flashing neon and garish colors that no main street in America was without—lights that shouted of life and action. Here there were only streetlights, and a few modest signs.

Elena, their secretary-guide, poked Illya and said, "Over there."

Illya looked, and saw a group of men hurrying along together in a tight knot. Something about the way they moved smelled of trouble. He said, "Napoleon...." and the American looked too.

"Wonder what it is," he said. "Looks like a lynch mob."

"Not good," said Elena nervously. "I think we stay away from them. You are strangers, and many people, even here, are suspicious. Besides, Mr. Krepescu would blame me if you got into trouble with the Security Police."

"Well, they don't look like police to me," said Napoleon. "And I'd hate to be whoever they're after."

"There he goes," said Illya suddenly. "He just ducked out of the doorway and headed down the side street."

"Pull around the block, and maybe we can give him a lift somewhere. If he turns out to be wanted, we can always say he forced us."

Illya nodded, and ran the car around a series of four corners. In a little over a minute they were coming up the street towards a lone figure who was walking quickly along, close to the building fronts, but not hiding.

"There he is," said Elena, resigning herself to becoming involved. "Oh, comrade—" she called out the window.

He stiffened and looked around him, but said nothing. They couldn't see his face, but he was tall and lean, well dressed, with a light felt hat at a rakish angle on his head, and a walking stick.

Illya stuck his head out. "Is there any trouble?"

"None at all, my friend. Merely out for an evening's stroll."

"And walking a whole pack of dogs," Napoleon said under his breath. "Illya, stick around until that bunch comes around the corner."

It was only a moment's wait. Perhaps half a dozen men, mostly young, moving in a close-packed group, appeared around the corner. They paused as they caught sight of the car, and then came forward hesitantly, breaking apart a little.

The well-dressed gentleman took an involuntary step a little closer to the car, then caught himself. "I really must be getting on," he said. "Thank you for your consideration." And he started off again.

The group broke into a trot, and as they passed the car Illya asked, "What's going on here?"

Apparently a trace of accent gave him away, because one of the younger men snapped, "No concern of yours, Russkya."

Illya put the car in gear and made a tight U-turn in the deserted street. Then he was cruising along in the same direction as the gang, with his open window facing them. He spoke casually, as if disinterested. "If you're not chasing him, why do you stay so close behind him? And if you are chasing him, why don't you catch him?"

"You wouldn't understand if we told you," said another youth. "We just don't want his kind around here."

Illya touched the gas pedal and pulled ahead until he was abreast of the lone man. "They say they don't want your kind around," he said. "What kind are you?" He sounded only idly curious, and not at all dangerous.

The man turned his head only slightly. "I am Rumanian. But I have not been to my home in many years. Now I am sorry to see how my neighbors have changed, and I fear my own land will have changed more."

Illya touched the brake and waited for the gang. "He says he's Rumanian. What do you have against them?"

An older man, breathing heavily, stepped towards the car. "Yes, he is Rumanian. But we have no dislike of them. He is hated by them as well, because they know him better."

"What has he done?" asked Illya, now genuinely interested.

The old man gave a sound between a snort and a grunt. "What has he done?" he repeated. "He is Vlkoslak—that is enough. We cannot kill him, but we may drive him away."

The lone man stopped and turned. "A lie," he said. "And you will apologize." He took a step towards the man who had spoken and raised his stick threateningly.

Then the sidewalk was suddenly active. Two young men leaped forward and seized the stick while two more charged at the well-dressed one. The two older men started to move in as Illya set the brake and leaped from the car. Napoleon was right behind him.

With instinctive division of labor, Napoleon went for the two who had grabbed the stick. Aware of his uncertain status in a country touchy about foreigners, his style was cramped by the need to avoid any injury to his opponents while they were bound by no such rules.

In a moment he had the stick, and one attacker was doubled over clutching at the part of his stomach where the ferrule had driven the wind out of him. The other just avoided a nasty crack in the shins and bored in on Napoleon, fists swinging wildly. Napoleon sidestepped neatly, and caught him a paralyzing blow on the bicep that would not even leave a bruise. When the young man swung around to attack with his remaining good arm, Napoleon casually reached across and clipped it too. Taking advantage of a free moment, he turned to look around.

The lean man was not an easy customer to handle. Apparently he was well-trained in la savat, the French style of foot-fighting which makes even a tough knife-fighter think twice before attacking. He stood lightly balanced on the balls of his feet, in a half-crouch, his two hands clasping his elbows and his interlocked forearms held perhaps six inches in front of his chest. One of his assailants was stretched out on his back, unmoving, apparently having caught a toe under the jaw. The other was circling, looking for an opening. Before he could react, a foot shot out, close to the ground, and his own legs were swept from under him. He sat down very hard on the pavement.

Napoleon handed the gentleman's stick back to him with a slight bow, and addressed him tentatively in French. "My compliments on the footwork, my friend. Do you often have occasion to practice?"

"Only the last few days," said the other, in moderately accented English. "My knowledge of the art was mainly theoretical until I chose to return to my homeland. Your handling of—was that karate?—is quite professional."

Illya broke in. "You can compliment each other later. Come over here and listen to these two."

He had both old gentlemen pinned down, and neither of them was acting particularly gentlemanly. Both were using words far outside Napoleon's Hungarian vocabulary, but he gathered from the few cognates he caught that their speech was even worse than their behavior. Illya tried to question them as to their motives, but it was obvious nothing more could be gotten out of them.