He sprinted to his car, jumped in, and thanked the tuned U.N.C.L.E. motor for pulsing to life so fast. He barreled out of the space and down the street, watching the rearview mirror to pick up the license number of the Chevy. He also caught the queer drama being played out in the front seat. The giant was still sitting there, but his hands came up to his face and fell back onto the wheel. It was a gesture of frustrated defeat. He had failed in something. Illya wondered what.

---

Illya returned the car to the loving hands of the mechanics in the U.N.C.L.E. garage, and drove into the heart of the great building to play out a hunch. He had no real basis for wanting a check run through the computers, but something gnawed at the back of his mind and he was too old a hand at this type of thing not to cater to his gnawings. First he reported the license number of the Chevy, but told the girl on duty and swamped with priority work not to hurry with it. He explained it as a routine check. She promised to get to it as soon as she had an extra minute.

Next he went down a level and dug up an artist who drew a composite likeness of the giant who had been driving. As the face formed under his pencil, the artist shivered, and Illya patted him on the back. "I didn't say he was pretty. Just run it through for me, will you? You have a tremendous likeness there. Maybe the computer can give a name for it."

"Did Mr. Waverly tell you we got some results on those two composites Solo had me draw?" The man was proud of his work, of his ability to draw a face from a description and actually have a name put to it. "Louie Salter and Robard Farell. The Police Department identified them. We didn't have them in our banks because they're petty gangsters."

Illya nodded. "Unemployed gunmen. Yes - Waverly told me. But it only adds to the confusion, doesn't it?"

He left the man to his work and continued down on the elevator. He should have discovered the giant's name for himself at the time of the incident. But he'd had no real reason to be curious. It was just an accident, after all. He still had no reason, but curious he was. The more he let his mind dwell on it, the more clearly he could hear the crunch and snap that might have been his leg bones if the giant had been able to rev the car forward faster. Deliberate? Maybe he'd know tomorrow when the reports came in.

He walked until he came to Files and Documents. He wanted to see Napoleon and bask in Solo's disgust at his new job. File clerk. Illya had yet to see him in the actual throes of work, and as he stepped into the file room he looked devilishly forward to it.

The door whooshed open and he found Napoleon, his arms laden with filing folders, and a young woman whom he presumed to be Mada Adams. Napoleon turned quickly at the sound of the door, his face taut. He relaxed as he recognized Illya. He plunked down his stack of folders and warned him, "Careful, Illya, you're stepping into foreign territory. Mada doesn't like Enforcement Agents."

Illya pretended to be disappointed. "How unfortunate. And I like file clerks so well. Some of my best friends are file clerks."

Napoleon caught the message and grimaced, but Mada Adams only smiled. "After two days of working with Mr. Solo," she said, "I confess I'm starting to change my mind."

"Finesse, charm, and savoir faire will do it every time," Solo said, pleased with himself. But when he looked at Illya again, he was sober. "You've come with . some news, I hope. Any leads? On the gold? The men?"

"Not yet," Illya said bluntly.

Solo gestured to Mada. "Hand me Mr. Kuryakin's file, Mada. I want to put it under Inactive Agents!"

"Napoleon!" Illya protested. "This isn't an easy thing. There -" He stopped. He couldn't go too far or Solo s quick mind would jump ahead of him and come up with knowledge he wasn't allowed to have. To preclude the chance, Illya turned the sentence to a joke. "Remember, I don't have your splendid brain to guide me."

Solo wasn't having any jokes and he wasn't laughing. "Waverly refuses to allow me even a glimpse of my own case file. I'm surprised he hasn't asked me to turn in my gun for the duration!"

"Give us time," Illya said. "We'll solve it." He didn't like the tension in Solo, the too-quick reflexes, the anger huddled beneath the surface of everything he said.

"I don't have much more time, Illya! If I want some action, maybe I'll have to break out of here and join Thrush!"

"I see. You're spoiling for a fight. Why don't you go to the gym and practice your Karate?"

"Not you, too!" Solo exploded.

Illya looked to Mada for an explanation of the reaction, and she laughed. "He's been working out twice a day, Mr. Kuryakin. I don't think the instructor will let him in anymore. He's worried about the frustration-aggression cycle and his own Japanese bones."

As Mada gestured to make her point, the charm brace let she was wearing clattered and jingled. Solo shook his head and said gruffly, "Must women always have sound effects with their jewelry?"

"I'm sorry." Math clutched the bracelet to silence it. "I think," Illya interrupted, "that tinkling and rattling women are charming. Your bracelet is, too. May I see it?" He didn't really want to look at it. He had seen enough charms when he saw the one that resided in Napoleon's case file. But he wanted to turn the conversation before the girl was somehow hurt by Solo's newly-sharpened tongue.

Mada thrust her hand forward so he could inspect the bracelet. "It's silly, really," she said. "Sentimental. You see, each charm represents some event in my life."

Illya held her hand gently as he pretended interest. His biggest interest was expressed in the one word he uttered. "Silver."

"This dollar sign," she explained, "is my job here at U.N.C.L.E. The diploma is obvious. The ship is the trip I took to Paris - a graduation present from my Uncle Abel."

"Everyone should have an Uncle Abel," Illya said, feeling strange keeping up this chatter. Napoleon was the one who made small talk with pretty women. "They're lovely trinkets, Mada. Almost unique, I would say."

"Unique to my life. But you can buy them anywhere."

"You should see mine!" Solo cut in. "It comes in two shapes - coffin and coffin."

Mada flushed. "I'll take the bracelet off if it bothers you. I never thought -"

"Don't even consider it." Solo patted her arm in apology. "If you can put up with me in this state, I can put up with that."

Illya stepped away. "I'm sorry you're at such loose ends, Napoleon. But I think you have a good opponent here. You quarrel with her, do your work, and I'll get back to mine."

Solo suddenly slapped his hand down on a stack of folders. "It's not only your work anymore, Illya. I've had it. A full week and nothing stirring. I see the alphabet in my dreams! From now on, I'm working on my own case."

"But Mr. Waverly -"

"This is one time he'll find out what it's like to be up against his own Enforcement Section. I won't let him refuse me. It's my life and my coffin and I'm going to fight for it, myself."

Solo was so determined, his eyes glinting, that Illya shrugged off his own compunctions. "Come On, then. I'll back you up. I can't see you as a file clerk, either."

---

Solo and Illya sat in Waverly's office. Solo had entered red-faced and seething, but Mr. Waverly had listened, letting his agent spill out all of his venom, while he, himself, sat calmly tamping away at the tobacco in his unlit pipe. Now Solo was in control of his emotions. Illya Kuryakin had waited silently, but just his presence had backed Solo's demands.