Solo let him take two steps away from where Wanda was secured to the floor. He pressed the safety, watched the pellet strike the stout man in the belly. He gasped, as if unable to breathe, and then stood rigid, whip high in upreaching arm.

The thin man flicked the lighted cigarette directly into Solo's face.

Solo side-stepped deftly. The tall man leaped toward a straight chair, reaching out for it.

Solo pressed the button. The pellet splatted just behind the tall man's outsized ear. He bent forward another three inches and then ceased all movement, arms outstretched, eyes distended.

On the floor, Wanda sobbed in relief.

Solo still did not glance toward her. He surveyed the room, finding the evidence that United Network Command had been after. He collected it carefully.

Wanda's tear-wet eyes widened as he watched him.

When he had everything he wanted, Napoleon Solo checked the unmoving men.

Pleased, he removed the vest-pocket sender, spoke into it. "Sunday Driver. Sunday Driver. Caesar here. Four passengers. One way. Come and pick them up. Over and out."

He recoiled the barrel of the pellet gun, folded what now looked like a wallet again and replaced it in his inner pocket.

Wanda said hesitantly, from the floor, "What have you done to them?"

"Neuroquixonal," Solo answered without looking at her. "Just stunned them. We'll let the police have them after the boys at Command have worked them over."

"They—tortured me," Wanda said in that hesitant tone.

He shrugged. "You asked for it." At this moment, the three standby agents entered the room. One of them laughed. "What have you done, Solo? Robbed Madame Taussaud's wax-works?"

"Yeah," said another. "And get a gander at that China doll somebody forgot and left on the floor."

"Very funny!" Wanda cried savagely from the floor, fighting at her bonds.

Solo loosened the leashes, quickly, as the agents carried out the prisoners.

"Head 'em out," he said.

Wanda sat up, her lovely lip quivering. She massaged at her reddened wrists. "They tortured me, boss," she said. "But I didn't tell them anything. Honest."

Solo was giving the room one last quick check.

"I only wanted to make you proud of me!" Wanda wept.

Solo looked at her now. She seemed to shrink under the heat of his gaze. He shrugged, kept his voice low. He held out his hand, lifting her to her feet.

"All right," he said. "Let's go."

THREE

"SO THIS IS what kept you!" Waverly prowled the Command room, glaring from time to time at Wanda, who was huddled in his chair. She looked small, dejected. "Why didn't you let those junkies finish her off?"

"I was strongly tempted," Solo said mildly.

"I thought I was doing the right thing, sir," Wanda whispered timidly.

Waverly turned and stared down at her across his desk. "The right thing? Deliberately, willfully disobeying direct orders? Is this your notion of doing the right thing, young woman? If it is, we've been sadly remiss in your instructions."

"I was told what to do," Wanda admitted breathlessly.

Waverly nodded. "I'm sure you were. And what was that?"

"To—watch them, sir. And to— report."

"Watch! And report!" Each word was like the crack of a high- powered rifle directed at her.

"Report, yes, sir."

"Report," Waverly said "That means tell us what you saw; not get yourself trapped, tied up, and our whole operation exposed."

"I didn't tell them anything, sir!" Wanda protested.

"No. You didn't. No thanks to your native stoicism, but to the timely arrival of Mr. Solo. No, I can't rate you very highly on this performance, young woman."

"Please, sir, listen to me! I was so sure I could take them. You see, this policeman promised to help me."

"Policeman!" Waverly looked as if he might suffer a stroke. "You took the city police into your confidence? Told him what you were after?"

"He seemed so nice, so anxious to help."

"Anxious to help?" Now Waverly turned, staring at Solo for some explanation.

"He was one of the gang, sir," Solo said mildly.

Waverly seemed unable to speak for some moments. Wanda sat with her face pressed into her hands, watching them through her splayed fingers, her velvet-dark eyes alight with fear.

"Well, Solo," Waverly said at last. "She was promoted into your section—enforcement. You're her immediate superior. What can you say in her defense?"

"She's—very pretty," Solo said noncommittally. "However, I would say she is not ready for the—uh, larger assignments."

"Perhaps she is," Waverly said without sympathy. "Perhaps next time she'll get herself disposed of completely. Then we can write a nice, comforting letter home to her people."

"Just one more chance, Mr. Waverly," Wanda begged. "On my soul, on my illustrious ancestors, I swear—"

"Save your breath. Change your clothes and wash your face," Waverly told her. "I still haven't made up my mind—"

"About my next assignment?" she said hopefully.

"Hardly," he told her. "My problem is more complex. Whether to shoot you in front of the U.N. building, or simply deport you."

Later, Wanda sat beside Solo at the table in the conference room. She seemed smaller, more fragile than ever in the oversized, leather-covered chairs. In beaded black blouse and matching slacks, she looked like the ultimate in a doll-maker's secret formula for Oriental beauty.

Solo patted her hand. She could see he had not forgiven her, but he let her see that he was compassionate.

She gave him a weak smile, but did not speak. She had not spoken since she had entered the room.

At the end of the table, Alexander Waverly sat beside a transcribing machine that clattered politely, making notes of everything the ambassador from Zabir was saying.

Zouida Berikeen had been talking for a long time. When he smiled, as if convinced he had covered everything, either Solo or Waverly would fire another question at him.

"Zabir is four hundred square miles. One million population. Most of it is concentrated in Omar, our principal city and national capitol. The country is poor for farming, most of it desert. There is little industry. But because of the oil, Zabir is one of the richest of the small nations.

"We have hostile neighbors; Xanra to the east of us has a queen who loathes our great Sheik Zud, would do anything to destroy him. We are not a happy nation. We never have been. But we must fight all our enemies if we are to exist."

Zouida sighed and ceased speaking.

"Who heads your country's secret police?" Solo asked.

Zouida nodded gravely. "You would be meeting him when you arrived in Zabir," the ambassador said. "His name is Kiell. While I personally may not like Kiell, I have greatest respect for him. He would give his life without question for our Sultan Zud. I would like to feel I too would die for the great King of Lions, but I am more timid.

"Kiell is a brave man, almost foolhardy. He is of medium height, as dark as I. He has thick hair, but only at his temples and sides and crown. This gives him the look of one with extremely high, slick forehead. His nose is hooked, his face generally round, and he wears a thick moustache. I assure you, Kiell lives only for his country and his sultan."

"I look forward to meeting him," Solo said. "With all your briefings, you very carefully have not described the physical appearance of your sultan. Haven't you ever seen him face to face?"