Something in her wide hazel eyes challenged a man to take positive action.

Solo forgot his masquerade as a kindly Mr. Chips and swung into the chair beside her as if enroute to excitement.

"Frisky, aren't you?" she teased. Her voice carried built-in impact.

Napoleon Solo winced, remembering his graying wig, rimless glasses.

He smacked his lips, working his way to meet her gaze. "Fellow like me, miss, doesn't see a girl like you every day."

"Nobody does," she said casually. "Not every day."

"Ain't that the swinging truth," he agreed.

"Oh, you are a naughty old schoolteacher, aren't you?"

He appeared to blush timidly. "As my boys say in the fourth form. And speaking of forms, you're certainly in the first form, aren't you?" He cackled with laughter, peering over the top of his rimless glasses at her. "But how in this world did you ever know I was a school teacher?"

"It was just a guess." She laughed. "You didn't have much luck with the little China doll, did you?"

He gazed at his seat partner admiringly. "No, thank heavens, I didn't."

"Watch it, Mr. Chips. Your glasses are steaming up."

"Finch," he said. "My name. Armistead Finch."

She frowned. "Armistead Finch?"

"The third." He held out his band. She shook it limply and dropped it. "What's your name, my dear?"

"Pretty Wilde," she told him.

Solo emitted that cackling laugh again. "Oh, no, my dear. Your name."

She laughed at him. "Down, tiger. That is my name, Mr. Finch. At least it's my stage name. Pretty Wilde."

"Oh? You're on the stage?" he said, punching the rimless glasses up on his nose. "With fans, I'll bet."

"You are a naughty one, aren't you? I'll have to keep you in after classes, Mr. Finch. No, I was a model. I do interpretive dancing, ballet."

"What are you doing this far away from home, my dear?"

"I'm on my way to Zabir," she said.

Solo's expression did not alter; he kept that same fatuous smile. But he could not pretend surprise Somehow, when he had seen her occupying the chair beside his, he'd been certain he would hear that Zabir was her destination.

"I've been invited into Zabir by Sheik Zud himself," she said with pride. "You know he has forty- seven wives?"

"I never met him. No."

"Neither have I. But he is paying me fabulously to come to Omar— that's his capitol city—and teach etiquette, dress and dancing to his wives. Doesn't that sound exciting?

"I've heard that there's some internal trouble in Zabir," Solo said in his pedantic tone. "Border incidents. Aren't you frightened?"

Pretty Wilde put her lovely head back, laughing. "Why should I be? I've got the sheik himself protecting me."

"That's what I mean," Solo said.

She laughed even louder. He looked her over again, buying her story: it was plausible. Zud put his women in bondage before he married them; every one of his marriages had been forced upon the wife. Perhaps he would want them taught the niceties of manners and hospitality.

He shrugged. He had enough on his mind without worrying whether Pretty Wilde was less, or more, than met the eye.

"I beg your pardon there, you too!" The boisterous voice of the stocky man from across the aisle upped in between Solo and Pretty Wilde. "I couldn't help noticing the way you two folks were laughing and enjoying yourselves. Pleasure to watch you folks."

He stood up, leaning upon the seat ahead of them, swaying slightly with the motion of the jet. He was in his thirties, Solo reckoned, heavy, with a round, balding head, thick brows and aggressive smile. He wore a plaid jacket and gray slacks.

He held out his card. "Ordwell Slybrough," he said. "Cadillac and Oldsmobile overseas. Middle East. On my way to Zabir." Solo tightened instinctively. Everybody was on his way to Zabir suddenly.

"Yes, sir," Slybrough went on. "Going to call on Sheik Zud himself. Tell you why. Hear the old fellow has forty-seven wives. I'll bet he looks older than he is!" He slapped his thigh, laughing. "Heard he drives nothing but Rolls Royces. Thought I might get him to change his brand for his favorite wives."

Slybrough roared with laughter again. "Sell forty-seven cars in one deal! How about that? Tidy little commission, huh? Go on, take my card."

Reluctantly, Napoleon Solo reached out and took the card. The instant his hand touched it, the card ignited, burst into flames, consumed.

Ordwell Slybrough almost fell down in the aisle laughing.

Solo dropped the flaming paper, lapping at it.

Ordwell hung on to the seat ahead of them, laughing. "Special treated paper. The friction caused by you taking it toward your face to read ignites it! Always good for a laugh."

Solo and Pretty Wilde glanced at each other, trying not to look annoyed.

Ordwell said loudly, "Come on to the lounge. Let me buy you a drink. Show no hard feelings." He reached over, got his briefcase and handed it to Pretty Wilde. "Open it up. Want to show you folks some cute pictures of my wife and kids."

Sighing to cover her impatience, Pretty said in irony, "You meet such interesting people on these long flights."

"That's the truth, honey!" Ordwell said. "Open it up."

Pretty Wilde unsnapped the briefcase lid. She cried out as the top flew up and a stuffed crocodile was catapulted upward into her face.

She caught the briefcase and stuffed animal up and threw them past Solo at the salesman.

This time Ordwell laughed so hard that he did topple over the arm of his chair. People were standing up to stare at them. Only Wanda remained rigid in her chair, staring straight ahead, Solo saw.

Ordwell laughed, panting for breath. He extended his arms.

"Help me up there, partner!" he gasped at Solo.

Solo stood up, but instead of taking the stout man's upraised arms, he lifted him by the armpits, holding him for a moment off the floor before he set him down.

"Take it easy, Pop," Ordwell said uncomfortably, but still smiling. "Just a laugh. No harm meant. Come on, let me buy you folks a drink."

Solo glanced questioningly at Pretty Wilde. The lovely young woman shrugged and stood up. They went aft to the small bar and the half-moon leather seat. As they sat down, Ordwell drew a cigar from his jacket pocket, offered Solo one.

Solo refused. Ordwell laughed. "Scared to trust me, eh? No, friend, I don't believe in trick cigars. Old stuff, huh?"

Solo shrugged, watching him put the flame of a gold cigarette lighter to the cigar, and slowly take one long pull at it.

Suddenly the cigar erupted, bursting in Ordwell's face, turning it black. But this was only the start. Small bright flares exploded like swarms of gnats.

Crying out, Ordwell hurled the cigar against the far wall and leaped to his feet.

He glared down at Solo, eyes distended in his soot-blackened face.

"You did that!" he bellowed, trembling with rage. "Put a pill of some kind in my cigar, didn't you? Wondered why you wouldn't just help me up, had to make a production out of it! Some joke! I ought to take a poke at you!"

"Sure," Solo said, grinning flatly. "Step outside—and wait for me."

Ordwell Slybrough stared down at him a moment, then turned on his heel and strode away, shouting back at all the plane passengers and personnel, who were applauding Napoleon Solo.