The crowd ran mostly to long hair, with beards on the men to distinguish the sexes; the clientele ranged around college age and a little over. Some were dressed less formally, with levis and open shirts; some more formally, with an occasional tie. Illya's motorcycle-black garb was about midway in the social spectrum, and blended well with the lighting — or absence thereof — which was his primary reason for wearing it.

Thrush did a small amount of recruiting in this milieu, but The Fifth Estate was a regular meeting place and information exchange center, not only for Thrush but for other, more politically oriented groups. Illya had hopes of spending several evenings there, getting into conversations and possibly picking up some useful information.

His spiced cider arrived, borne by a tall, leggy girl with straight black hair, and too much eye makeup. Illya flipped her a fifty-cent piece and settled back in his wicker chair. There was a fire in the fireplace — welcome in the chill autumn night — and Illya stared into the flames while sipping his cider, with most of his attention given to the mumble of voices at the other tables. Occasionally he would catch a word, but never anything of import.

Some time later, he became aware that staring into the fire was making him a little sleepy. He remembered his interrupted rest that morning, and remembered also that it was three hours earlier here than in New York. He stood up, intending to get a breath of cool air outside. He stretched his arms, breathed once deeply, and fell over. The boy with the guitar and the waitress caught him before he hit the floor. Only one customer noticed, and he shrugged. They should keep drunks out of this place.

* * *

Napoleon Solo felt something hard against his back, and a stiffness in his neck. There was something cold and metallic under his arms, and beneath him as well. He cracked his eyelids, and saw his lap. He straightened up slowly and forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings. He was in the center of a perfectly cubical small metal room. Experimenting with his arms and legs, he found he was fastened into a metal chair which was solidly bolted to the floor. A rubber tube of some kind was about his chest, and a rubber cuff gripped his left forearm snugly. Wires ran from them to connections on the chair.

Directly in front of him was a small TV screen; above it was a small industrial television camera with a wide-angle lens, trained upon him. Everything was silent. The screen was blank. The room was evenly lit from some invisible, shadowless source.

He had just absorbed these facts when the TV screen in front of him flickered, formed a picture, rolled over, and steadied. He seemed to be looking down on a figure in a position identical to his own, fastened into a chair and hung about with wires. Seen from this position, the apparatuses were readily recognizable as the sources for a basic Keeler polygraph — a lie detector. But the figure was not his own. It was blond, and dressed all in black.... Napoleon sighed deeply. A very neat double-play for Thrush.

"Welcome, Mr. Solo." A voice spoke gently from somewhere just behind him. He twisted his head, but couldn't quite..."No, I'm not behind you. I'm some distance away. But the fidelity of the sound is quite remarkable, is it not?"

"Just wonderful," said Napoleon, with a little less than enthusiasm. "Where'd you buy the setup?"

"It was built to our own designs by native craftsmen under exclusive long-term contracts. Ah. Excuse me a moment."

Napoleon looked carefully at Illya's image on the screen. It had not moved. He was still unconscious. The voice spoke again. "Mr. Kuryakin," it said gently, "your skin conductivity and pulse changes indicated your return to consciousness some sixty seconds ago. I'm afraid your neck will be quite stiff if you continue to feign this condition."

On the screen, Illya straightened up slowly. He shook his head carefully, and winced. His voice came from behind Napoleon, somewhat more faintly. "What was in that cider, anyway?"

"A harmless potion of our own compounding. There should be no aftereffects, save a slight headache."

"Ah — I think the gas you used on me is a better formulation," said Napoleon, with the attitude of an interested professional. "It took effect almost instantly, and left no aftereffects at all."

"Yes," said the disembodied voice, "the gas is generally preferable, but is often impractical, such as in the case of one subject in a crowd, as with Mr. Kuryakin. Under these circumstances, either slipping the drug into their cider, or in some situations injecting it with a hypospray..."

"This is very interesting," said Illya, "but we have other calls to make tonight. Could we get to the business at hand?"

"Mr. Kuryakin," the voice said with mild reproof, "as you are our guest at the moment, I should hope your manners would be at their best."

Illya twitched slightly in his chair and caught his breath. The voice continued. "Consider that a reminder. Now, Mr. Solo, we want to know only one thing. Cooperate with us and depart as friends. What do you know about DAGGER?"

Napoleon cocked his head at the camera. "Absolutely nothing," he said.

Illya looked straight out of the screen and said, "Neither do I."

"The organization known as DAGGER — D, A, G, G, E, R — is unknown to you?"

"Completely."

There was some thirty seconds of silence. Then the voice spoke again. "Your arrival in Los Angeles was opportune — why did you come here?"

Napoleon looked down with an air of embarrassment. "Well, I was looking for a girl I met in New York."

"And I came along in case she had a friend," Illya said coolly.

A mild electric shock ran through the arms of the chair, and Napoleon winced away from it unsuccessfully. The voice spoke again. "This current can be increased to become quite painful. I asked you both to cooperate, and you are...What?" The last word was fainter, as if the speaker had turned away from the microphone. A moment later the electricity was cut off.

After a few seconds the voice came back on, sounding vaguely disturbed. "My apologies, Mr. Solo; you...ah...appear to be telling the truth, though I cannot say the same for your partner. Once more, what do you know about DAGGER?" it snapped suddenly.

"Nothing," both the U.N.C.L.E. agents snapped back at once.

The voice said nothing. Illya spoke again. "Were you looking for information on this 'DAGGER' when you broke into my apartment in Brooklyn Heights last night?"

There was no answer for some time, almost a minute and Napoleon counted the seconds. He was no longer expecting any response when the voice came back on, perfectly level. "No Thrush personnel have been in your apartment in Brooklyn Heights for the last six months."

Napoleon waited a moment, and, when Illya didn't seem about to make a comment, said, "Is there anything else? Since we really don't know anything about DAGGER, and as long as you have us trapped, can we tell you something anyway? It seems a shame to waste a perfectly good kidnapping."

"We doubt if you could tell us anything we don't already know," said the voice. It sighed. "The interview is at an end. Thank you, gentlemen."

There was a faint hissing sound from somewhere, and gradually Napoleon became aware that he was cold and damp. He was lying on something cold and damp, too. And someone was shaking him. Someone was also addressing him and not politely.

"All right, both of you. Come on — up and out. L.A. is a friendly city, but there's lots of hotels and there's laws against sleeping on the grass."