The bike slowed as it approached, and stopped with its engine muttering beside him. It was a big Royal Enfield - a quarter-ton of perfectly disciplined power. But the rider, resting lightly in the saddle like a sparrow on the back of a percheron, was a slender slip of a girl in white leathers. Her chestnut hair escaped from under her white helmet, and her eyes were hiding behind heavy goggles, but her smile was quick and bright.

"Need a ride?" she said.

"Just as far as the next town," said Napoleon. "Or the nearest telephone."

"That's where I'm going. Hop on."

He did, although with some caution. His thigh muscles objected to being swung over the rear half of the seat, and it took him a second or so to convince them of the necessity of cooperation. As he wriggled into a comfortable position, the girl spoke again.

"I don't know how familiar you are with motorcycles, so let me ask that you stay relaxed and let me do the steering. Don't try to lean into a curve when I do; just hold on to me and relax. Got that?"

"Right. I'll just be part of the bike."

"Fine. Set?"

"Set."

The engine roared up and the gearshift clicked into place, and the bike suddenly tried to leap out from under them. But Napoleon's arms were locked around the girl's waist, and her grip on the handlebars was firm, and in a moment they were flying down the road. The thunder of the exhaust climbed the scale and then dropped as they shifted gears, then climbed and dropped again, and once more. Now, though the engine was muttering easily under them, they were whipping along the road with the trees flashing by on either side like fence-pickets. The afternoon sun slickered between the trees to their right, and the big machine purred along the narrow road like a racing cheetah, canting easily around corners and whirling up hills and down grades while Napoleon felt the tails of his coat trying to tear them selves loose in the windstream. He kept his head ducked behind the girl's as much as possible, letting her break the wind for him, but it was hard to hide all of himself behind her slender body.

The slipstream tore at his hair and his trousers slapped at his legs until they stung. The wind poured like jets of ice water into his dissolving eyes. They seemed to be outracing time itself as they flashed along the tree-bordered road, and the whole world was lost around them. Nothing existed outside the vibration of the machine gripped between his thighs, and the slim body his arms surrounded. His vision swam with tears, and his ears were filled with the roar of the wind, and there was nothing but himself and the girl, the cycle, and speed.

Chapter 7

How Napoleon Lay Low, and a Little Old Lady Made Discreet inquiries.

CONVERSATION WAS practically impossible for the next few minutes, but eventually there were houses around them and the cycle slowed to a careful twenty miles per hour. Napoleon blinked his eyes several times to clear them, and looked around at the small village they were in the midst of.

"Where are we?" he asked the girl.

"Baycombe," she said.

"I mean generally. What county?"

She half turned her head in surprise. "You were lost! Devonshire."

"Not lost, exactly. I'll explain after I get to a phone." She didn't answer this time, but instead made a left and a right, and braked gently to a stop in front of a small cottage set a short way back from the side-street on which they found themselves. She braced the bike with both legs while Napoleon climbed off, then dismounted herself and set the stand.

Now that she was standing beside him, Napoleon was even more impressed with her handling of the big cycle. She scarcely came up to his chin, and she couldn't weigh over a hundred pounds. He looked her up and down with some respect. There must be considerable strength concealed in that delicate body, to judge from the way she had flipped her cycle up onto its stand.

The object of his inspection, either unaware or ignoring it, loosened her chin strap and slipped off the helmet, shaking her coppery hair free as she did so. Then she lifted the goggles off, and rubbed the back of a gloved hand across her eyes.

"Let's go inside," she said. "Aunt Jane should have tea set out, and you can tell us what happened to you."

They did, she did, and he did.

Aunt Jane was a tiny, spry little old lady who seemed to have been suspended in time somewhere near the turn of the century and brought forward as a living image of the Victorian - or perhaps Edwardian - lady. She seemed more like a picture-book grandmother than an aunt. The inside of the cottage was comfortably if sparsely furnished in a modern style which seemed quite out of place around her.

In the course of that cautious mutual interrogation which strangers share along with food, Napoleon found that the cottage belonged to the girl, whose name was Josephine, though she preferred to be called Joey. Aunt Jane was visiting from London for two weeks since the mid-May weather was much better in Devon than in the City.

Aunt Jane spoke approvingly of the morning's sermon, and paused to explain to Mr. Solo that although she was herself, of course, strictly C. of E., a personal friend had been saying Mass at the tiny Catholic church the village supported.

Napoleon smiled politely and nodded, half-listening as his mind chased over the possibilities of pursuit and the pressing necessity for re-establishing communications with the U.N.C.L.E. office in London, and, incidentally, with Illya. The tea was strong and sweet, and lent new strength to his aching muscles. Somewhere during the second cup, he suddenly realized what he must look like after rolling on the floor of a truck for several hours, running through the woods, and then riding on the back of a motorcycle for another indefinite period. He caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny side of the silver teapot and reacted with shock.

He set his empty cup down and cleared his throat. "Ah - please allow me to apologize for intruding upon you looking like this. I only just realized my appearance, and…"

"That's quite all right, Mr. Solo," said Aunt Jane. "You looked as if a good cup of tea would do you more good than soap and water. If you wish to refresh yourself, you will find the necessities at the back of the house, to the left of the kitchen."

He thanked her and rose, heading in the indicated direction. Some fifteen minutes later he returned, lacking only a shave and a fresh shirt to feel perfectly presentable again. He had discovered a tear in his coat, and careful investigation had convinced him that his wrist had not been broken, or even cracked, though a nasty inflammation indicated a severe sprain that could impair his use of the hand for several days.

When he re-entered the front room, a stranger rose from the wicker chair to extend a hand. He was a short, roly-poly man with a round face, beaming with child like innocence above his clerical collar. Aunt Jane spoke from her chair.

"Father, this is Napoleon Solo, our guest this afternoon. Mister Solo, may I present Father John."

They shook hands and Napoleon said, "I'm sorry for imposing on you like this, but could I use your telephone for a call to London? I could pay you for it, of course."

"I'm sorry as well, Mr. Solo," said Joey. "But we're not on the telephone here. This is sort of my hideaway by the sea. There's a public box down at the Rose and Crown, but that's not open today."

The little priest suddenly and unaccountably smiled at Aunt Jane, leaned forward, and spoke, in an almost childish treble. "I beg your pardon, Mister Solo, if I seem to be intruding. But if you are in any sort of difficulty, we would be only too pleased to be of any small service to you."