"Right, mate," said Harry. "'E placed me 'ere for 'is own reasons, and they're good enough for me. If 'e didn't want me blockin' people tryin' t' get to 'im, I wouldn't be 'ere. But since 'e did, I'm doin' my part."

The man in the gray suit shook his head slightly. "Your part does not include preventing anyone from contacting him. Surely there are provisions for establishing communications."

Harry smiled again, baring slightly yellowed fangs. "Of course there is, mate. You just leave me your card, an' I'll see to it that 'e's informed of your interest in 'is welfare. An' leave a phone number with it. If 'es interested, 'e'll give you a jingle."

The stranger looked closely at Harry for a moment, and apparently decided he could be pushed no further. He produced a business card and an elegantly slim silver pen, and scribbled something on the card before standing up and placing it on the desk.

Harry picked it up and glanced at it. It was black, and bore the strange emblem of a stylized bird in a fighting pose, claw lifted and hooked beak open. On the back was a telephone number. He nodded and tucked it in his coat pocket. "By the way," he said. "Don't call us - we'll call you."

But his visitor was gone, and the door stood slightly open. Harry did not grin as he got up to close it.

Out in the public bar only a few people noticed the man in the gray suit. The chorus was continuing to tune up and lubricate their pipes as he passed by; they looked up as the cold wet fog swirled forward to welcome him back to its embrace, then lifted their mugs and voices as the door thudded closed behind him.

"And 'e must be very wet, for 'e 'asn't come up yet - Dressed in 'is best suit of clothes!"

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Section I : "God Loves An Idle Rainbow"

Chapter 1: How Mister Waverly Spoke Severely of Rainbows, and Illya Remained Unimpressed.

Chapter 2: How Napoleon Commented on the Weather, and the C.I.D. Took a Firm Stand on the Subject of Rainbows.

Chapter 3: How Napoleon and Illya Toured Soho, and Two Other Gentlemen Debated at Length.

Chapter 4: How MI-5 Spoke Condescendingly of Its Rival, and Took an Opposing Stand on the Main Topic.

Section II : "Look Upon The Rainbow"

Chapter 5: How Illya Kuryakin Heard a Discourse on Weaponry, and A Good Time Was Had By All.

Chapter 6: How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

Chapter 7: How Napoleon Lay Low, and a Little Old Lady Made Discreet Inquiries.

Chapter 8: How Illya Kuryakin Met and Spoke With a Remarkable Individual, and Was Allowed to Escape With His Life.

Section III: "Add Another Hue Unto The Rainbow"

Chapter 9: How Napoleon and Illya Met an Old Old Gentleman, and Had Several Obvious Things Pointed Out to Them.

Chapter 10: How the Heel Stone Proved an Achilles Heel, and Napoleon Solo Crossed Salisbury Plain on a Bicycle.

Chapter 11: How Napoleon and Illya Heard a Violin, and the Old Old Gentleman Spoke of Bees, Drugs, Death and Other Mysteries.

Chapter 12: How Illya Discovered the Pleasures of Seafaring, and Napoleon Solo Sought a Rainbow in the Midst of a Storm.

Section IV "The Rainbow Comes and Goes"

Chapter 13: How A Lighthouse Proved Larger Within Than Without, and Napoleon and Illya Became Unexpected Guests.

Chapter 14: How The Man In The Gray Suit Appeared Once More, and a Treaty of Necessity Was Made.

Chapter 15: How Napoleon and Illya Departed Precipitously, and the Dawn Truly Came Up Like Thunder.

Chapter 16: How Napoleon and Illya Made Their Farewells, and The Rainbow Faded for a Time.

Section I : "God Loves An Idle Rainbow"

Chapter 1

How Mister Waverly Spoke Severely of Rainbows, and Illya Kuryakin Remained Unimpressed.

THE ANCIENT PROJECTOR clattered and buzzed in the darkened room, sending an almost solid beam of flickering light through the curls of smoke to splatter brilliantly on the far wall. There unsteady shapes of gray and white came and went - a city street, far away in both time and space from its intent watchers. A blocky streetcar started and stopped, passing an improbable line of laden camels. A fezzed water-seller smiled into the camera and held out a cup.

An ornate title flashed on the screen: "IN EXOTIC CAIRO, WHERE EAST MEETS WEST." In a few seconds it was replaced by another shot of an open plaza, where white- robed Arabs strolled among business-suited Europeans, and squarish automobiles moved jerkily about the back ground.

"Here he comes," said a voice out of the darkness near the projector. "Screen left, fairly close."

A few seconds later a slender young man with a neatly pointed beard came into view. He was impeccably attired in a frock coat and striped trousers, with spatter-dashes protecting his shoes and a top hat at a precise angle on his head. He sported a cane, and walked with a noticeable limp.

"That's him," said the voice. "Just a second..."

The young man approached the camera diagonally, utterly unaware of its scrutiny. He was no more than ten feet away when he paused suddenly and looked directly at it. For a moment he held his position, and his image froze in that fraction of time. The grain of the old film seemed to solidify from its Brownian dance, and the lean handsome face it had captured stared aggressively at them, as if poised for a scathing insult.

"There he is," said the voice. "Cairo, in 1923. A travelogue photographer by the name of Devlin was shooting a film on the mysterious Middle East. He probably never had the least idea of the mystery he actually caught a corner of."

Napoleon Solo looked at the face projected upon the wall and nodded. "You're positive of the identification?"

"Reasonably, considering Devlin was unconcerned with getting signed releases, and considering the fact that this was shot almost forty-five years ago. You've seen him - do you think that's Baldwin?"

Solo turned to the shadowy figure in the next seat to his. "What do you think, Illya? Is that him?"

The Russian's soft voice answered hesitantly. "Well, he had all his hair then. The film is too grainy to get any good Bertillion comparisons. But the basic shape of his face is the same, and from what I could see of his right ear it's the proper type. And of course there's the limp... I would say, under the circumstances - since Section Four seems fairly certain - that probably is Ward Baldwin."

There was a moment's silence, then the projectionist asked, "Shall I go on?"

"I think so," said Napoleon.

The projector's whirr came up to speed and the clattering racket began as the figure came to life again and hastily averted his face as he walked off the right side of the frame. The bustling plaza was replaced by another title introducing the Pyramids, and the travelogue continued.

At last a full profile of the enigmatic face of the Sphinx looking out over the sands of the ancient desert faded, and "THE END" wrote itself across the screen. The light died, and the noise of the projector ground to a stop as the fluorescents in the room flickered and came on.

Napoleon blinked at the sudden illumination, and turned to his partner, who was looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression.

"Really, Napoleon, I am impressed with our Intelligence section. But why the interest in what Ward Baldwin looked like in 1923?"

Solo shrugged uncertainly. "Call it a hunch. We're going to be running into that limping devil again some time - I'm sure of it. And I want to know everything about him. That's why I've had this order in with Section Four for the last year and a half - right, John?"