The case was large enough to be clumsy, but weighed no more than fifty pounds. Illya crouched, gripped fingers under the edge, and lifted. For a moment he was silhouetted against the harsh floodlight, and the car lurched slightly as he dropped the case into the passenger seat. He took off again, swinging right, as a fusillade went off behind him and to his left. As he made a long U-turn, headlights out, the communicator in his pocket twittered. Steering one-handed, he fished it out and flipped it open. Napoleon's voice whispered in his ear.

"Illya - I've been pinned down by the four of them while you were loading up. I can hole up where I am, but you can't get in to me. Get that box somewhere safe, and I'll call for help."

The Russian clicked an acknowledgment. Solo could take care of himself, as had been noted, and under the circumstances the box of Thrush's latest developments was worth as much as a chance on his life.

A few slugs sang by like mosquitoes as Illya dropped into top gear, fighting the steering wheel and forcing the bucking car back towards the road.

Napoleon, at the same time, crouched behind a stone and stuffed cartridges into his long magazine. There seemed to be more than four men out there now - perhaps there had been another crew with a truck some where nearby. He had seen Illya go bounding away over the plain with the box in the left-hand seat, and there had been no concerted effort to chase him.

He glanced at his watch. The glowing hands read shortly past three. It would be dawn in another hour and a half, and darkness would no longer hide him. His last act before escaping from his former hiding place had been to disconnect the lamp and deactivate the battery; that was one weapon they wouldn't be using against him. He finished reloading his twenty-shot magazine and settled down to wait.

Some ninety minutes later Napoleon crouched once again behind a stone - the Heel Stone, the same that Illya had sprinted past on his way to the car. During the last hour and more, he had been harried and chivvied from place to place, dodging from one stone to another in an effort to avoid encirclement, retreating slightly. And now he was at the easternmost stone in the whole monument - a great rough boulder perhaps ten feet wide and twenty high, jutting up from the Wiltshire grass. A wide stretch of open space lay between him and the edge of the monument.

The stones were beginning to show lighter against the western sky, now, and the last of the stars were swallowed in a light mist which formed in the air. The Rainbow men - those who were left - could not rush him across the open ground, but he could not escape from the sanctuary of the standing stone. If he could only hold them off for a while longer...

Then he felt a warmth on the back of his neck, and turned his head, shading his eyes with the palm of a chilly hand. The sun had just cleared the horizon, and the mist was burning away. The golden rays were suddenly dazzling against the last wisps of night, and he looked down.

He holstered his automatic again as the last of the mist faded, and began to run. He ran low, half-bent among the tufts of grass, directly toward the rising sun. He heard a few shots from behind him, and dodged slightly. The rising sun, almost directly behind the Heel Stone, blinded his pursuers and guided him to escape by its shadows.

Ten minutes later Napoleon rose from a crouch in the grass to check his backtrail visually. There was no sign of pursuit. Gradually he stood upright and looked all about him in the cold, wet morning air. He was alone. There was only a farmhouse, perhaps half a mile away, where no light showed to indicate a wakeful inhabitant.

He started towards it, slogging through the dew-heavy grass. And thirty seconds later something cracked through the air beside his head like the tail of a whip. He broke into a run, leaping and dodging, heading towards the distant farmhouse, as the sound of the shot reached him, flat and far away across the moors.

Into the farmyard he staggered, winded from the run. He may have lost them, or they may have been hurrying along behind. He glanced at the shuttered windows of the sleeping farmhouse, and decided against involving the citizenry. Around the far side of the house he found a bicycle leaning against a wall. He fumbled in his pockets for a pen and paper, and scribbled a note. Am borrowing your bicycle; it will be returned. Here's something for your trouble. He fastened it to a five-pound note and tacked it to the wall.

Then he straightened the bike silently, straddled it, and spun away, wobbling slightly, down the dirt road that led from the farmer's gate. Unless his pursuit had been able to bring a vehicle along with them in that long chase over the plain, he could now outdistance them with ease. The road was reasonably level, and merged with a paved thoroughfare after a mile or so, heading south.

At the junction, wet and cold, Napoleon surveyed the road and tried to orient himself. He was now, uh, southeast of Stonehenge. The nearest large town was Shaftesbury, which would be... ah... to his right. Probably.

He regretted having left the map of the area in the car. He turned to the right, consciously remembering to stay in the left lane, and pedaled away into the lonely morning.

The sun warmed his back as he pumped along down the road, and the instinctive equilibrium a cyclist develops came back to him. One car passed him from behind as he pedaled down the seven or so miles into Shaftesbury, and it came upon him so suddenly he almost veered off the road and into the ditch. It zoomed past, and the stench of its exhaust faded quickly.

At last the outskirts of the town were about him, and he left the bike on the steps of the local police station and wandered on afoot. He found a small park and settled down on a dew-spangled bench, dredged out his communicator, and called for Illya.

With no answer on the local channel, he called for the London relay, and signaled again. After several seconds the Russian's voice answered.

"I'm in Shaftesbury," Napoleon announced casually, "and I'm safe. How soon can you pick me up?"

There was a thoughtful silence from the other end, and then Illya said, "There was a little trouble with the car, Napoleon. A hole in the fuel tank left me dry near Dorchester. Fortunately we have a retired agent there. I left the case with him, and borrowed his transportation."

"Fine. How soon can you pick me up?"

"In Shaftesbury?"

"That's where I am, across the street from the Noughts and Crosses public house. How soon?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Fine. And hurry - I'm freezing."

The connection was ended, and Napoleon leaned back on the bench to watch the street.

About fifteen minutes later a muffled roar grew far away on the other side of town, and approached. Soon it was visible, coming up the street towards him - a fine, low-slung, broad-beamed motorcycle, purring gently up the street at fifty miles an hour. It slewed on the wet pavement, and Napoleon winced. Then he looked at it and winced again, more slowly.

Did the posture of the driver, the broad serious face, seem too familiar? The cycle rumbled heavily to a stop, and stood there muttering as the rider beckoned towards him and raised his protective mask to shout, "Come on, Napoleon. Hop aboard!" It was Illya.

"What's that?" Solo asked doubtfully.

"It's a motorcycle. Specifically, a Bruff-Sup, or formally, a Brough-Superior vintage 1935. Fifty-two horse power at top. Come on - hop aboard. I borrowed this from our friend at Clouds Hill, near Dorchester. He'll want it back."

Napoleon gathered his coat around him and climbed carefully up to the tiny padded square pillion seat behind his partner. With a moment's search, his feet found the footpegs and his hands found the grip behind the front seat. Illya blipped the motor a few times, then gunned it and slipped the clutch, and instantly they were whipping along the shop-lined street, almost without a feeling of acceleration.