But the streets of the capital were still bone dry. Solo slithered the DS around the cobbled square in front of the minuscule palace and crossed the high bridge to the biggest building in Luxembourg—the great gray mansarded rectangle housing the headquarters of the European Iron and Steel Federation. Beneath him, in the chasm that cleaves the city into two fairytale halves, lights were already gleaming in the dusk below the turreted cliffs.

He drove on down the broad main shopping avenue, passed the railway station, and took the road for Thionville and Metz.

By the time he was due to pull off the road and wait for Illya's next transmission, he was in the middle of the industrial complex between Metz and Sarrebruck. It was like a scene from some medievalist's idea of hell. Although the snow had not yet reached here, the night had come early with an unnatural overcast, and against the livid sky rows of gaunt iron chimneys belched flame. From factory to black factory, huge metal pipes fifteen feet in diameter writhed across the blasted countryside like the entrails of some galactic robot—bridging roads and railway yards, swerving around tips, linking furnaces and works and mines. And over it all, sandwiched between the fiery clouds and the dead surface of the earth, the polluted air hung sulphurous and heavy. Even with the Citroën's windows wound up, Solo could smell it in the car through the ducts of the ventilation system.

It was time for him to stop, but he did not know quite what to do. The road was narrow and full of traffic. The sidewalks, below the high corrugated iron fencing, were crowded with homegoing workers. The few parking spaces he found were too busy—for although he did not have to have total privacy, holding the baton to his mouth and operating the direction-finding equipment would be bound to excite attention in any place that was not at least comparatively quiet!

Finally he saw a patch of dusty grass bounded by a hedge white with some airborne waste. It was too public a place to carry out his task, but at least he could leave the car. He steered up over the sidewalk and stopped the DS by the hedge.

Waiting until the press of cyclists and walkers had thinned, he got out with his equipment and looked around.

On the far side of the road was a red brick building surrounded by transformers and generator housings and gantries bristling with insulators and wires. In front of it, tubs full of dispirited flowers bordered a parking lot.

Beyond the hedge, stunted trees punctuated the rusty topography of an automobile junkyard. He could see, beyond the piles of crumpled fenders, the concertinaed witnesses to death and disaster and moments of inattention, a wooden hut by the entrance gate. It should be quiet enough in there, in the dark, for his purpose—provided he could get past the man on the gate.

Or was there, perhaps, another way in, a back entrance?

Strolling casually, he found that there was. A little way along the road, a lane cut up between the yard and the high brick wall of a foundry. And a hundred yards along the lane, there were tire tracks in the mud going through a gap in the hedge. Glancing swiftly back to make sure he was unobserved, Solo slipped though.

A few minutes later, transceiver in hand, he was sitting comfortably enough on a pile of used tires, completely hidden by the stacks of wrecked ears.

The larger heaps consisted of motor bodies from which everything of value had been removed—mangled steel skeletons minus engines, wheels, instruments, springs, transmissions, seats and even the trim from the doors. But between these bigger piles there was a variety of other scrap.

There was a mound of radiator cores, another of bolt-on-wheels, a third of bench seats, mildewed and torn, with springs and stuffing leaking forlornly from their worn surfaces.

A pile of cylinder blocks from which the pistons and valves had been removed lay next to a great tangle of exhaust piping. And between the layers of unidentifiable pieces— the sheared-off fenders, bumper guards, side panels and rubbing strips—an occasional whole vehicle, or what was left of it, stood out.

There, for instance, was an American roadster that had obviously been in a head-on crash—the wheels and engine were in the passenger compartment, and the whole of the vast hood was crumpled into nothing, like a sheet of tissue. On the other side was an Italian minicar that had been squashed almost flat in some unimaginable collision. In contrast there were several trucks that looked as though they had died peacefully of old age. There was an old Unic with grass growing out of the remains of its driver's seat that must have been rusting quietly there since the year one. Beyond it was a delivery van that couldn't have had more than two square inches of its paneling that hadn't been dented or scratched—but that couldn't have been more than two years old at the outside. And nearer to Solo was a dump truck on which the back and sides were literally falling to pieces.

It was odd, though, the agent thought idly, how different parts of a vehicle deteriorated at different rates. The engine of that one, for instance, looked quite clean and well oiled, from what he could see through the half-opened hood panel. Absently, he rose to his feet and sauntered over.

Abruptly he stiffened. He stepped up to the derelict in half a dozen determined strides. The same white dust that covered the leaves on the hedge lay thickly over everything in the yard.

Except, it seemed, in the case of this truck...

He peered into the cab. The seat was threadbare, the rubber floor mat worn through, the controls shabby in the extreme. Yet there was hardly a trace of the all-pervading dust... and the cabs of the others were covered.

Quickly and silently, he walked around and lifted off the hood panel. The engine was positively gleaming. The plugs looked new, and the leads must have been replaced within the last few weeks. He unscrewed one of the caps on top of the battery. The cells were full.

Solo hurried over to the other trucks. As might have been expected, their engines were caked in dried grease, the wiring cracked, the top surface of everything strewn thickly with the white dust. The one with the dustless cab might just have been sold to the junk man, of course... but it looked to him much more as though it had been there for some time but had recently been restored to running order. It had been left looking decrepit deliberately, although in fact it could probably run quite well.

Why?

What use could anyone have for what was in effect a "Q-truck," hidden in a junkyard?

Unbidden, Tufik's parting comment leaped into Solo's mind. "It's not always the new ones that travel the best."

He dropped to his hands and knees. The street lamps, reflecting an adequate light over the rest of the yard, didn't help much at ground level. But as far as he could see, there were faint tracks leading from the truck's front wheels to the gap though which he had entered.

And suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, he saw a reason. He saw why someone could want a serviceable truck disguised and kept hidden in a scrapyard. He saw why it could be important that the vehicle, however well it ran, should appear to an outsider to be derelict. "It's not always the new ones..."

The transceiver in his hand was bleeping. Kuryakin was on the air.

Solo pulled up the antenna and thumbed the button. He sank down once more on the pile of tires and spoke softly into the microphone. He was smiling.

"Channel open," he said. "Come in, Illya... but before you say anything answer me a question: apart from the furniture van you left Prague in, has the rest of your journey been done in trucks and vans that have had their day? Old crates fit for the junk heap?... It has?... Then pin back your Russian ears and listen: I think I've found out how the network does the trick!..."