"How do they work?"

"Sometime when you have two days and a degree in quantum mechanics I'll explain it to you. Right now just trust me. This knob here at the right temple will adjust the phasing. Turn it until you can see, then leave it alone. Although it seems to function in the lab, it hasn't really been subjected to practical working conditions, or what we call the nitty-gritty." He handed the goggles to Napoleon and said, "Hook the control box through your belt, and don't trip on the cable. No, wait––I'll have to adjust your screen from outside. I don't know whether you can do it yourself. I'll set it and then give it to you. The button on the end will turn everything off."

"Check. Plug me in and I'll be ready to go. I've got the grenades. Oh—signal the boys in Corridor 12 to hold their fire and hope the other side doesn't take it as an invitation." He paused, looking over his shoulder at the cable that was being connected to his pack. The cannon plug had at least fifty prongs, and the cable that fell away behind him was nearly as thick as his wrist. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"

"Oh yes," said Simpson. "Reasonably sure. But I shouldn't step in any puddles if I were you—we might not be perfectly grounded."

Solo lowered his goggles, and a moment later, as Simpson fiddled with a small box, he became somewhat blurred and indistinct, then went out entirely. A length of black cable rose slightly from the floor at one end which appeared freshly cut, and a thinner cord stood nearly parallel to the floor in a half-completed catenary from the box Simpson held.

"Here, Mr. Solo. Hook it through your belt."

The box disappeared, and a slightly muffled voice said, "Got it. And I can see fairly well now. Is Corridor 12 clear?"

An agent in shirt-sleeves and a shoulder holster turned from the door and nodded. The heavy black cable began to hump across the floor as if under its own power, and the agent stood back from the door with a bemused smile on his face.

"Well? Am I invisible?" said the muffled voice.

The agent nodded slowly. "I'll say you are, sir."

"Good. Let's see what Thrush thinks of our version of their little toy."

The cable humped out the door and started down the hall. There the defenders had been tipped off as to what was happening, but only to the extent of having been warned to look out for a cable and not to get in front of it or try to stop it. Napoleon made his way to the battle lines with dozens of fascinated stares directed several feet behind him.

The walls and the people were green glowing silhouettes inside his goggles, and faces dissolved to a bright blob, but he saw an overturned chair clearly and was able to avoid it. As he pushed it aside, he realized he couldn't see his own leg, and wondered just what was actually happening to him. He didn't take more than a moment to wonder about it as the mouth of Corridor 12 became a dark void to his left. He put his head cautiously around the corner into the embattled hall.

The Home Team had fallen back under cover, as per orders, and the Visitors were only beginning to advance. He unslung one liquid grenade from his belt and stepped forward to meet them. A two-man vanguard was starting out, rifles at ready. Just short of the end of the corridor, both dropped, a second or so apart, and lay unmoving while Napoleon massaged an invisible hand and started forward again.

The end of the cable peeked around the corner be hind him, and two Guards spotted it. "Captain…" They pointed, and the officer raised his sidearm. As he did so something fat and dark appeared out of nowhere and fell beside him. He had just time to flinch away from it as it burst with a gentle plop and spattered him. He and the two Guards fell, limp, as did some four others nearby.

The next in command looked down and said crisply, "Right! Fall back!"

As the gray-uniformed troops retreated towards the entrance they had forced, something like a cloud of dark smoke began to appear before them and rapidly assumed the shape of a man, fumbling with something around his head. In seconds the figure solidified and tore a mask from his eyes as two gunshots echoed up the corridor.

Napoleon Solo dived for the wall, dragging the next two grenades from his sling and hurling them blindly. Slugs spattered near him, something snapped at his sleeve, and then the echoes died away. He lifted his head slowly and looked around.

Nothing stirred. Ten or eleven Thrush guards and a captain slept on the floor; the rest had fled. Footsteps tapped rapidly behind him, and several people were helping him up, unplugging him and looking the gear over anxiously. Simpson was among them.

Before Napoleon could speak to him he shrugged. "An unforeseeable accident. The Aleph generator tumbled. How did the goggles work?"

"Fine. The screen did well enough too; we won."

"Good. Now once we get the miniaturization problem licked we'll have that Tarnhelm Mr. Waverly has been after for so many years."

Back in his office again, forty-three minutes after he had left, Napoleon Solo surveyed his communications console. No signals coming in, only a thick stack of Operations Summaries to cover in the next few hours. Then he had to see if he could get the rest of Fred Tibbon's report. This business with Runge got more complex every time new data was added. He stretched, and flexed his fingers. That little bit of exercise had burned up his excess adrenalin for the time being and he felt better than he had for days. He was beginning to catch on to the job, and he felt ready for anything else Thrush could throw at him.

Two thousand miles due south, Dr. Theodore Pike looked up from his viewscreen. "The New York operation has withdrawn," he said. "They lost fifteen men, twelve to something indistinct which turned out to be our Mr. Solo in a clever invisible disguise."

He turned, leaned back against the table, and scratched idly at the side of his jaw. "Perhaps you were right, Roger. Putting it at the farthest level from his office might have been a little risky after all. But apparently the danger to Section Eight was enough to override the counter-motivation. Very well—Helena, you may tell Central that we are doing nicely, and are ready to start Phase Two. My expectations have been fully justified, and Mr. Solo is reacting precisely as predicted."

"You might also remind them that Phase One wasn't scheduled for termination until Saturday," Roger added. "Doc, I'll bet whatever Solo used to turn invisible is the newest trick Simpson's turned out. And I'll bet they stole it from that thing of Morthley's. Did you hear about it? Up in Wisconsin, a year or so ago."^ª

Helena laughed. "Solo never could pass up a chance to play with a new gadget," she said. "When we get through with him he'll be cutting out paper dolls."

Dr. Pike nodded, and smiled a self-satisfied smile.

Section III "Death In Utopia."

Chapter 9

"After All, It Is War."

ALEXANDER WAVERLY and Silverthorne began to meet socially, as opponents in a game are likely to do when neither takes it seriously. From the first moves they had appeared evenly matched, and like two old cronies meeting daily over a chessboard their antagonisms were channeled into their game. Naturally much of their conversation centered around the theory and practice of winning battles, on the board, in the field, or in the conference room. Each fenced lightly about his own specific preferences and approaches lest he give away too much of his intentions for the Game, but each was carefully attentive for any slip the other might make.