In Bogotá the late morning sun spilled across the whitewashed balcony of an expensive hotel, and Helena Thomas dozed in a recliner facing it. Behind her Dr. Pike and Roger sat just within the room, on either side of a small tape deck. From its speaker issued a harsh, hesitant voice.

"I then observed that Guard Horvath and Senior Gattlers were casualties, and, uh, signaled the two men behind to stay alert. Captain Van Stoller observed the smoke grenade just as it struck the floor about three feet from him, and drew his sidearm. I then observed that Captain Van Stoller, Guard Tshombulo and Guard Walters were casualties. And then, uh, Second Watanabe ordered a strategic withdrawal and, uh, we did."

"Did you observe the next occurrence?"

"Uh, no, not right when it happened. But I heard somebody yell and turned to look. The individual identified as Napoleon Solo was standing in the middle of the corridor, uh, twenty feet or so away from us, with something on his face. He pulled it off—it was like a mask, sir—and dropped it. One of the group fired a round at him and he started for the wall and threw two more grenades at us. As he did so I observed a thick cable which came around the corner of the hall and ended at a mechanism on his back."

"Dear God, Roger," said Helena without opening her eyes, "how many survivors of that raid were there? I'm beginning to wish there'd been fewer. Must we hear every word of de-briefing?"

Dr. Pike leaned forward and pressed a lever. The hoarse voice died in mid-pause. "There is only one other after this, my dear. But I will admit there seems to be nothing more to be learned from these men. Your first analysis would appear to be essentially correct; Solo was only playing with a new toy."

They couldn't have seen a smug smile with her back to them; Helena snorted smugly instead.

Roger laughed. "Well, I'd like to hear the last one. I still don't know whether they fired one shot or two at Solo before he hit the floor. I've been keeping track and it's now six to five that there were two shots. The last tape could settle it or tie it."

"The Ultimate Computer is chewing over the composite report on the OTSMID, if that's what it is," Dr. Pike said, ignoring him. "But my original proposal stands—that if Solo is deprived of action and subjected to a continuous pressure he will seize any opportunity to desert his post and seek physical release." He leaned back thoughtfully. The lean fingers of his left hand stroked idly over the arm of his chair while his right rubbed his chin. "And yet," he said, "there is the added factor of that gadget. It was an unexpected motivating factor and could conceivably have supplied the necessary boost. Teufelsdreck," he muttered. "There is still the possibility that I could have underestimated and it might not have worked. All that preparation and I still don't have an exact index."

His fingers interlaced in his lap and rose to form swift invisible cat's-cradles in the air as he spoke. "This will have to halve our chances for success in Phase Two. I'll work the estimates over this afternoon and see if I can increase the pressure by as much as twenty percent for a safety factor. It will probably take at least a week longer, though."

Roger yawned and plugged an earphone into the tape deck as he hit the rewind and reached for the last of the twelve small reels of tape. And out beyond the balcony the equatorial sun of mid-November soaked the city.

Late Sunday afternoon, when things were quietest, the Continental Priority signal buzzed and a rugged dark face appeared on the monitor screen above the communications console. "Shomambe, Head of U.N.C.L.E. Africa."

Napoleon activated his own vision facility and greeted his pro-tem equal. "A pleasure to see you. What's up?"

"The tempers of several tribal groups across northern Tanzania, among other things. Mr. Solo, if it would be possible for you to loan us some technicians with portable radio transmitting equipment we could get a pacifying message to the tribes fairly quickly. We've been spreading the basic sturdy transistor radios all over the area, of course, and we have a set of programs prepared for broadcast as pirate popular music stations, but we lack the actual transmitting gear and the technicians to keep the necessary number of transmitters functioning.

Napoleon nodded. "We have a kilowatt medium wave transmitter a man can carry on his back, and a five- kilowatt you can carry in a Land Rover and power from the motor. What do you need?"

"Ideally, four or five. The receivers we distribute are tuned to receive four specific frequencies about two and a half times as well as the rest of the Medium Wave band; we can transmit on those wavelengths and have most of the available audience within two hours."

"The programs are on tape?"

"Ten-inch reels, each holding three hours."

"That's long enough to sleep in—can you afford one man to put on each? I'll send a technician with the gear to give your people a quick checkout. It's simple enough to operate; our man will tune it. Five transmitters and matching tape decks as per specifications. I'll have them in the air to you within the hour." He had a vague feeling that Thrush was by no means through with him, and they might have everything around him tied up long before they were.

"That will do nicely, Mr. Solo. We have only three Land Rovers at the Dar es Salaam office, but I recall a modified bus that should do as well for a fourth. The fifth will serve as a fixed base in a safe area. Let me know when the shipment will arrive at Tabora; I will have a small detachment there to meet it."

Napoleon calculated rapidly, with a glance at the world map to his right. About seven thousand miles to Tabora as the jet flies. Ten to twelve hours, depending on weather. Time zones... "About noon tomorrow, your time. Give or take an hour. The plane will get in touch with you."

"Excellent. Thank you." The image faded, and Napoleon tapped a key. "Monitor, take care of this. There's a good girl."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Solo," purred the invisible voice.

Twenty minutes later Miss Williamson strode crisply into the room with a precis of the situation in Tanzania which she added to his file.

"Ah, Miss Williamson..."

She paused on her way to the door, and glanced around. "Yes sir?"

"I appreciate all you did for me during that siege last week, and I'd like to pay a little of it back. Do you like Italian food?"

She smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Mr. Solo. But I'm afraid it's a matter of personal policy that I never go out with my immediate superior."

"I hope Mr. Waverly lives forever," said Napoleon fervently. "I'll bring the subject up again in a few weeks when he gets back—if Thrush let's me live that long."

She batted an eye at him. "We'll see, Mr. Solo." And the door hissed and she was gone.

Monday things began to pick up. Napoleon started by picking up the stack of weekly reports that waited on the corner of his desk when he came in. Fourth was from the Saudi Arabian office in Riyadh; it reported nothing new on the investigation proceeding in Swat. This omission caught Solo's eye to the extent that he glanced at the world clock above the map, observed that it was just about sunset in Swat, and initiated a call to the field agent there. It took him well over a minute to answer, and his voice was low when he did.

"Harbeson here."

"Good evening, Mr. Harbeson. Am I disturbing some thing?"