"You forgot to say hold your ears that last time," Illya said. "If I lose my perfect pitch you'll be responsible."

"Sorry about that," said Napoleon sincerely. "But I thought you'd expect me to act on your directions at once."

"We'll let it go. I think both rounds made it into the fuel supply. I just hope there's enough of that damned thing left to analyze."

Sirens were wailing in the distance, drawing nearer, as they turned back into the tailor's shop, dragging the still-smoking anti-tank gun. "The fuzz are coming, Del," said Napoleon. "We can leave the explanations up to you—dealing with curious people is your specialty."

"Thanks loads," said Del Floria, as the two top agents disappeared into the second fitting booth, leaving the 75-mm recoilless in the middle of his floor. This would have to be a good one.

* * *

Inner Reception Station Three, back on post, ordered them to detour by way of Emergency Medical before they went in to see Alexander Waverly. Both were pronounced fit, given two salt tablets for shock and a small tranquilizer on general principles, and sent on their way.

Waverly was on the telephone as they entered.

"Of course, John. I quite understand your objection to the anti-tank shells. But we have good reason to believe several square blocks were saved from destruction or severe damage, and a few shattered windows seems a small price to pay...Yes, certainly we'll accept financial responsibility but I must request that City lawyers be found to represent our defense...Please accept my most sincere apologies for the incident, but you must understand that circumstances dictated our action. Certainly. Very well. Thank you." He replaced the handset and glared at Napoleon as if he were personally responsible.

"I request your help, Mr. Solo," he said, "in deciding what to tell the police to tell the press to tell several thousand individuals who were direct or indirect witnesses to your recent military action on East Fifty-Fourth Street."

Napoleon Solo cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "Ah, well, sir, it—ah—seemed like a good idea at the time, sir..."

Illya explained in a few thousand well-chosen words the way they had analyzed the situation and elected to take action. He claimed shared responsibility with Napoleon and described in grisly detail the probable results of continued bombardment with properly attuned infrasonics. When he paused, Waverly said, "Well, Mr. Solo?"

"Ah, right, sir," said Napoleon. "What he just said."

"Hm. Very well. I'll have that paraphrased into an acceptable statement and slip it into channels. By the time it gets out no one will be able to recognize it anyhow. One other item which will brighten your day," he added after a pause. "The pulse transmitter embedded in Baldwin's stick has failed to send its last two scheduled signals."

"But it was guaranteed for six months," said Illya.

"It was also guaranteed undetectable," said Waverly. "I fear we have underestimated Ward Baldwin."

Napoleon nodded. "I thought it'd be good for a week at least. Where was it last heard from?"

Waverly sighed. "The Oyster Bar—in Grand Central Station." His fingertips drummed for a moment on the arm of his black leather chair. "I think we can take this for tentative validation of part of Baldwin's story, at any rate. Uncommonly overt action is being taken against us." He picked up a film cartridge and inserted it into a slot on the side of the desk. The room lights dimmed and a slightly fuzzy picture sprang up in blues and grays, bearing a title and code number.

"Right," said Napoleon. "That was just before we got the color VTR."

They watched after that in silence for three or four minutes while distorted radio voices exchanged pre-firing data and orders and the countdown marched away to nothing. At zero the screen flared suddenly white for a long moment before the seared vidicon tube and spasmed circuitry began to recover. Out of the blind gray of stunned photoconductors a picture formed again—the figure of a man sprawled across the breech of the monstrous, coiled gun which now burned with a flickering dull flame and black smoke. As horns and buzzers sounded on the audio, Waverly reached over and stopped the film, shifting it to rewind.

Only when the lights were all up did he speak, and his voice was bitter. "There it was. Simplest thing in the world, of course. Give us something sudden we don't understand—the flare of light—and follow it immediately with something we do. We forgot the first incident completely." He sucked on his pipe and made a face.

Neither Napoleon nor Illya said a word for four minutes while Alexander Waverly cleaned his pipe in a total concentration that even forbade the telephone to ring.

At last he finished and stuffed it about half full of the mixture from the humidor at the back of his desk. When he had it glowing to his satisfaction, he allowed a faint cloud of blue smoke to rise as he spoke slowly.

"Let us suppose," he said, "that some time in 1964 Joseph King found or was supplied with an individual of little value to him save that his general physical condition, scars, build and dimensions were nearly identical to his own. Almost certainly with the help of Thrush, who were known to be experimenting with cryogenic methods of preservation even then, he killed this man with a precisely measured and directed burst of radio energy, and took steps to freeze the body moments after this had been done. He then carefully arranged his own apparent demise and during the moment of our blindness he switched the prepared and frozen body into his own place and departed by some prearranged route. A jeep could have removed him from the site, given King's knowledge of our security system, if it were waiting just outside the danger area. King had portable shielding there; he could have ducked behind it and gotten out the door without coming into range of the camera again."

There was a moment's silence. Napoleon said, "You found out something else."

"As a matter of fact I did. While you were out disturbing the peace and destroying city property, I took advantage of the lull to investigate Mr. King's personal data sheet." He gestured toward the table with his pipe. "I opened it and developed the paper for latent fingerprints." He drew on the pipe again and let a plume of smoke curl towards the air intake.

"Then, when you were being repaired after your exploits, I called for and received the file of Carol Robinson, the only person authorized to handle the data records before they were sealed in plastic in 1961. The fingerprints," he said, "do not match. In any respect."

Illya was the first to say something. "King was Lab Chief. He had unlimited access to any part of the building, any time. He could have..."

"... Counterfeited a whole data packet," Napoleon finished the sentence for him. "Including sealing it in plastic and slipping it into his own file."

"Which means the fingerprints just found on the paper are almost certainly those of Joseph King himself," said Waverly. "The computer is presently checking them against the rest of our file, but another answer seems unlikely."

"But if he was frozen," said Napoleon, "why didn't the Bertillion measurements check out exactly?"

Illya answered that. "I'm reasonably certain King didn't know the Bertillion code. He had odd gaps in his knowledge. Mr. Simpson, now, not only knows it, he has discovered some interesting correlations. No, I have another question entirely. The body was warm when we found it three minutes after the supposed accident—but there wasn't the least sign of decay or cellular damage. He must have been quick-frozen, but how could he have been thawed..." His speech faltered as a delayed connection was made.