He walked east from Ghirardelli Square until another nightclub caught his eye, promising a floor show and assorted distractions; inside he found a reasonably secluded booth and brought out his little treasure. Under a shaded lamp. his body concealing it from the outside. he released the catch and looked at the gamma laser for the first time in nearly two hours.

As he studied it he started to wonder whether he had really done the right things. Technically he had stolen this from Thrush. which wasn’t good —he intended to return it. but what would happen if he were caught with it when he tried to take it back? His hand started to shake. and he gripped the edge of the table hard. He’d be in serious trouble. After all. this was not just Thrush property —this was part of one of their more secret weapons projects and as such was subject to certain security regulations. To have violated them. even to this extent. would be grounds for severe disciplinary action.

There wouldn’t be any way he could convince them he’d only wanted to borrow it for the evening to admire it, and that there had never been any danger of it falling into the hands of anyone qualified to recognize it, let alone care what it was.

It looked like a rod of mirror-finished steel. 3/8 of an inch in diameter and three inches long. He couldn’t see his reflection in the general dimness.

but the slim shadowed cylinder itself seemed to have changed subtly. Its beauty was now somehow menacing. He had stolen from people who trusted him.

and how could he hope to keep it secret from them indefinitely? If they suspected him, he would be followed …

Without undue haste. he put the case away and took a sip of his drink before glancing around the floor of the club. Nobody looked like anyone he’d noticed at the last place, and nobody could have followed him on the cable anyway. He glanced at his watch. It was just short of twelve. and he really didn’t feel like leaving…Just then the lights dimmed around the small stage and a lime spot picked out an MC in skin-tight pants and a sequined jacket introducing a line of chorus girls. Harry decided to stay for the midnight show.

It was worth the two-dollar cover that had been tacked on his tab unexpectedly. but he left hurriedly after the show and another drink. He wasn’t cheered by the songs and dances. and the flat box in his lefthand pocket weighed on him like a millstone. .He was now convinced he had made a horrible mistake and would appear irretrievably guilty of treason while unprovably innocent of any wrong intent. Driven by a compulsion he could not have described, he fled into the night and was embraced by the cold streamers of fog.

“Maybe I just haven’t spent enough time here.” said Napoleon, “but I can’t help feeling San Francisco’s reputation for fogginess is greatly exaggerated.

It’s cold and clammy. and pieces blow through from time to time, but I’ve hardly ever seen really heavy fog here.”

The mottled sky overhead was paled with city-glow, but the gibbous moon appeared and faded, caressed by a hilltop to the west, and the lights beneath it were clear as they walked up from their car to “The Blue AngelMat half past twelve.

MI can’t tell whether you’re appreciating it or complaining about it,”

said Illya. “Do you wish there was more fog?”

“Not especially.” admitted his partner. “I just find it a little disappointing. Besides, we have forty-five minutes to kill, so I thought the weather might be a good subject to start a conversation with.”

The bar was about half full when they entered, but perhaps due to the lateness of the hour more customers were leaving than arriving. The two agents took an inconspicuous table in the corner where they could watch the front door and the back booth. Since their orders had included a repeated and specific injunction against attracting any kind of attention, they were informally dressed in the native style of turtlenecks and bell-bottoms, Napoleon with a mustard blazer and Illya in a dark green bush jacket. They ordered drinks and made idle conversation.

Gradually Napoleon became aware of an odd feeling of attentiveness in the room. He was sure they hadn’t been marked when they entered, but now, interested eyes from the bar strayed their way more often, and seemed strangely to focus more on Illya than on himself.

Unaware of this interest, Illya continued describing a particular chess strategy he had recently read about while Napoleon, half listening, stared past his shoulder and wondered at the inexplicable attraction he seemed to have.

Too many people were looking at them. Not with hostility, but rather with an opposite sort of look. Something had to be done, and until he knew what about himself and Illya —especially Illya —attracted their glances, he couldn’t tell what might be done. Then his eyes locked suddenly with those of a lean young man in leather pants and an open suede shirt, and held for a full fraction of a second.

“Illya,” said Napoleon under his breath, “in case you hadn’t noticed, we are uncomfortably conspicuous.”

“I’d noticed,” said the Russian. “Can you tell why?”

Napoleon thought a moment. “Illya,” he said finally, “we’ve been friends for several years now, right? Partners for six or seven years?”

“Six this fall.”

“It seems longer. And you’ve saved my life a few times, and I’ve saved your life several times more or less.”

“And you trust me implicitly in odd situations..

“As a general rule. Are you leading –”

“All I ask is that you trust me just this one time and I’ll try to explain later. Okay?”

“Okay “Hold my hand.”

“Hold your –?”

“Please,” Napoleon whispered intently. “Trust me. Hold my hand for a few minutes. And smile when you look at me.”

“Well…” Illya extended his hand across the table and Napoleon took it.

He looked defiantly along the bar and eight or nine pairs of eyes reluctantly returned to the big mirror on the wall behind the spigots and racks of multicolored bottles.

“Napoleon, I will take it on faith that you know what you are doing. But I must say—”

“Whatever you say, keep smiling while you say it. Look. Nobody’s watching us now. I promise I’ll explain it to you — but not right at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I trust your instincts, Napoleon —you’ve proven them often enough. But still, there are times when…”

“Hey —isn’t that him?

A thin, dark young man with an intense, hunted look in his eyes and nervous energy in his movements ducked around the partition at the door. nodded to the bartender. and walked unsteadily to the back booth on the far side.

Harry had been wandering aimlessly for some time, pausing now and then to check behind him, scanning anxiously over his shoulder. studying thinning throngs against the chiaroscuro of colored lights. He was somewhere in North Beach, and it was getting late. He didn’t want to keep walking much longer, but he didn’t know yet what to do.

He couldn’t keep it — he didn’t even want it anymore. He needed to sit down and think about it for a few minutes. Any place would do… He looked up and with a moment’s shock saw an angel waiting for him, outlined in flickering blue neon. Another bar. It looked open — he went around the partition and saw it was only about a quarter full. with a line of private booths running back towards a rear door.

Casually and a little unsteadily, he walked in, nodded to the bartender who didn’t notice, and made his way to the rear. A dyed blond young man in a tight sweater fetched his drink and left him alone.

Another minute or two passed. and another customer arrived, a young Falstaff in a flamboyant shirt and bushy red hair. He studied the room with a coolly appraising eye as he wandered along the bar towards the back, finally taking”a stool some twenty feet from Harry’s booth. He asked the bartender for something in a low tone and nodded at the answer before ordering a stein of beer. Napoleon and Illya, themselves unobserved. watched as he nursed it, his eyes on the back booth either directly or in the mirror. for most of the next twelve minutes.