Napoleon led the way as they left Waverly’s sanctum in favor of some sleep. As they descended in the express elevator, Illya asked Napoleon, “Have you ever known Mr. Waverly to make a deliberately false statement?”

“Not to friends.”

“He told me he had worked this puzzle. But look, it’s still blank.” Illya shook his head in wonderment.

Solo smiled sympathetically. “You and your little world of crossword puzzles just took a killing blow, Illya. I am of the opinion that Mr. Waverly works your favorite puzzle in his head.”

The wiry assistant radio operator stepped timidly into his master’s Coney Island hideaway.

“Mr. Porpoise, sir …”

The fat man woke instantly, frowning at the noise. His eyes, buried deeply in fat and scar tissue, burned into the little Thrush. “What is it, Arnold? Why did you wake me?” Behind his quiet voice, unspoken annoyance lay heavy.

“Thrush Central is calling, sir; Top Priority message. One of the board wishes to speak to you personally.”

“Very well, switch it onto my monitor.”

Arnold pressed a hidden control in the paneled wall and a section of the room’s overhead rotated to become an opaque screen. With a soundless flicker, an image came into being on the huge video monitor, revealing a well-dressed, distinguished-looking old gentleman seated at a polished oaken desk that might have been used for football half-time exercises. This was Mr. Benedict, Thrush Centrals counterpart to U.N.C.L.E/s Alexander Waverly.

“Avery, I have some disturbing news,” Mr. Benedict began without preamble when his screen showed the connection had been made. “U.N.C.L.E. has taken out one of your minor operatives, my boy; that actor fellow you were using in your communications link in London. I’m afraid that by now they may have everything he knows about your little project.”

Surprise and a smattering of panic crossed Porpoise’s face, and he elbowed, his huge bulk into a more attentive position, sputtering and reddening.

“Alain knew nothing of importance,” he said. He waved his hands about and looked at the screen apprehensively before he had to sit back in the water from the strain. “Don’t worry, sir, it was only necessary to give him simple messages,” he wheezed, as his normal sepulchral color returned. “In fact, he insisted on knowing nothing more, so he would run no risks himself.”

“I’m happy to hear that, my boy,” replied Mr. Benedict, “because that reflects sound Thrush policy. However, aren’t you going to be somewhat embarrassed in finishing your financial juggling?”

“The project is nearly completed,” said the fat water-baby, leaning back in his violet floating chair and smiling up at the ceiling. “U.N.C.L.E. can’t stop us now, and even if they could, we still show a considerable profit on the venture. You will recall that one of my premises in requesting so much working capital was that there would at almost all times be a profit available, guaranteed against all hazards.”

“Yes, but one should never underestimate U.N.C.L.E. If they tie this actor to you, you may be forced to abandon that very pleasant retreat by the sea.”

“I’m not underestimating them, sir. You see, we now have approximately 34.7 percent of Breelen’s, and tomorrow we will sell short. My calculations show that Breelen’s own agents will attempt to pick up as much of our shorts as their funds allow, hoping to scuttle our venture. However, with their present capital, they can purchase at most 12.3 to 12.4 percent of the total.” Porpoise’s little red kiwi eyes took fire from the progress of his mind through his accumulated knowledge of finance.

“Well surprise them by delivering that, and then dump the rest in three batches. The market will drop, once, twice, thrice! Calculations show that Breelen’s will try to sell a small block at the first plummet, and buy again at the second. Already they are desperate to retain control of their own shares, and then they’ll have to sell an even larger block at the third stage, which we of course will buy after the London Exchange closes. When they try to buy back, they’ll find no stock for sale, and we will be sitting prettily on more than a controlling interest.”

“I’m pleased the effort is so well along, my boy, but what if U.N.C.L.E. interrupts you before the finale?”

Waves of laughter traveled over the island of avoirdupois floating in the violet chair. “Even if they managed to halt trading on Breelen’s Gold,” he said amid deep chuckles, “and we fail to acquire complete control, we must make between seven and eight hundred percent profit. On the other hand, owning Breelen’s and a handsome profit to boot, we are guaranteed the control of South Africa’s newest nation’s major industry. I am the first to admit, sir,” he said, wiping his eyes with a wet wrist, “that this is not a direct path to world domination, but…”

“But, it will still stand up as a most commendable effort, Avery, and it is a pleasure to have entrusted you with carrying out your idea. Thrush Central is very pleased with your intermediate reports, and the rest of the council will be happy to hear that the loss of one operative means no danger.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m very glad to have your approval”

“Oh, indeed, Avery. And now, I’ve kept you from your rest quite long enough. Good night, my boy, and do keep me advised when anything major breaks there.” Mr. Benedicts face splashed across the spectrum as he closed the circuit, and Arnold fingered another control to restore the room’s ceiling to normal.

“Good night, Arnold,” breathed Porpoise in contentment. “Send a message to London about Alain, so that his work can be done in some other way for a few days. Even if it’s not as efficient, we are nearly through. And try not to disturb me again.”

“Yes, sir-er, that is, no, sir,” mumbled the small man, backing quietly from the room. Unheard in the insulated pool room, clocks outside struck three.

Chapter 3

“Which blip is me?”

Napoleon Solo entered Del Floria’s looking brisk and efficient, but feeling exactly like a man who has just made do with three and a half hours’ sleep. He returned the tailor’s cheery greeting with a grimace and stepped into a fitting booth. Del Floria depressed the steam mangle twice while Napoleon turned a clothes hook. The booth’s wall gave way to reveal one of U.N.C.L.E.‘s nicer fringe benefits.

“Illya is waiting for you in Communications, Napoleon,” breathed the brunette receptionist. She might have come up to his chin, standing. Napoleon allowed her to pin on his triangle badge, which gave him access to the U.N.C.L.E. complex.

“Illya is waiting for me?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, Napoleon.” She was amused. “He arrived almost an hour ago. He said you would probably sleep a bit late.” Her smile was as delicious as the rest of her.

Napoleon congratulated himself on working for an outfit that picked its employees for physical fitness as well as intelligence. He followed a tall blonde part way to the high-speed elevator. Two floors up, he passed another tall blonde and a tidy redhead. At Communications he was met by another brunette, who guided him through the maze of U.N.C.L.E. electronics to a small lab. Napoleon was feeling much more alive and awake by the time he finally got to Illya. The brunette left him at the door of the lab.

“Good morning, early bird. Don’t you ever sleep?”

Illya replied with an elequent silence as he buried himself more deeply in a wiring diagram. Two lab technicians entered, ignored Napoleon completely, and handed Illya three more sets of drawings. These were quickly spread out on the only open space in the room, the floor. Napoleon found himself being crowded into a comer. No one seemed to care that he was there at all.

“I could be asleep in bed right now,” he said to no one in particular. No one in particular answered. He was getting a bit bored with the whole thing when he noticed the computer console. Colored lights on its face blinked in strange patterns.