Tentatively, he depressed a button. Nothing went “Wheep-wheep,” or “Bwoinng,” so he depressed another. Overhead what appeared to be a large television screen came to life. A crisscross pattern in pale green was the only picture.

The others were still oblivious of his presence. He pushed more buttons, and the. screen overhead flicked. The grid pattern changed both in size and color. Napoleon was just beginning to enjoy himself when Illya said, “I see you’re ready for the tests, Napoleon. Where did you learn to operate a 315?”’

“A good agent keeps up on everything, Illya,” Napoleon smiled, “or so you keep telling me.”

Illya held up a tiny glass-enclosed mechanism. “This is your tracer.” He handed over a device slightly larger than a paper match, with a straight pin running parallel to its length.

“A little large, isn’t it?” Napoleon asked. “The pinhead tracer we usually use couldn’t be a tenth this size.”

“The pinhead tracer’s signal is only good for about five miles at best. This can be picked up by the receiver here from virtually anywhere in this hemisphere.”

Napoleon looked at the tracer again with a bit more respect. “What’s more,” Illya continued, “it can send forever. It gets its power by crossing the earth’s magnetic lines. As long as you keep moving, or even breathing, it will keep on sending.” Illya pinned a second tracer to the neck of his sweater. Napoleon followed suit and decorated the underside of his right lapel.

Illya sat down at the computer console. His fingers flew over the buttons faster than Napoleons eyes could follow. The grid pattern on the overhead screen was suddenly overlaid by a passable map of the city, in red.

The two technicians flipped toggles on the receiver, and a tiny blip of pure gold appeared on the map.

“That’s us,” Illya informed Napoleon as his fingers moved over the buttons again. The map expanded on the screen, flowing off the edges in all directions. The tiny golden blip stayed centered.

Illya stopped the expansion when the map showed several square blocks complete with streets and buildings. “It’s programmed for New York and many other areas from aerial photographs. Of course, parts of the world are still all white on the map. Let’s hope, though, that we don’t have to go to Borneo.”

He set the map to expanding. Napoleon watched the city blocks grow off the edges of the screen until only one remained. Across the room, one of a set of large spinning drums made a clucking sound. The bluish-green grid was suddenly overlaid with an orange floor plan. Napoleon recognized the third floor of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

“This building and a few others are also in the map logic,” Illya informed him. “The receiver can detect altitude as well as direction and distance, and so triggered the third floor’s plan. If you went upstairs or down, it would change the plan accordingly.”

Again Illya expanded the map, bringing the bright gold blip subjectively closer. The blip split in two. Napoleon found himself looking at a miniature representation of U.N.C.L.E. Communications.

“Which blip is me?” he asked his partner.

“Watch.” Illya rose and walked across the room. One of the yellow blips slid across the screen. Illya returned, the blip returned. Illya left the room, the blip slid all the way off the screen. The second blip, Napoleon’s blip, remained centered, unmoving. The first blip returned, and a moment later Illya re-entered the room.

“We have tuned to you as the primary, and to me as the secondary. The only problem is that both signals trigger the same color on the display. But unless we both get taken it shouldn’t be hard to tell which is which.”

“Unless we both get taken?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes. You are the stalking goat to bait the Thrush tiger, and I am the Great White Hunter.” They solemnly shook hands.

“If I’m the bait, and you’re the hunter, how did we get stuck with legwork for the next two days?”

“If we’re lucky, Thrush will find you long before then.” The two agents left the lab, arguing the merits of the plan.

One of the technicians sat down at the console. He depressed a series of buttons and the display grew slightly. The two golden blips merged into one, entered the high-speed elevator and plummeted through flickering floorplans to the U.N.C.L.E. parking area in the basement of the old brownstone.

“Let’s talk to some of the good guys first,” Napoleon parked the special U.N.C.L.E. wing-door sedan in a no parking zone. Across the street was one of the oldest and most reputable brokerage houses in New York City. “I don’t know how the bad guys are going to react, so first I find out how the good guys are going to react. Right?”

Illya looked up from the crossword puzzle on his lap. “What’s a four-letter word for stool pigeon?”

“What?”

“Stool pigeon. I need a four-letter word for . .

“No, I heard you. Illya, a stool pigeon is a coppers’ nark.** Napoleon stepped from the car into the traffic.

“What kind of a snark?” was lost behind as he picked a path across the street.

The next twenty minutes established the pattern for the rest of Napoleons day. He entered the brokerage office and was received by a severe looking young woman seated behind a glass enclosure. “Whom did you wish to see, sir?” she asked with a minimum of lip motion.

Napoleon scanned the company’s letterhead. “Mr. Machines, please,” he said, choosing at random from the list. A bit of business with whispering into an intercom followed. The girl looked up momentarily.

“Who might I say is calling, sir?”

“Napoleon Solo,” he answered. There followed more whispering.

“And what, precisely, might I say is your business?” She looked at him very sternly.

“You might say that it’s private,” he answered with a boyish smile.

The receptionist put the instrument down and asked Napoleon to wait. He waited.

Finally an even severer looking older woman appeared and told him his name. Without further preamble she lead him through a series of glass-enclosed passages. They passed a dozen cubicles, each cubicle containing an identical looking chair, an identical looking desk, an identical looking young man and three ringing telephones. The noise level was unbelievably low considering the activity.

“Mr. Solo, please go right in” His guide opened a door of polished walnut, and Napoleon entered an office twice the size of Waverly’s. In one glance he took in a deep-pile white rug, the walnut paneled walls, fireplace, and built-in bar. On the far side of the room a large slab of walnut was masquerading as a desk. Behind it a tiny wisp of a man looked up in unfeigned annoyance.

“What is your business, sir?” The question was a staccato of words.

“I am with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” Napoleon answered. “My credentials.” He handed the little man a gold embossed U.N.C.L.E. identification card.

The little man read every word on the card with great care. He peered up at Napoleon, who Wed to look as much like the picture as possible. “Very pretty.” The card was dismissed. “Now tell me, what is your business?”

“I want to ask you some questions about gold stocks,” Napoleon began.

“We have a number of young men here, Mr. Solo. All of them capable brokers. Choose any one of them. He will be able to handle your business.” MacInnes was closing the interview.

“Mr. MacInnes,” Napoleon began again, more firmly. “I want to ask you some questions about gold stocks. In particular I want to know the names of the people who have been buying and selling Breelen’s common in the past few months.”

MacInnes froze for seconds, then let a smile break across his wintry face. “You don’t let yourself be pushed around much, do you?” he asked in a much more relaxed tone. “You want a list of our clients dealing in Breelen’s common? Don’t you realize that there are certain professional ethics involved? What does U.N.C.L.E. want with the information anyhow?”