"And this morning?"

"Behaving perfectly." Napoleon shrugged. "A little bit of temperament, I guess."

Waverly spent several seconds of complete concentration setting fire to the contents of his pipe and assuring himself it was drawing properly. He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. "Possibly a convenient coincidence. Leave your car with our technicians for a complete examination."

"We have an assignment, Napoleon," said Illya in response to his questioning look. He glanced at Waverly and smiled slightly. "At least, sort of an assignment."

Waverly exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and said, "Not exactly an assignment — not even a mission. If anything, it could be called a directed vacation. Some four weeks ago Thrush waylaid a courier in Vancouver, British Columbia. The same day some three million dollars in gold was smuggled out of Los Angeles to start a revolution in Terra Caliente — again, by Thrush." He puffed at his pipe, which bubbled softly in the silence of the room. "Since then — as far as we can tell — absolutely nothing has been done by Thrush in the Western third of the United States as of this morning."

Napoleon looked with raised eyebrows at Illya, who nodded.

"It seems ironic that the inaction of our enemies should cause more anxiety than their actions, but this is a strange war we are fighting. We feel it likely that Thrush has some major move in preparation, which will center in the west. You two are to go to Los Angeles, receive a final briefing by our office there, and then try to stir up trouble. If we can upset Thrush so that they move early, we may be able to start them off on the wrong foot. Los Angeles has been under maximum security for the last week — this is the reason. When Thrush knows you are coming in, they should try something. We will be ready for them."

"If this is a vacation," Napoleon muttered to Illya, "I think I'd rather stay at work."

Waverly pretended not to have heard, and continued with his characteristic absolute calm. "Naturally, you will be in constant communication with the local office, and under as steady surveillance as is practicable — probably by both sides."

He leaned to the table, placed two envelopes on it, and gave the bearing-mounted tabletop a turn. Napoleon and Illya each picked up an envelope as they came past.

"Here are your tickets on the 6:00 A.M. jet to Los Angeles. You will be met at the airport with the usual procedures. Take the afternoon to make your preparations; I can't say how long you'll be gone — probably less than two weeks. The more trouble you cause, the sooner you'll come home."

* * *

"The silver one was out last night — sure. Came in this morning at...lemme see...9:45."

"Do you remember who brought it in? A girl, brunette, white dress?"

"Yeah. Good lookin' girl. Kind of short, but a good figure."

"What else do you know about her? Is her driver's license number on your receipt? Her address, her name?"

The clerk looked up at Napoleon Solo and chuckled nastily. "Sorry, fella. We gotta protect our customers. Information like that only goes to the law." He paused, considering. "And it'd take about twenty bucks to convince me you should know anything else about that girl."

Napoleon didn't like being called "fella." He leaned down on the counter so that his face was level with the clerk's. "I don't have twenty dollars to spare right now," he said coolly. "Will this do?"

His wallet snapped open in front of the clerk's nose, and the light from the window flashed off the gold card identifying Napoleon Solo as an agent of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

The clerk swallowed his chewing gum, and rocked back from the counter. "Oh, sure, officer, sure! Anything for you! We just have to be careful, y'know — can't just give out information to anybody."

"We appreciate your zeal," Napoleon said, folding his wallet and replacing it. "But the girl's name and address?"

The clerk was fumbling in a file drawer. "Should be right here on top.... Yeah, here it is." He laid a yellow flimsy on the counter. "Garnet Keldur — from Los Angeles. Uh...that address there isn't the one on her license — she said she'd moved. But that's her, anyway."

Napoleon wrote down the name and address given. It was on Wilshire Boulevard, near the Country Club. An expensive area. "What about the car? Anything left in it? Anything unusual she said or did?"

The clerk thought. "There's a nick in the upholstery in the back seat, just a little one. And there's dents in the back floor-mat, like something heavy had been stood there."

Napoleon, who had just asked the question for effect, heard the answers and forgot them at once. "Okay, thank you. If we need anything else, we'll call you. What's your name?"

The clerk gave it; Napoleon repeated it and forgot it too. But the clerk wasn't quite through.

"What'd she do, anyway? Kill somebody? I didn't see any blood in the car. Robbery?"

"Do?" said Napoleon with mild surprise. "She didn't do anything, as far as I know."

"She didn't? Then what are you after her for?"

Napoleon looked the little man straight in the eye and said coolly, "I just want to ask her for a date, that's all," and slid the glass door closed behind him.

* * *

At 5:30, Illya Kuryakin was sitting at the window seat on the jet-liner which would take off for Los Angeles at 6:00. Napoleon was late. He looked across the darkening field of Kennedy International Airport at another jet taking off, at a helicab lumbering along, then leaping awkwardly into the air, thrashing its arms to keep its balance. He looked up at the sound of a soft footstep, and his partner slipped into the seat beside him. "You're here early, Illya," said Napoleon.

The Russian smiled slightly. "I was about to comment on your lateness. It is 5:51 by my watch."

Napoleon smiled indulgently. "Your watch is fast." He held up his wrist. "5:46 on the nose."

"Then the master clock in the airport building is off by five minutes also. I set mine by it some seven minutes ago just as I boarded."

Napoleon stared at his own timepiece, which hummed ever so softly. Then he scowled. "So much for that. This battery-powered chronometer is supposed to be guaranteed accurate to two seconds a month. And it was set by WWV not a week ago."

"Must have a lose wire. I prefer the old-fashioned type. Springs and gears have less that can go wrong with them and are easier to fix when they do."

Napoleon said nothing. He was proud of his watch, and it had let him down. He set it ahead, looked at it a moment, shrugged, and set it back three hours. He'd adjust it to the second when they got to Los Angeles.

Shortly after they were airborne, the PA system gave the usual "Welcome aboard" announcement, and informed the passengers that they would be flying at thirty thousand feet while watching the latest James Bond film. Napoleon settled back happily and adjusted his headset as the cabin lights dimmed. Illya looked over at him and shook his head. "I'll never understand what you see in that escapist nonsense. I should think professional pride?" He realized Napoleon was already lost in the opening credits, which featured a girl with an amazingly supple figure. Illya smiled. He understood already.

He slipped his earphones on, set the dial to the classical music channel, where a Prokofief symphony was beginning, and got out his briefcase. By the yellow glow of his seat lamp, he fished out a set of essays on The Nesting Habits of the Greater Western Thrush.