Текст книги "The Hollow Crown Affair "

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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The attendant drowsed in his air-conditioned glass cage, facing the street, and remained unaware of the two UNCLE agents as they crept quietly around the end of the cement pier that protected the descending ramp. A sheet of steel which rolled down from the ceiling covered it, and a sawhorse-mounted sign said SORRY—TEMPORARILY FILLED. SPACE RESERVED FOR REGULAR CUSTOMERS.

They withdrew as silently as they had come, and a moment later Illya murmured, "Those looked like fairly irregular customers to me. I think I'd like to try the lock on that back door."

The lock was a good commercial model, but it surrendered in seconds to a set of non-commercial instruments and the two found themselves in a stairwell. Shielded bulbs cast yellow parabolas on the stained concrete walls. Without pause they hurried silently down the steps.

At the bottom another lock faced Illya's deft manipulations, but before it gave way they heard the faint sounds of voices.

"The elevator will take you directly up," said one. "Turn right when you get out."

"Thank you," said a familiar harsh precise voice.

A moment later footsteps approached, and the door was pulled open. It is doubtful that either of the two men knew what hit them.

"I'll bet they were going up," said Napoleon. "Let's catch that elevator."

They didn't exactly sprint up the stairs, but they made good time. They passed the first level on Napoleon's hunch, but checked the second. There was no door for an elevator; they took the next flight two at a time.

A nondescript door was closing in the wall and they peered cautiously out and listened. Instead of the cavernous hollow sound of the other levels, they heard the crisp close reverberations of slow footsteps with the occasional tap of a cane. Closing the stair door silently behind them and blocking the latch, they followed the sounds into a corridor which turned a right angle every twenty or thirty feet for some distance. Concealed fluorescents shed an even shadowless light along the steel paneling. Illya caught Solo's eye once with a suspicious now-what-are-you-getting-us-into look, but they saw no signs of opposition.

After the fourth turn, they heard another door open and the footsteps ahead paused. On silent feet they moved past the next turn and saw Baldwin's back disappear through a frosted glass door set in one of the identical wall panels. A concealed detent showed its return, and on impulse Napoleon leaped forward and caught it silently just before it latched. He thumped it lightly with his fist to satisfy waiting ears, and beckoned to Illya with a toss of his head.

Faint voices muttered in the next room, and faded as the speakers moved away. Gently Napoleon eased the heavy door open a crack and peered through. Baldwin and a short Chinese girl were just going through a door on the far side of an empty office. As the far door closed, Solo opened his and Illya followed him into the room, looking uneasily around.

And was plunged into total darkness a fraction of a second before a shrill buzzer sounded. The silence was shattered and other sounds grew around them. Something coughed and roared hugely on the other side of the far door, and was joined by a chorus as things slammed and two or three voices shouted. Bright bluish light grew beneath the far door, and by the glow Napoleon and Illya looked at each other.

They weren't sure what was behind that door, and they didn't think they were equipped to find out. Nonetheless, they might never have another chance...Together they hurried to the inner door.

They hit it side by side just before a dropping bar wedged into its rests, and two gray-suited figures were bowled backwards by the force of their rush through the door. Napoleon and Illya skidded to a halt and gaped into the room that lay revealed to them.

Where acres of cars could have parked, rows of diesel-powered trucks stood facing the ramps, coughing out smoke. Men in gray coveralls ran about fastening down sidepanels emblazoned with the faded and dirty insignia of two dozen old and reputable trucking firms. As the first rank engaged their clutches and rolled off, the last ones were inhaling lengths of black cable. Shots splattered the brickwork a few feet above their heads, and they jumped back and slammed the door.

"Illya," said Napoleon aggrievedly, "what's going on here?"

"I have a silly idea..."

"What?"

"You'd laugh."

Illya pushed the door open again and peered out. The last truck revved its engine and swung toward the open ramp downward, where another steel sheet was already beginning to roll down from above. As it passed, four men in gray coveralls with black berets broke from cover; two even paused to fire once more at the doorway where Illya stood staring before they swung aboard the open tailgate, with hands reaching out to help them up as the truck sped up and roared around the corner.

The mutter of its engine faded as Illya gradually eased the door all the way open and stood up. The two men they had knocked over were gone, and the place was spotless except for a few oil stains on the floor at regular intervals. Slowly they walked out into the vast empty room and looked around.

A scrap of paper, caught in the dying eddys of the last truck's departure, fluttered across the concrete towards them and stopped. Illya bent and picked it up automatically.

It was an unused piece of note paper with MEMO: in fair-sized letters beneath the neat black symbol of the fighting thrush. He showed it to Napoleon.

Solo looked at it for a minute, then looked at his partner with mixed awe and disbelief. "Aw, no," he said. "We didn't just walk into the middle of Thrush Central, did we?"

Illya looked at him and shook his head sadly. "I told you you'd laugh," he said. "But I'll bet Ward Baldwin didn't."

Chapter 4: "Sugar Maple And Pine"

"This one was spotted by pure luck, Mr. Solo," the pilot yelled over the racket of the rotors. The radio-summoned helicopter had picked them up from the roof of the garage on Latimer Street and was now following the direction of a ground station. "It ran a red light about a minute after you put in the call and traffic control spotted it. The other ones must have gotten away."

Below them, a middle-sized semi thundered along the Schuykill Expressway. The pilot throttled back to stay well behind him and fairly high. "We can't stop him until he gets back onto the streets or hits open country, so we'll just have to stay with him."

It was fifteen tense minutes from the time they picked him up in Fairmount Park before the truck lumbered into an offramp for Conshohocken and turned north. Radio summoned cars to the area for support while the copter itself began to swing back and forth across the road in front of the speeding diesel, forcing it gradually to a standstill. Guns drawn, Napoleon and Illya leaped out and ran towards the cab, where a black-jacketed driver was starting to get out.

"Hold it right there," yelled Solo, and the man froze, one hand on the door handle and one foot in mid-air. "That's right. Now let that foot down slowly and back out."

The driver did as he was told, and turned a terrified face towards the two UNCLE agents. "Is this a hold-up?"

"You might say that," said Illya. "What's in there?" He gestured with his automatic towards the back of the truck.

The man's head followed his gesture, and then looked back with eyes wide. "Bricks, mister. Just bricks."

"Okay," said Napoleon. "Open it up. I want to see your bricks."

The driver looked at him as if he had just lost his mind, and the ghost of a doubt twitched in Napoleon's stomach. "Okay, mister, anything you say. They ain't my bricks." He eased himself slowly to a walking position, glancing at the two leveled automatics from time to time, and led them to the rear of the truck. There he threw back two bolts and swung the doors wide.

Inside, stacked on pallets, were piles and piles of bricks. They could see enough space down the sides to be sure no concealed compartments opened through the walls.

As they stared, both communicators chirped for attention and Waverly's voice spoke crisply. "Well, what have you found?"

"It's full of bricks, sir," said Illya hesitantly.

"Well, check the license number. Check the registration. Verify the driver's identity. Don't let anything out of your sight. Oh—Mr. Simpson tells me we will probably have to examine each brick carefully; they could easily be disguised memory units. Or only a few of them might be. And check his bills of lading and receipt book. Hang it, check everything! I'll be there with Mr. Simpson in two hours."

When the support forces arrived, Solo put them in charge of the truck with orders to wait for Mr. Waverly while the driver sat on the cab step with his head in his hands. As Solo started to get back into the helicopter, the man looked up and shook his fist. "You're gonna cost me my job, you..." The engine fired and the rest of his statement was lost to the world in a thunder of rotor blades and exhaust as they lifted.

Ten minutes later they switched to their own car and sped back to Baldwin's hotel. As they pulled up to the curb, Terri stepped out of a doorway to greet them. "Baldwin got back here about twenty-five minutes ago," she said, "and hasn't come out this way."

"Let's go in and see if we can patch things up," said Napoleon.

They hurried into the lobby and asked for the bearded man with a cane—and found he had checked out fifteen minutes ago and taken a cab from the basement garage.

Terri stood and looked seriously at them as they walked back from the hotel to where she stood by the parked car. "You didn't find him," she said.

"I'm afraid he's gone again," said Illya.

"Oh well," said Napoleon resignedly, "we were close."

* * *

Even Alexander Waverly showed traces of despair when Napoleon and Illya finished reporting to him four days later.

"He was from a brickyard half a mile west of where Thrush Central was located, and his orders were checked out and cleared—he was on his way to a construction site in Seven Stars," said Solo.

"At last report, the investigation team had gotten about two-thirds of the bricks checked—thoroughly negative so far," said Kuryakin.

"They won't find anything," said Waverly. "We all know the truck was a red herring. What is more irritating is the loss of Baldwin again. Mr. Bigglestone of our San Francisco office reports two attempts to introduce high explosives into their building; Chicago has stood off two overt attacks in the last three days. The other Continental Chiefs tell me daily of increased harassment from Thrush since your ill-timed invasion of their innermost sanctum. And have you described in detail the methods you used to circumvent the complex of alarm systems you must have foiled?"

"Well," said Solo, "we went right in behind Ward Baldwin—I guess they thought we were with him."

Waverly poked at his cold pipe with a bony fore-finger. "Apparently they continued to think so after they found out who you were. It would seem Baldwin had sought out Thrush Central, probably to make a final attempt at reconciliation or negotiation. When you walked in on his tail, the obvious interpretation was that you were the vanguard of an invading force with Baldwin as the betrayer. I can't think how he could have escaped, but he obviously did."

"Well, we can hardly blame him for leaving town so suddenly, then," said Illya.

"And now we've offended him," said Napoleon, "and he's probably gone off in a snit and will refuse to be found until it wears off or someone can talk him out of it." He sighed. "It may be a while."

* * *

August became September and Ward Baldwin was not seen again. Waverly sent Solo and Kuryakin off on another assignment for three weeks, but their hearts weren't really in it. Summer faded slowly, and the first hints of autumn began to show in New York City. The skirts stayed short, but gusty breezes whipped unexpectedly around corners more often and sweaters began to appear.

One Monday morning early in the month Illya was in mid-town Manhattan on personal business when a sudden shower drove him to take refuge in the doorway of the Automat facing Bryant Park on Sixth Avenue. The sky had been low and leaden all morning, hanging like dirty cotton batting strung among the skyscrapers, oozing a chill dampness, and finally allowed its load of misery to fall on the sooty city beneath. While pedestrians scampered from the spattering drops, fat speckled pigeons huddled high on building ledges and shook their wings angrily at the indignities of the weather.

Illya looked out into the shadowless muted grays, considering the temperature and the condition of the storm fronts he had noticed on the morning weather display, and gave it one chance in three of letting up within the hour. Opting for the lesser evil, he turned and pushed through the bronze doors polished by millions of hands into Horn & Hardart's. A dollar and a quarter later he seated himself at a tray-sized table alone amid the cluster of strangers, right by the window, with a cheering hot meal in front of him. He just started to pour the milk when a flicker of movement caught his eye and he glanced up.

The cardboard carton froze in mid-air, halfway to the glass, as he recognised the cheerful motherly face of Irene Baldwin eight feet away. She wore a faded dress and a knit sweater; an old black shawl covered her head and she was nodding to him. She seemed to have just appeared, and she was carrying a small tray with something on it.

Illya closed his mouth as she approached, and started to put the milk down. She stopped beside his tiny table, smiled at him significantly as he started to rise, and placed the tray before him. He looked down at it uncomprehendingly. There in a small white vase stood a leaf and a twig. He looked up again and got to his feet, but Irene was no longer there. He thought he saw the back of a faded dress in a flicker through the crowd around the cashier's desk, but he couldn't be sure.

Then he saw her outside, with a wide black umbrella, hurrying up the sidewalk. She waved as she passed him, and was lost to view down Sixth in a few seconds. Illya stared helplessly into the rain after her for a while, then looked back at the little vase. Cheap ceramic, but a pleasing design, he thought. And a leaf, and a stick. No, a little branch of pine, with tufts of green needles sticking out of the wolf-gray bark. He picked it up and sniffed it. Fresh. He weighed it in his hand and looked at the leaf. Three-pointed, and already starting to turn color. But it was also still moist and soft. Jagged edges...What was it? Maple? He turned slowly and stared out the window again. Irene Baldwin???

He looked back down at his own tray, and licked his dry lips. He'd eat it, since he'd paid for it and needed the food. But his appetite was utterly destroyed, and the meal was as ashes in his mouth.

Section II: "Tradition, Form And Ceremonious Duty."

Chapter 5: "Why Mr. Solo! What A Surprise!"

It was obviously a clue—everyone agreed as far as that went. Illya held to the opinion that it was a direct hint and they would be expected to follow it up at once, winning Napoleon to his side in short order. The pine suggested Maine to both of them, but Mr. Waverly pointed out that sugar maples were more prevalent in Vermont and pine was their state tree.

"The leaves are just starting to turn up there," Napoleon said generously. "Illya, do you want to take the field first this time?"

"I'll stay with central heating," said Illya. "Besides, you know the area and can pronounce those names. I've rarely had an opportunity to fight international conspiracies in Vermont."

* * *

Tuesday afternoon Napoleon Solo drove his rented car off the Lake Champlain Ferry and up a ramp into downtown Burlington, Vermont. His hotel reservations were in order; once again his first stop was the Chamber of Commerce for a listing of available accommodations. It was possible that Ward Baldwin still might not want to be found, even if Irene thought he'd avoided them long enough, and it looked as if he would have to go back to showing pictures at hotel desks and bookstores.

Wednesday featured a breakfast that was a little too heavy, an uninspiring lunch, and a lot of strangers who had never seen Ward Baldwin. Dusk found Napoleon sitting, dejected, on a bench in the curve of Battery Park, looking out over the darkening waters of the lake to where the largest western sky he had ever seen spread curtains of orange, blue, pink, purple and gold above the setting sun. He hardly noticed it at first, but he lit a cigarette and set his mind to relaxing and eventually, when the sunset had faded to smoke and embers, he rose, feeling not so much refreshed as eased.

The silhouette on the bench over near the cannon seemed somehow familiar, and he looked more closely when he neared. The girl looked up as he passed beneath the solitary streetlight, and wide brown eyes batted.

"Why Mr. Solo! What a surprise!" said Chandra Reynolds, extending a hand to him. "What in the world brings you up to Burlington?"

Napoleon paused in mid-stride and nearly lost his balance. "Well!" he said. "Uh—hi there!"

"Wasn't the sunset nice tonight?" she said brightly. "Do sit down—I think Lake Champlain has some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. Have you been in town long?"

"Uh, no. I got in yesterday."

"Still on vacation?"

"No—I'm here on business this time."

"Isn't it a delightful coincidence? Ed and I finished the dig in New Jersey just about two weeks ago and our finds have been arriving bit by bit for the last five days. He'll probably be meeting me here in a few minutes after he closes up the office. You must join us for dinner."

"Well, I..."

"Oh, now, your business can't keep you busy all night too. You ought to have a union to prevent it. Besides, you should know you can't do business with anyone but friends after hours in New England. Oh—there he is now!" She stood up and fluttered a handkerchief as a long blue car pulled into the south entrance of the park. It braked silently to a halt by them, and Ed Reynolds leaned out.

"Well, hi, Napoleon. What are you doing in Burlington? Hey, how's about joining us for dinner? There's a great little hamburger stand just north of town..."

"Oh, Ed, we should take him to Bove's—that little Italian place on Pearl Street."

"But really, I..."

"Come on, Napoleon," said Ed heartily. "All work and no play is bad for the nerves."

He was half into the front seat when he remembered his own car, at the curb across the park. They assured him they'd bring him back, the parking was unlimited, and he might not be able to follow them to the restaurant. He gave up.

Over dinner they extracted a promise from him to drop out to the University in a day or two to look over the results of their excavation in Cape May County, and after sharing a split of the excellent house red and espresso, they parted in the darkness of Battery Park once again. Napoleon started his car and drove carefully back to his motel. Halfway there he remembered they didn't know where he was staying, he didn't know where they were, and nothing had been specified about meeting again. Oh well, he decided, I expect I'll run into them from time to time.

* * *

Between bookstores the next afternoon his pocket transceiver chirped. "How are you doing up in the wilderness?" Illya asked.

"Surviving. It's not really so bad—they have electricity in, and even a few radios. How are things in the brawling metropolis? I presume you're doing everything in your power to gain information—any more word from Foxy Grandpa?"

"Not the quiver of a whisker. I eat lunch at the Automat every day in case Irene decides to drop another hint. But we have a possibility for you to check out right there in town. Section Four's Magic Computer is cross-checking every piece of data we have, and just noticed a Dr. Fraser who's booked in as guest lecturer in chemistry at the University of Vermont this semester. That's Dr. W.B. Fraser."

"Fraser?" said Napoleon. "That's Baldwin's middle name."

"Uh-huh," said Illya. "You'll find the University straight up Main Street. Turn left into the campus."

* * *

The campus of U.V.M. looked like an idealized New England college, with smooth leaf-sprinkled lawns, old solid brick buildings with white columns, and a tree-shaded quadrangle in the middle. Napoleon loitered there, watching the students hurry past on their own errands, until he observed a chemistry text under a corduroy-clad arm.

"Ah, I beg your pardon," Napoleon said. "Could you tell me where I could find Dr. W.B. Fraser?"

"He'll either be in his office in Williams Hall or out at the Bomb Shop, unless he has a lecture this hour."

"The Bomb Shop?"

"It's a temporary building on the far side of the campus—his private research facility."

"Where's Williams Hall?"

"Right there," said the student, raising a free arm and indicating one of several buildings that stood along the east edge of the Quad. Solo thanked him and followed his direction.

Inside the stone walls were white-painted and short corridors opened to right and left of a small entry hall. A modest signboard with movable letters said that Dr. Fraser was on the second floor, and Solo went up the wide central staircase.

Behind a bright orange door marked FRASER a pretty dark-haired girl sat at a desk checking papers. Napoleon's identification was definite in the fraction of a second before she looked up—it wasn't Baldwin. He said, "Ah, Dr. Fraser?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "He's lecturing in 208 this hour. He might be able to see you for just a minute at four-thirty, but he has two students scheduled for consultation and then he's handling a graduate research group." She found a loose-leaf appointment book and checked it. "He's free at ten tomorrow, but the Convocation's at one in the afternoon..."

She's his secretary, Solo reasoned, and said, "Ah, well, I'm not absolutely sure it's Dr. Fraser I want to see. He's about my height, looks in his sixties, ratty beard, walks with a limp?"

"Except for the beard that's Dr. Fraser. I think he has a nice beard."

"He may have trimmed it. Are you a friend of his?"

"Golly no. I'm a secretarial graduate, but I had a chem minor so Dr. Fraser had the department assign me as his secretary."

"Is that standard procedure?"

"Hardly. But Dr. Fraser is very highly regarded, and I guess the Board was willing to give him some extras."

"Like the Bomb Shop."

"Uh-huh. I guess it's the wages of prestige."

"I guess. Well, look, I can drop by tomorrow morning. It's not really that important."

"Okay," she said, and returned to her papers as he closed the door and turned back up the hall. It sounded like Baldwin in more ways than one; the physical description fit and Solo was willing to grant that the beard could simply be a matter of taste; also Baldwin would be likely to demand—and get—as many special privileges and perquisites as possible. Well, there was one way of being sure. Where did she say he was lecturing? Two-oh-eight?

An arrow with the same digits directed him down another hall and around a corner into a backwater with a Coke machine, a fire bucket, an old ladder leaning against a wall beneath draped coat racks, and a single door with a rippled glass panel and the numbers 208.

Napoleon Solo eased the door open a crack and heard the familiar harsh, precise voice saying, "... understand the exact nature of the carbon bond. You are all familiar with the simpler hydrocarbons from your weekend parties..." Napoleon drew back. It sounded like him.

Taking a deep breath he opened the door wide enough to stick his head all the way around the corner and look right at the lectern. As the latch clattered, every head in the main room swiveled to stare at him. Ward Baldwin looked coolly back at him from behind the demonstration table and gave him a crisp civil nod before clearing his throat sharply and bringing every eye back to himself.

"Some of you may recall from last semester the formation of the Benzene Ring. If you are confident of your ability to explain its bonding mechanism in words of one syllable, you may glance through chapter eleven while the rest of us re-examine..."

The door closed without a creak, for which Napoleon was profoundly thankful. He felt sure he had blushed just then, and he hated the thought. But at least he had found Baldwin and didn't seem about to lose him again. As he started down the stairs, he wondered briefly if that were really as much of a triumph as it might seem.

Chapter 6: "Attenta! Pericolo!"

When Convocation was held in full scholastic ritual at one o'clock the next afternoon, seated somewhere behind the freshmen and trying not to look conspicuous were Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Alexander Waverly. Ward Baldwin sat among his faculty, his mortarboard precisely level, his gown faultlessly hung and edged with the colors of Dublin University and the single stripe indicating his Doctorate of Science. If he observed his three friends in the audience, he gave no sign.

At last the stately procession wound out and the audience rose to follow in ragged lines, clotting in murmuring groups in the foyer of the gymnasium. The UNCLE party, led by Solo, was passing unnoticed among them when a bright voice rang out above the babble.

"Oh, Napoleon! Hi there!"

It was Chandra again, her pale face framed in dark hair and a large circular hat. Deftly she floated towards them, saying, "I thought I'd run into you here. Doesn't Ward look fine in his robes?"

Mr. Waverly squinted up at Napoleon, who shifted his weight as he absorbed the last rhetorical question. He fell back on the proprieties. "Mr. Waverly, I'd like to introduce Chandra Reynolds. Chandra, this is my, ah, boss. And this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

Her eyes fastened on Alexander Waverly and shone with innocent delight. "So you're the person who keeps Mr. Solo so busy all the time! He's really a very good agent, honestly."

Napoleon choked on his tongue and got an unreadable look from Illya. Recovering, he said, "Ah, Chandra's husband, Ed, is with the Archaeology Department here. I ran into them in Cape May. In New Jersey. Last month when I was down there. You remember..."

"I take it you know Ward Baldwin," said Waverly, with an odd smile.

"Know him? Why, I love him! Even though I do know him better than anyone but Irene, I still love him." Her voice dropped just a bit. "They sort of adopted me, a long time ago. They taught me nearly everything I know. Irene is closer to me than my own mother." Like Baldwin, she gave the name its British pronunciation, with all three vowels long.

"You knew Ward Baldwin last month in Cape May, then."

"Oh, Napoleon, I am sorry, but Ward made us both promise not to tell you he was there until he'd taken one more chance to talk directly to the Council. You didn't even get there until six days after he'd left, and I thought he'd be back any minute. Irene had told me what was happening, and we agreed he ought to see you as soon as possible. She said I should keep you around until Ward got back, but then you took off."

Napoleon glanced embarrassedly at Illya and Waverly and said, "Well, I thought he'd be back and would have stayed, but I was ordered to Philadelphia."

Chandra shook her head. "Irene told me all about it before Ward did. He was awfully upset with you—he insists the Council was on the verge of finding in his favor, even though the Computer was against him—honestly, sometimes he thinks the thing has a personal grudge—and you charged in waving your guns and yelling."

Illya stared. "I never yelled," he said. "Did you?"

"Illya, you should know me better than that. What's more, my gun never even left my holster."

"Neither did mine. In the excitement I forgot to draw."

Chandra laughed, a bright tinkle. "I told Ward I didn't believe him about that—I told him what I thought of you, Mr. Solo, and told him just why you couldn't have done anything that simply."

Illya asked, as if he were changing the subject, "I don't suppose Ward told you what happened then?"

"Well, he escaped."

"Did he tell you how?"

"Yes—but I don't believe that either."

There was a pause. "So then he just came up here a little earlier to get ready for classes," she concluded.

"I'll bet you found him the job."

"Not exactly—Ed talked the Science Department into inviting him to come for a semester three years ago; he's just been too busy until this nonsense with King came up. He really likes it here—he's made progress on lots of things he's been putting aside for years, and the weather seems to agree with him."

"It wouldn't dare disagree," muttered Napoleon.

Chandra laughed again. "That's just what Irene said two weeks ago."

"Is she here?" Illya asked, glancing around.

"No, she's hiding somewhere. She and Ward nearly had words about his refusing to get in touch with you, and they compromised on that hint she left. But she's still worried that King may find him and she wants to keep an escape route open. Even Ward doesn't know where she is. But they keep in touch."

Napoleon realized something else and gave voice to a grievance. "You even knew about Baldwin night before last. You let me tramp half the streets of Burlington talking to people who probably thought I was some kind of nut. You probably would have let me go on for a week."

"No I wouldn't, silly," she said affectionately. "Ward made me promise not to give you any more hints after you got here. But I'd promised myself if you hadn't found him in five days I would have given you a little clue. That was why Ed invited you to come to the campus—you had a better chance of running into him accidentally. And he wasn't really mad at you any more, he was just used to the idea that he was. See? If you'd spent more time relaxing and less time working, you would have found him a lot sooner."

There was another pause—a longer one, broken at last by Waverly. "Would you care to come with us to his office, Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Oh, he's not at his office—he's out at the Bomb Shop. He asked me last night to meet you here and direct you to it."