Текст книги "The Power Cube Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"I'll ring you tomorrow," she promised. "You need to learn a few things about the way we work. I'll drop you here."

"Here," was the same corner where the two had witnessed the murderous assault earlier that same day. Both men felt a tensing of nerves as they got out and started into the dim lit side road. The premonition was accurate. One lone street light left the corners in shadow. From those shadows came lean, black jacketed youths, all unkempt of hair and grin– fling with feral anticipation. They closed in, and the two agents immediately forgot all about Miss Perrell and her moods.

FOUR

THERE WAS no need for words. With the instant cooperation of long experience, both men moved to get the concrete lamp post base at their backs. They were unarmed, because the law in Britain takes a very poor view of guns, but there are other things than official weapons. As Solo eyed the dozen sneering thugs, their ludicrously long and pomaded hair wisping alongside weakly vicious features, he felt a sudden lifting of spirit at the promise of action.

"Name of Solo, I hope," said one, stepping just a fraction in front of his fellows. "And Kuryakin eh? Wouldn't want to make another mistake. Missed you this morning."

"You won't miss us this time," Solo promised, scanning the group with a hard eye. "Twelve against two. Makes it awkward!"

To his left there came a click and then the glitter of a six inch knifeblade. Its owner sniggered.

"Going to be more than awkward for you. Going to be dreadful!"

"Not for us." Solo corrected, talking off the top of his mind while he and Kuryakin eased themselves into the best position for handling. "For you. You see"—he spoke gently, as if lecturing to a class—"if there had been five, say, or six, we'd be able to handle you gently. But with so many, we won't have the time. We'll have to get rough. Of course, you're only youngsters—"

"Stuff that!" The self-appointed leader abandoned his grin. "You talk too much. Save it for the angels, compliments of Mr. Green!"

As he lunged, Solo muttered. "Let's go, Illya!" and grabbed the lunging wrist, wrenched and twisted, lashed out with a hard driving foot to a knee, let go and whipped a flailing arm up to meet the agonized face that bent down by reflex. Delete one with a shattered kneecap and broken wrist. All in the same movement he spun to meet the lad with the knife, reached for the wrist that held it, yanked it forward and down across his own knee coming up. The knife wielder screamed, the noise snapping off as Solo's open palm came up all the way from down there under his chin to lift him bodily into the air. Delete two. Catching a flicker of movement from the corner of his eyes, he reversed his spin, bringing his arm around like a club but with wide open palm. It met the face and cheek-bone of a gaping blond youth, the impact sounding like a pistol-shot. Delete three.

The coldly detached mechanism in Solo's mind counted them off as he came back to a balanced stance and found himself between two attackers, both charging him together. With right and left hand he reached and grabbed hold of two ornate neckties, hauling the pair inwards, together, head to head, solidly. Cancel two more. He grunted as something hard, flexible and massive slammed down across his neck and shoulder, paralyzing his right arm and beating him down almost to his knees. It hurt like the devil, but he surged up and ahead, grappled the weapon wielder with his one good arm and ran him full tilt backward against the solid stone wall. The crunch was solid enough to be convincing.

Just for one breath he stooped to investigate the damaging weapon. A bicycle chain! Then he wheeled, back to the wall, in time to see Kuryakin enjoying himself. Gripping luxuriant locks in either hand, the Russian agent heaved himself backward, brought the two heads together with a very satisfying dull thud.

From the dark came another with a leap, full on to Kuryakin's back. Solo started forward but there was no need. Kuryakin reached back and with both hands, took a f grip of hair and head, then spun and heaved violently. The attacker hung on as long as he could, but at last came free and yelled with fright as he flew through the night air. The flight ended as he met the concrete lamp post, curled around it, hung a moment, then slid limply to the ground. Solo winced as he moved his shoulder, then spared a moment to count up the scattered bodies.

"Eleven—twelve! That's the lot, Illya!" he announced in credulously.

"A pity. I was just beginning to enjoy myself. What—?"

He broke off, and both men whirled tensely as they heard a soft whistle from the roadway. They saw Nan Perrell, sitting at the wheel of her car, but with the door open, watching. She waved them, urgently.

"Thought you'd gone," Solo said, straightening his coat and finger combing his hair. "You saw all that?"

"Blow by blow. Hop in. You need to get away from here, fast!"

Shrugging, the two men climbed in the back and she was gunning her motor before they had the door shut. At a furious pace she took them away, around several corners and turnings, then found a place to pull in to the side, and stopped. "Stay right there!" she commanded. "This won't take a minute."

She strode to a public call box, spent no more than thirty seconds in talk, then returned to the car still urgently and drove off on a winding trail once more until they were safely tucked away in a traffic stream.

"Are we supposed to know what that was all about?" Solo asked.

"Tell me something first. Have you any idea who laid on that little lot for you?"

"One of them was kind enough to say Mr. Absalom Green."

"Good. I guessed right. Now for what I did. I made a nine nine nine call, to inform the police where to collect some interesting debris."

"Let's have the rest of it. Why are we running?"

"It's very simple. I'll draw you a diagram. Say some passerby or beat constable finds them, those that are left, then what? Report, alarm, inquiries, knock up everybody all around. You wouldn't like the publicity at all. And they could, possibly, pin an assault and battery on you. How do you fancy a longish term in clink? Our opponents can buy law, remember."

"Good thinking," Kuryakin approved. "Much obliged, but what do we do now, wait until the heat is off?"

"You'll wait a long time. The coppers will really dig on this one. They've had a bellyful of hooliganism just recently. Something else I should ask. Did either of you stop any thing? Any damage?"

Solo hunched his aching hou1der. "One of them dented me with a chain. Quite a weapon. I've heard of it, never stopped one before."

"I could do with some repairs on my coat sleeve—and my arm," Kuryakin said. "Flick knives are old hat, but still effective."

"That's it, then," she said, decisively. "You can't go home, and you would be asking for trouble to try any hotel. So I'm taking you home with me."

"You're in charge, Miss Perrell," Kuryakin said softly.

"Now you're really getting smart, Illya. Truce? Napoleon?"

"Fair enough. But something needs to be done about the leak from Barnett's office."

"I'll mention it to Charles. He'll fix it."

"What about you. Aren't you in danger now?"

"Hardly. Roger doesn't even know about me. Charles is the only one with that kind of information."

"Top man. And you're right next to him. You must be pretty good!"

"I can stand any number of compliments like that," she laughed. "No false modesty about me, at all. And you two know what it's all about too, don't you? Twelve little rockers with toys, and you really smeared them. I don't think I've seen anything quite as fast as that before. Very nice!"

"Thank you," Solo murmured, and sat back. By his side, Kuryakin seemed uneasy. He leaned forward after a moment or two.

"You saw it all happen. Sat there and watched it, didn't you?"

"That's right!" There was suppressed mischief in her voice. "I did. I enjoyed the whole thing." They were clear of the city traffic now. She eased down, pulled in to the roadside, got out and came to the rear door. "Make room," she ordered, "so I can sit between you. Explanations are called for."

They made room and she slid in, settling on the cushions between them.

"I sat there and watched, didn't I?" she repeated. "I didn't do anything. And that worries you, doesn't it?"

"There wasn't a lot you could do," Solo shrugged. "We didn't need any help. Forget it."

"Stiff necked pair, aren't you? Look, we're in this together." As they started to protest she put up her hand. "All right, I know I'm only a female. Overblown trollop, to you. But I am also, as Charles told you, a hawk. I have weapons." She extended one long and very shapely leg, made a fast sweeping motion with her right hand, and all at once there was a tiny pistol shaped thing in her fist. Then she opened her palm and let the thing show.

"For you," she said to Solo. "And here's its little brother." She repeated the motion, left handed this time. "For you, Illya. And don't let the plastic-toy appearance fool you."

"That's all right." Solo eyed the weapon in her palm as an old and tried friend in need. It did, in fact, resemble a toy, simply because there was no need here for pressure resistance and rifled barrel. The bullets themselves did all the work, were miniature rocket missiles that needed only impact to start them on their lethal way. "We've seen 'em before," he said. "Very useful, and deadly. Thanks for the demonstration. I'm more interested in where you pack them, though."

"I can't blame you for that." She extended her legs happily for inspection. "As I said, no false modesty about me. If you care to strain a tasteful adjective or two over the limbs, I shan't mind a bit."

They were well worth scrutiny, Solo thought, but his attention returned to the functionally neat harness from which she had extracted the pistols with such practiced ease. At the top of her thigh, where the broad muscle begins to taper inward, leaving a slight hollow below the oncoming hip bulge, a slim buckled band of leather held a flat arrangement of spring clips on a firm leather base. As he looked, she palmed the gun, slapped it into place and restored her skirt hem to semipropriety, all in one movement.

"Neat!" he said with genuine appreciation. "You've practiced that a few times, obviously. But why there?"

"Where else?" she demanded instantly. "A handbag is the first place anybody would go for, so that's out. And skirt hems are getting so elevated these days that nobody would believe there could be anything underneath there except me." She left her skirt where it was, deliberately.

Just as deliberately, Kuryakin juggled the little weapon in his palm, slapped it neatly into its spring clip holder and drew down the hem on his side as far as it would go.

"What d'you do for light entertainment?" he demanded gently. "Throw rocks through the bars at the tigers?"

She gave him a sweetly savage smile. "Do you see any bars here, Illya? And you don't look so tigerish to me!"

"I'm on vacation," he said cryptically. "Can we drive on now?"

She scrambled out, resumed her driving seat, and within ten more minutes they had whipped their way through a slumbering suburb and come to rest in the gravel forecourt of a house standing in its own grounds some distance from the main road. Solo exchanged meaningful glances with his colleague as they followed their leader into the bright lights of a dignified hallway and came face to face with a tall, lean man dressed as a possible butler, but with all the look of a retired sergeant major about him.

"Evening, Curtis," she said blithely. "Would you bring the medical kit up to my room in a moment, please? And some hot water. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin will be staying, so see if you can conjure up some pajamas, won't you?" She led the way to a handsome staircase and Solo murmured, discreetly:

"Some trollop you picked, Illya."

"A lady tiger, and with a chip on each shoulder. We'll be lucky to get out of this alive!"

The bedroom was obviously hers, but its riotous colors were tame by comparison with the one next door, which she pointed out to them as the place they would sleep.

"Sorry about the decor," she said with a grimace, "but it's part of the image I try to maintain, on the rare times I do entertain guests. For now, both of you, off top gear and sit there, on the side of the bed."

She had assumed all the confident authority of a hospital matron, and the two men obeyed without a murmur. Off came her cape, and, for good measure, off came the negligible upper half of her mesh dress.

"That saves all the nonsense about rolling up sleeves and so forth. I like freedom of action. Besides, it will take your minds off the stings, won't it? Now then!" She came close, just as Curtis appeared with a steaming bowl and a box of medical supplies. The grin left her face as she surveyed the damage. Curtis followed her look, and there was a chill glint in his gray eyes as he asked:

"Just how did you come by that, sir?"

"This? A kid with a bicycle chain."

"I hope you accounted for the murdering young devil, sir?"

"You could say that. I tried to bounce him off a brick wall, but he didn't bounce very well. Just fell down and lay there."

The leathery face twitched. Long arms reached for the shirt and coat Solo had discarded. "I'll see what I can do for the jacket, miss, but I'm afraid the shirt's had it. And you, sir. Let me look." He inspected the three inch gashes in Kuryakin's right arm and clicked his tongue.

"No need to ask about that one. You were very lucky, sir. Do you think we need a doctor, miss?"

"For a scratch like this?" protested Illya.

"That's no scratch," snorted Nan Ferrell. "Nor is that crack you've got, Napoleon. You're damned lucky you didn't crack your collarbone. But we won't call a doctor, because they ask awkward questions and have to make reports and things. Righto, Curtis, see what you can do with the repairs to the clobber, while I patch up the bodies. And the brandy, I think, in about half an hour."

She was competent enough. Solo watched her work on his colleague's arm and winced a time or two at the forthright way she employed her strong and shapely hands. Then he noticed that Illya wasn't wincing at all. When it came his turn to be doctored, he realized why. She looked rough, almost most casual, but her touch was precise.

"You're pretty good," he admitted, as she finally smacked pads over the wounds and tacked them into place with strips of tape. "You look as if you're hammering dough, but you're gentle, really."

"Thank you. I've had lessons enough. Whatever I do, I like to do it right. There you are. You'll live. Now she whirled away to grab at a telephone that stood on the mantelpiece, dialed swiftly and made a gesture. "Move apart so I can sit between you and you'll be able to listen in. Charles? I'm at home. Napoleon and Illya are with me. No, shut up and hear me out, not fun and games but a little fracas. Mr. Green strikes again." She told the tale efficiently and without adjectives.

The old man waited until she was done, then simply asked, "Any harm done?"

"Mostly to them. On our side one crocked shoulder, on slit arm, nothing that won't be cured by tomorrow, I imagine."

"Good. I think Roger's office will have to be disinfected. I'll see to that. Can they hear me?"

"Loud and clear, sir," Solo said. "If I might suggest, it can't hurt to put a tail on Miss Thompson, find out who her boss is."

"That's one way of getting a lead on Mr. Green, certainly. I'll have it attended to. In the meanwhile you two had better stick close to Nan and communicate with no one at all. I presume you're armed?"

"No, sir." Kuryakin answered for both. "We have instructions against that while we're in the U.K."

"That's not so good. Nan, I'll lay on a routine jaunt for you in the morning, to get you and those two out of town for a bit, give you the chance to teach them a thing or two." The click as he hung up was quite audible. She rose, put away the instrument and turned to face them.

"I think I'm going to enjoy lessons with you two. Now, it's late and we need to be up and about early tomorrow. I'll bring you a drink each, tuck you in, kiss you good night, and that will be it."

The pajamas were laid out on each bed. The two men made the change swiftly and in thoughtful silence.

"She has something more than a chip on her shoulder," Solo said at last, as he slid between the sheets. "Damned if I don't think she is making an open play for both of us. And she called you a tiger?"

Before Kuryakin could offer comment there came a rap on the door and Miss Perrell came briskly in. She held a tray with bottle and glasses.

"I imagine I look like one of those California waitresses," she said, putting the tray down. "Say when!"

"If it would have achieved anything I would have said 'when' some time ago," Kuryakin declared. "I also was responsible for the idea of a truce between us, but I didn't mean to suggest fringe benefits."

The corner of her mouth came up again as she grinned. "Let me invent a proverb for you," she said. "Looking at the goods in the shop window doesn't cost a thing, but if you're thinking of buying, the price comes high. Very high. Good night now." With complete aplomb she bestowed a hearty buss on each cheek in turn and marched out.

"I know another proverb," Solo observed. "When pretty lady lays the kindling in the grate and applies a match, she certainly is not praying for rain!"

"I hesitate to correct an expert, Napoleon, so let's just say I think you may be wrong. However, I think we can agree that we should discourage such complications."

"Give her the brush, you mean? That's not going to be easy, Illya. There was no point in telling friend Charles, but we're going to need all the help we can get. We have precious little to go on. One yacht, one Absalom Green, one mystery man with a voice like Orson Welles. One reference to Gorchak, whatever that is. Reference to jewels, problem, twenty-five pieces with two more to go. Seventh stone—can you fit seven into twenty-five or twenty-seven, Illya?"

"This is going to take more than mathematics. A man doesn't kill and order killings unless it's something big. Even if we are on vacation there's no reason why one of us can't call in one afternoon at the office and see what gossip there is. If any."

"No harm at all." Solo snuggled down. "But it will have to wait a bit, until the evidence of assault and battery wears off. Meanwhile we both have to be polite—but nothing more—to Miss Perrell."

"As you say," Kuryakin sighed, "it's not going to be easy. I fancy she intends to teach us some tricks, and I hate to think what they might be."

FIVE

THE MORNING began pleasantly enough, if a trifle earlier than they would have chosen. Miss Perrel1 inspected their injuries, while Curtis returned their clothing almost as good as new, and by the time they all sat down to a tasty break fast there was no echo of the previous evening's strain, apart from a twinge or two. Miss Perrell was the perfect hostess, and they were all highly amused by the newspaper account of "gang-warfare again." In fact, Solo thought, if he could only get used to the lady's habit of wearing dresses that looked as if they had been designed for a stunted twelve year old, he could have enjoyed himself very much.

"I've had my instructions," she told them, "and we're all going for a brisk run down to Folkestone this morning. It will give me a chance to see the place where Mary got it, and where your Mr. Guard lives. You must tell me more about him."

"You'd probably get on with him," Solo suggested. "May be we could call in and see him if he's allowed visitors."

"All right," she said. "Now, the sooner we start the better, as it's a busy road. But you already know that, as you drove down there the day before yesterday, didn't you?"

"We went early. Tip from John to beat the traffic."

"Wise man. I like him already,"

By nine o'clock the A20 had taken them as far as Farmingham, and on her suggestion, they halted long enough to let Kuryakin take the wheel, so that she could sit between them in the front seat.

"Getting to be a habit," she chuckled. "Actually, it's only because I hate talking across somebody and I like to be in the middle of things. While we're on the subject, you two are going to need a car. Be advised, please. Not a hired job. Not a flashy great thing like this, either. I am deliberately conspicuous, as I've told you. But you two should aim at something old, second-hand, inconspicuous."

"Just how do we acquire that?"

"Very simply. I'll give you the name and address of a little dealer I know, and he will fix you up, no awkward questions asked. Now, tell me about John Guard. Is he as handy as you two at smearing the opposition?"

"I'll tell you this." Solo was suddenly very serious. "Johnny used to carry all the gadgetry and gimmicks we all do, but he never liked them. His feeling was that you grow to count on a gun or a minibomb or things like that. Then, after a while, you're leaning on them like crutches. You get fat and slow. He always preferred to use only his hands, and without any doubt at all he could put me and Illya away for keeps without turning a hair. If he wanted to, that is. But he wouldn't even move unless he was personally involved." He watched her profile, saw the breeze stirring pink in her cheek and the butter blonde hair whipping away from her face.

"In a way, it was a handicap to him in U.N.C.L.E. You see , we get our orders, instructions that say so and so is a menace, get rid of him. Or here's a group that has to be smashed, go and do it. And we do as we're told. Most of the time, anyway!" he added, as Kuryakin cleared his throat thoughtfully. "Johnny obeyed orders too, but he never liked it. On the other hand, just let him get the conviction that so and so really was a rat, and you wouldn't stop him with a concrete wall!"

"You obviously admire him," she said.

"I hadn't met him before," Kuryakin offered, "so I can speak from first hand experience this time only. But Green shot him in the chest with both barrels of a shotgun, from no more than two feet. That was about eleven-thirty. We got there just before eight o'clock the next morning and he was still conscious. He hung on simply because he knew we were coming and wanted to be sure we knew all about it. Not because of the shot, but because of Mary."

"What's more," Solo endorsed, "I'll gamble they're having a time of it just keeping him in bed while we're chasing his game. He's that sort of person. You'll see."

"And you think I'm like that?"

"Well," Solo drawled, "let's just say you're not the type that gives up easily. Let's talk about you, eh?"

"Oh no!" she was prompt and firm. "No you don't. As I told you last night, I'm willing to put the goods in the window. They are good goods, and I know it. I welcome inspection, any time."

"But the purchase price comes high."

"That's right. You'll be surprised just how high. In other words I don't mind you looking. I like it. As they say in the shops, what you don't see in the window please ask for. We'll be happy to exhibit our wares. But I keep my soul to myself."

"And I was just about to ask," Kuryakin murmured, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a bloodthirsty racket like this?"

"No comment," she said flatly. "But I can tell you what we're going to do when we get to Folkestone. It is, as I said, a routine chore. Every so often we get inside tips. Charles does, I mean. And this is one, to say that a consignment of filth is coming in on the boat we'll be meeting, from France. Dirty stuff, the addictives. That's what Mary was watching out for. I have a detailed description of the people carrying the load. My job will be to pass it on to the customs men and observe while they collect. The rest will go through regular channels and won't concern us, so we'll have plenty of time to go visiting."

She took the wheel again for the delicate business of threading a way through the seaside town's busy streets, rolled to a halt in a parking area alongside the customs shed, and asked the two men to wait a moment while she made herself known to the authorities.

"Can't make her out," Solo confessed, scratching his head in the sunshine. "I've run into some fancy lines in my time, but hers has me beat. In any case, a dame with her assets doesn't need a come on line, doesn't need to do this kind of job at all."

"Hmm?" Kuryakin was only half-listening; his attention was caught by a magnificent black Rolls that was parked not far from them. "Why is she involved? Ask yourself, Napoleon, with her looks and talents and money—kicks must be pretty hard to come by."

"Talent?"

"She dances like a professional, as you know. She is a highly competent nurse. She drives extremely well. She is very handy with those pop guns of hers. And she puts up a firstclass impersonation of being one of the idle rich. I would call those talents. There is much more to Miss Perrell than meets the eye."

"You had me worried for a moment there, Illya. You do notice the 'meets the eye' parts, then?"

"Strategic arrangement of adipose tissue can create quite an effective diversion, and she knows it. There she is now!"

Miss Perrell came to stand in the doorway where she had disappeared and waved them to join her. She led them away and into another door, the customs shed.

"They say," Kuryakin murmured, as they took up a position to one side and away from the check point, "that customs men develop an instinct, which is just another way of saying they are good guessers. But you have a detailed description of the smugglers, Miss Perrell?"

"That's right. Want to match your intuition against the facts?"

"All right," Solo agreed readily. "See if we can spot 'em." He bent his gaze on the thin straggle of people now coming up the ramp into the shed. Which? That stout and harassed man with the small boy? The elderly dragon with her subdued companion? This newly rich couple with two doll-like little girls? Or that brisk and black suited businessman with his briefcase? Surely not that sloppy young couple so badly in need of discipline about their actions, faces and grooming? Which?

Then came a group to delight his eye. First a small, bustling, pattering woman, as lively as a hummingbird and almost as gaudy. She was twenty years older than beauty but could have been attractive if someone had persuaded her out of the shrieking green of her shapeless dress and a staring orange hair rinse. Piling poor taste on criminal error, she wore a string of enormous red stones about her neck. Genuine rubies that size, he mused, would be worth quite a packet. Striding at her heels came an obvious chauffeur. In his wake came a neutral martyr of a woman all in black, a "companion," with all the grace and dignity her mistress lacked, and devoting immense care to a double armful of smaller boxes. Next in the line was a truly exquisite male, groomed to perfection, his black hair gleaming, a pencil slim moustache arched over a straining mouth as he struggled with large suitcases.

Then, dawdling along at the end of the line, came the mother's daughter, a girl of no more than twenty, the likeness to the gaudy dame unmistakable but enhanced by the full blush of insolent youth. For all her boredom, the only adjective appropriate for her was "luscious." Solo stared, felt warm all over, and stared more, absorbing her from red gold mane to tiny toes. The in between of her was draped in a dress as brief as Miss Perrell's but paper white and pin pleated from neck to hem. He drew a deep and careful breath and reflected that he was looking at an unexploded bomb. Illya could say what he liked, but that was no camouflage. That was the real thing. The idea started another one. He whispered an aside to Miss Perrell.

"You were talking about dazzle to distract the eye," he reminded her. "On that basis, there are your smugglers."

"You couldn't be more wrong if you tried," she retorted, then put up a hand to pat her hair and make a covert gesture of pointing. Solo frowned as he saw the officials brisk up, dismiss the musical comedy group with a wave and then close in on two people he would never have given a second look. That red faced beery man and the skinny drab women with the lines of age and the mouth of a nagging drudge—were smugglers? Miss Perrell made a move, and they followed her outside into the sunshine.

"Fancy picking on Maggie!" she chuckled.

"Maggie?"

"Margaret, Lady Herriott, Countess of Danby, and entourage. Brinkley, her chauffeur. Maid companion Augustine. Secretary—and thinly disguised gigolo—Monty Hagen. Daughter Evadne. Like to meet them? It will be an education for you." She marched them across to where the eccentric group had gathered around the shiny black Rolls and greeted them as old friends.

"Hello, Maggie. Vad. You look disgustingly healthy and brown, the pair of you. Meet a couple of friends of mine. This is Napoleon, and this one's Illya."

The luscious red head opened her emerald green eyes wide on the two men, her boredom fading away as she took them in. "Very healthy," she murmured, to no one in particular. "Very nice." She drifted close, gazing up. Lady Herriott ran around in a small circle and came back to her starting spot, sighed and complained.

"Isn't it hot? Hot everywhere. You know, we decided to have three days on the Isle of Levant. You know, where everyone goes nude. But it was just as hot there." She shook her head as if puzzled by that, then beamed at Miss Perrell. "You're looking as delicious as ever, Nan. I don't know how you do it.?' Turning aimlessly she brushed her daughter gently aside and took Solo's hand as if seeking stability in an uncertain world. "There—I've forgotten your name already!"

"You try to do too much," Miss Perrell put in. "You really ought to take life a little easier, you know."

"Oh, but I like to do whatever I can while I can. So long as it's legal, of course."

"That's very commendable," Solo murmured. "Rather unfashionable, too, these days."