Текст книги "The Mind-­Twisters Affair "

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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"Damage?" Napoleon asked.

"Wombats dig," Illya informed him.

Their portly acquaintance chuckled. "That's rather like saying that Hitler was a troublemaker, you know," he said. "A bit of an understatement, that is. Yes, they dig. They tend to undermine things." He glanced at the building near them. "Does the science building look a trifle tilted to you? No, that's ridiculous. But he must be around here somewhere."

"I'm afraid we wouldn't be of much help in a wombat hunt," Napoleon explained.

"Oh, yes, of course. You didn't come over here to help me hunt Eyre, so you must have come for some other reason. Deductive reasoning, you know. Now then, my name is Epaminondas T. Dodd; I'm head of the biology department here at Midford. Can I help you in any way?"

"Why, yes," Napoleon replied glibly, "I'm looking for a good, solid university for my nephew."

"Oh, I'm sure that Midford can fulfill any expectations," Dodd said. "You really should see President McLaughlin, but he's gone today. I suppose I could show you the science building."

"That seems fair enough," Napoleon said. "I'm merely making a preliminary report."

"Very well; come along. Since Eyre isn't about the grounds, we'll have to notify the Midford police department to be on the lookout for him. Sometimes I wonder if the prestige of being one of the few American universities to own a live wombat is really worth the trouble he causes."

They walked toward the building. "University life these days is so disruptive," said Napoleon. "Respect for authority is becoming a thing of the past. I hope that here at least it might be different. My brother is quite insistent on a good conservative college for his son.

"Oh, I'm sure Midford is conservative enough for you," Dodd assured him. "Just a few of the students tend to get out of hand now and then. Argue for student-privileges, write letters to the newspapers, read Henry Miller – that sort of thing. But the majority of our students are solid, hardworking types."

"I've heard, though," said Illya, "that a member of your faculty has given his services on occasion to some liberal international outfit in New York – U.N.C.L.E., I think it's called."

Dodd nodded. "I suppose that would be Professor Curtis. He's in the psychology department, and you know they're inclined to be a bit more liberal than we in the sciences. But I really doubt that he will be working with them again."

"Oh?" Napoleon looked interested. "Why?"

"Well, I couldn't say about that," Dodd replied. "We don't move in the same circles, you know. But last week there was a memorandum sent around by President McLaughlin, saying that members of the faculty were forbidden to accept outside employment with any organizations whose policies were inconsistent with the goals of the University. There was a list of forbidden organizations, and I'm sure U.N.C.L.E. was one of them." Dodd looked a little puzzled. "Personally I never heard of U.N.C.L.E. – or most of the others on the list. But conservatively speaking, I'm sure you can see that your nephew will be in good hands here."

Napoleon smiled ingratiatingly. "I'm sure he would, but would it be possible to speak to Professor Curtis?"

Dodd consulted his watch. "I think so. He's usually in his office on Saturday mornings. I can introduce you, if you can wait a few minutes until I phone about Eyre."

"No need to trouble yourself," said Napoleon.

"He doesn't seem familiar with Thrush," Illya remarked as they started across the campus, following his directions. "Either they aren't involved, or they're keeping well under cover."

When they found Professor Curtis he was grading tests while a girl across the desk from him was making a tabulation of some kind from another stack of papers. Napoleon introduced himself and Illya, then repeated his story about a fictitious nephew. Then he mentioned the memorandum that Dodd had told them about.

Curtis nodded pleasantly. "I don't understand what Gaspar thinks he's up to. I'm the only faculty member who has ever worked for U.N.C.L.E. or any of the other organizations on his fool list, and he knows that I'm not going to pay any attention to it. I suppose it's all part of a deal to get another donation from someone."

"You mean if U.N.C.L.E. asked you to help them out, you'd do it, in spite of the memorandum?" Napoleon looked mildly disapproving.

"Of course I would. In the first place, U.N.C.L.E. pays its research consultants very well."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged startled glances.

"In the second place," Curtis continued, oblivious of his visitors' amazement, "what I do with my spare time is my own business." Curtis reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle containing a pale liquid, and took a drink.

"Rutabaga juice," he explained. "I'd offer you some, but it tastes terrible. Very nourishing, however; I always have some in the middle of the morning. Much healthier than those abominations you get from the soft drink machines on campus."

"I take it you're an advocate of health foods," Napoleon said. "Yoghurt, wheat germ, that sort of thing?'

Curtis threw back his head and laughed, a full throated sound that didn't seem to go with his small, wiry frame. "You forgot to mention blackstrap molasses. I've often wondered why the general public picked those particular items as representative of health foods, when there are so many others with less repellent names and superior nutritive value. Some of them even taste good. Take rose hip extract, for example. I'll be making some next week; they hit their peak vitamin content in October, you know."

Napoleon nodded sagely. "I suppose the hardest part is finding a rose with hips."

Curtis chuckled politely. "Rose hips are simply the seed pods of the rose. Properly prepared, rose hip extract provides as much vitamin C per glass as you can get from one hundred glasses of orange juice."

"Fascinating," Illya said, "but…"

"Of course," Curtis continued, "while I prefer my own preparations, I haven't the time or the raw materials, so to speak, to prepare all my own food. I buy most of it. If you're interested, I have some literature. This rutabaga juice," he eyed the bottle critically, "comes from Irwin Vita-Glo, and seems decidedly inferior."

"This is all very interesting," Napoleon said desperately, "but it's not really why we came." He noted that the girl was fighting a losing battle to keep from laughing.

Curtis noticed her expression, and ceased his dissertation on health foods. "One giggle out of you," he warned the girl. "and I'll drop your grades ten points. I'm sorry gentlemen; I tend to become overenthusiastic about health foods. Rita, here, tends to restrain me. Just what was it you wanted to see me about?"

Napoleon hesitated, then took the plunge. He out his identification card for Curtis' inspection. Rita moved closer in order to see the card herself.

Curtis read the card and sat back. "So your nephew was a figment of your imagination, and you're an U.N.C.L.E. agent, not an uncle. All right, what you after?"

Napoleon explained their mission, and the anti-U.N. C.L.E. feeling they had encountered. Curtis looked puzzled.

"That seems odd," he said. "I wouldn't attach much significance to old Gaspar's memo; he's always doing something like that, usually to impress a prospective donor. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he picked the organization names at random out of a current newspaper. But Armden and Bennett are different. The last time I spoke to Armden we were comparing notes on the work we had done for U.N.C.L.E. He seemed quite friendly then, though a bit concerned about breaking security."

"When was this?" Illya wanted to know.

Curtis pondered a moment. "Sometime during the summer term, I'm sure. Falco was thinking of instituting some kind of psychological testing in the personnel department and I was asked for some advice. I poked around the plant, looked profound, and asked questions. I remember that I was surprised to find someone else here who had worked with U.N.C.L.E."

"Can you think of any reason for them to change so suddenly?" Napoleon inquired. "Any anti-U.N.C.L.E. publicity in town recently?'

Curtis shook his head. "I don't think so. I haven't been keeping up with the local events. I've been busy with a survey of the behavior patterns of the university students, trying to find some correlation between their academic accomplishments and other behavioral characteristics." He grinned suddenly. "I haven't found any thing, but I need to have something published professionally in the near future, so you can bet I'll find a correlation somewhere. I just haven't uncovered the right statistics yet."

Rita had been looking pensive. "This may not have anything to do with what you're after," she said, "but ever since I returned to school this fall – I had a summer job in New York – I've had an odd feeling about a lot of people. Not the students so much as the local people, and some of the faculty. There's a certain aloofness I never noticed before."

"Anything specific?" Napoleon asked quickly.

"Not really," she said, frowning. "I've been working with some of the local charities. I've noticed that donations have been falling off this fall. Fund drives don't raise as much, and people who sign up for payroll deductions, withdraw almost immediately. One recent drive only made 50% of its quota."

"That doesn't sound like Thrush," said Illya. "They'd set up a phony charity if they thought it would benefit them, but I can't see any profit for them in this."

Curtis had been listening intently to Rita's disclosure, his eyes gradually lighting up. "I hadn't realized it was such a widespread phenomenon," he said happily. "Do you really suppose there's any connection between anti-U.N.C.L.E. feeling and decreasing charitable donations? Maybe I won't need this statistical correlation after all. This could be a rare opportunity. There are, of course, many instances of an individual's going through a profound psychological change, but I don't recall any record of an entire town doing it"

Curtis broke off to hum a few bars of something that vaguely resembled "Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight," then rubbed his hands together gleefully. He seemed to have forgotten Illya and Napoleon completely.

"Let's see. I don't believe a printed questionnaire would achieve the best results in this case. Perhaps I could make it a project for my classes. Hmmmm... Each student would have to cover – oh, half a dozen families, if we restricted the study to Midford itself. It shouldn't take more than a week or so." Curtis was pacing furiously now. "Yes, that should be the best approach. We can work out a list of questions and get it mimeographed -"

Curtis halted suddenly. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he apologized, "but this is an unusual opportunity. Just think of it: an entire town!"

"I quite understand," Napoleon assured him. "In fact, we would be very much interested in the outcome. And, if you don't mind the suggestion of an outsider, could you possibly include a question about Thrush in your survey? It could be a great help."

"Ah, yes, a bird in the hand, so to speak. Certainly, certainly. After all, it was you who brought the matter to my attention. Perhaps you would like to look over the survey questions before we run them off? Why don't you stop by tomorrow afternoon if you're still in town? I should have the questions worked out."

Illya started to say something, but Curtis rushed on. "The first thing of course, is to win their confidence, so we'll need a couple of innocuous, ego-building questions first. And then..."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances, shrugged and departed. Rita gave them a solemn wink as she busily noted down Curtis' flood of ideas.

Chapter 3

"What's Your Excuse For Starting This Riot?"

THE REST OF THE DAY was uneventful. They spent most of the time wandering about the miniscule business district of Midford, listening carefully, occasionally striking up casual conversations on the subject of charity and internationalist organizations. The majority of the populace was positively indifferent to international organizations; the major topic in the marketplace was the new high school basketball coach. By evening, Illya and Napoleon had found only a dozen people who were openly hostile to U.N.C.L.E. However, no one was openly favorable; the general attitude seemed to be one of mild dislike.

Shortly after sunset, they drove to within a block of Armden's house, parked, and walked. The Sprite with the racing stripe was gone. This time Armden himself answered the door.

"Ah, the two intrepid agents again," he said, not offering to let them enter. "What are you after now? I thought I made myself clear yesterday."

"You did, on the subject of U.N.C.L.E." Napoleon answered. "We've been wondering just how you feel about Thrush?"

Armden laughed. "Arnold said you'd been around asking stupid questions this morning. I thought you'd get around to me, but I don't know any more about Thrush – I assume it's an organization? – than be does."

"All right," Napoleon acceded. "We would really like to know what happened to change your attitude toward U.N.C.L.E. We talked to Professor Curtis this morning, and he said you didn't feel this way this way a few months ago. And as we said to your wife last night, Dr. Morthley is quite concerned about you. You must have some kind of message for him, at least."

A flash of concern crossed Armden's face. "Poor Willard," he sighed. "He never was very sophisticated. It's easy to see how he could be taken in by an outfit like yours. Next thing he'll be donating valuable time to charity."

"You don't approve of charities?" Napoleon asked.

"The little ones are door-to-door beggars, and the big ones are swindlers." Armden snarled. "The entire idea is wrong, anyway. I made my own way without anybody's help, and other people can do the same. But the whole country is going downhill – look at us playing Santa Claus to a bunch of ignorant, ungrateful freeloaders without the guts to help themselves. Someone is going to have to take hold and bring this country to its senses." Armden paused, breathing heavily.

"But how does U.N.C.L.E. fit into this?" Illya asked.

"You're the worst of the lot! You put up this pose of international goodwill and friendship for everyone, and behind it -" he snorted.

"Yes," Napoleon prompted. "Behind it, what?"

"You don't know, of course!" Armden laughed derisively. "The innocent pose – you'd never admit any thing!"

"But what should we admit to?" Napoleon persisted. "How did you find out?"

There was the same pause, as if a gearshift had fallen into place, that Napoleon had noticed the night before.

"Oh, I know you have a hand in the newspapers the same way the government does. You never let any of your dirty laundry loose in public. Your killings are kept under wraps."

"You still haven't told us any specific thing that U.N.C.L.E. is supposed to have done." Napoleon argued.

Armden stood, unmoving, for several moments. Despite the coolness of the evening, Napoleon was sure he saw a bead of sweat form on the man's forehead. Suddenly be burst out. "You have no right to badger me this way! Get out of here and let me alone!" He spun on his heel and disappeared inside the house.

Napoleon and Illya walked quietly back to their car.

"I'm not sure I'd call it progress," Napoleon said. "But we seem to be hitting a nerve of some kind."

"At least he talked to us," Illya added. "He seemed more sympathetic toward Morthley. Perhaps we can try that approach again tomorrow."

"The more I see of this, the more it seems that Thrush must be involved. But how, and why?"

"You're just getting hypersensitive."

'Perhaps you're right, but I sense a plan in all this."

"What does it all mean?" Illya murmured as they drove back to the hotel.

Sunday afternoon Illya and Napoleon paid Dr. Armden another visit. Napoleon had barely touched the doorbell when the door popped open and Armden confronted them.

"Still here, I see." His voice was noticeably higher than it had been the night before, and there were shadows under his eyes.

"We'll probably be leaving tomorrow," Napoleon reassured him. "We just came by to make a final appeal. We spoke to Dr. Morthley last night, and he is very concerned about you."

"Yes, I know. Willard called again this morning. He..." Armden broke off in midsentence and wiped his brow, then stood fidgeting for several seconds. The two agents waited patiently. Finally Armden continued, speaking rapidly. "Very well, gentlemen, I will call your bluff. I will go back to New York with you. But mind you, I'm doing this for Willard; I feel sure that once I see him in person, I can make him see the truth."

Illya and Napoleon exchanged glances. Their suggestion to Waverly the night before had evidently borne fruit. Now they would have to get Armden on his way before he changed his mind again, or any of his friends showed up to dissuade him.

"I'm glad to hear it, sir," Napoleon said. "If you haven't packed anything yet, just throw a few things together while we arrange for transportation. I'm sure we can make a flight from Fort Wayne."

Illya gestured toward the car after Armden had gone inside to pack. "That is not my idea of a three– passenger vehicle, unless we empty out the parachute compartment and stow someone in there."

"Armden is small," Napoleon replied. "Besides, would you rather give him the chance to talk to Bennett before leaving?" He contacted Waverly and was just completing the arrangements when Armden came out of the house carrying a small overnight case.

"I called the plant manager to let him know I won't be in for a couple of days," he informed them.

Napoleon winced slightly. "He didn't try to talk you out of it?"

"Of course not; why should he?"

"Just a thought," Napoleon said. "We've arranged for you to catch a six o'clock flight out of Fort Wayne." They headed for the car.

It took considerable maneuvering, but somehow both agents and Armden managed to fit into the car. Napoleon and Illya decided that the results would be endurable for a fifty-mile drive, and Armden seemed oblivious to the discomforts.

The drive was silent and uneventful. Armden seemed disinclined to talk, and both Napoleon and Illya felt the situation was too precarious to endanger it with idle conversation, since they didn't know what might serve to stir Armden up again. It was after five o'clock when they pulled into the airport parking lot, and Napoleon congratulated himself on having arrived in plenty of time. He was locking the car when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He deliberately finished turning the key in the lock before looking up. Instinctively he checked the location of Illya and Armden; they were standing on the other side of the car. A pudgy face confronted him from a distance of a few inches.

"You're with that U.N.C.L.E. outfit, ain't you?" the face demanded loudly. When Napoleon nodded, it continued.

"I thought I recognized the car; there was an article about it in RODDING AND RAMMING." turned, and an arm motioned to someone in ground. "I told you it was them killers!"

Looking around, Napoleon saw half a dozen people converging on them. He motioned to Illya to get Armden away, but it was too late. The pudgy man who belonged with the face stuck out a beefy hand and grabbed Napoleon's shirt front, and at the same time the others moved toward Illya and Armden.

"It's U.N.C.L.E.!" a voice from somewhere shouted. "Let's show 'em what we do with their kind in a respectable town."

"Yeah!" the man grasping Napoleon said, snarling directly into his face. "We got a nice, clean city here, and we don't want you Commie killers even passing through. Just get back in your little wagon and move on." To emphasize the point, he gave Napoleon a vicious shove back against the car.

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon spotted something flying through the air. He ducked as whatever it was clattered noisily on the concrete of the parking lot. More people were gathering, now. Some were merely interested spectators, but many were starting to shout abuse. Napoleon knew enough about mob psychology to know that even the interested spectators would probably join in once the excitement built up.

He ducked again. This time it looked like an empty beer can. Looking up, he noticed that Illya and Armden were effectively blocked from returning to the car. Illya was trying to force a way through to the terminal building, but was encountering stiff resistance. Armden seemed to be in the passive state which had dominated him ever since entering the car, but he was following Illya.

If this crowd was feeling anything like Armden had felt Friday evening, there was no point in trying to argue with it. At the same time, he had a nasty vision of what U.N.C.L.E.'s Midwestern image would be if he used the tear gas 'pen" in his pocket on a crowd of innocent citizens. The tear gas had better be strictly a last resort. He began working his way toward Illya and Armden.

The pudgy man grabbed at him but missed. Another man, smaller, suddenly lurched forward into his path, as if he had been shoved. Napoleon avoided him just in time to duck another missile. He had almost reached Illya when someone lunged against him from behind. He sprawled against the side of a car, banging his shoulder painfully on the rear view mirror. All the time the voices were growing louder and more numerous.

By now, judging from the sound, the largest part of the crowd didn't know what it was yelling about, but was simply letting off steam. A group of teen-age boys had started pushing one another.

He struggled to his feet, leaning against the car. The teen-agers were abruptly leaving. Looking in the direction opposite to their flight, Napoleon saw a police man coming from the airport terminal. Nearby, Illya was regaining his feet.

The crowd was beginning to break up. The pudgy man was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Napoleon suddenly noticed, none of the group which had formed the nucleus of the mob was anywhere around. The people now making way for the officer were the interested bystanders who had joined the mob at its height. Looking around, he noticed something else.

"Illya!" he called. "Where's Armden?"

Illya looked around hastily. "I don't know," he called back. "He was right behind me when we started for the terminal; I thought he was still with me."

Napoleon vaulted onto the hood of the car nearest him, stepped to the roof, and looked around for Armden. The bristly gray crewcut was nowhere in sight Illya by now was on another car roof, also searching.

"Okay, get down from there!" The policeman was standing belligerently beside the car Napoleon was on. The remnants of the crowd were disappearing.

Napoleon took a last look around and clambered down.

"You, too!" the officer bellowed at Illya, who leaped nimbly to the ground. "All right now, let's see some identification!"

"I'm certainly glad to see you," Napoleon said, reaching for his wallet. "'There was another man with us, who -"

"Never mind the chatter, let's see some identification!"

Napoleon sighed, and proffered his wallet. Illya walked over and extended his U.N.C.L.E. card. The officer scowled.

"U.N.C.L.E., eh? All right, what's your excuse for starting this riot?"

"We didn't start it," Napoleon explained. "We were very nearly its victims."

"Uh-huh. I've heard that one before. If you weren't agitating, what were you doing on top of cars? Get a move on."

"But, officer," Napoleon protested. "There was a third man with us who disappeared during the confusion. We were merely looking for him."

"Third man, huh? I don't see any third man around." By now the crowd had entirely vanished. "What were you doing here?"

"We were bringing this other man to the airport. There's a reservation on the next flight for him."

"Okay, where's your car?"

With a sinking feeling, Napoleon pointed to the U.N.C.L.E. car. The officer stared at it for several seconds before turning back to him.

"Oh, there was a third man with you, was there? And you came in that car. All right, now; do you two get out of here, or do I run you in for disturbing the peace? If I didn't hate making reports, I'd have you booked by now."

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who shrugged. Under watchful eye of the policeman, they got into the car and headed for the exit. Once outside the parking Illya pulled the car off the road and stopped.

"I wish the C.I.A. hadn't made people so suspicious of security organizations," he commented.

Napoleon got out. "Stay with the car," he advised. "One man will be less conspicuous and I'd sooner have one of us mobile in case of more trouble." Keeping a sharp eye out for pudgy citizens and policemen, he walked back to the terminal building.

Armden was nowhere in sight. After a brief search, Napoleon approached the ticket counter. The girl was very polite, but not too helpful. Yes, a reservation bad been made for a Dr. Armden, but it had not been claimed, and the flight was boarding now. No, she had not seen a middle-aged man with a gray crewcut. Napoleon thanked her, rejoined [ in the ear, and contacted Waverly. The latter was doubly upset over the loss of Dr. Armden and the worsening U.N.C.L.E. image in the Midwest.

"I suppose you'll simply have to look for him," Waverly concluded. "From your description of his state of mind, he may be anywhere."

"I hope so," Napoleon said. "Although that mob formed and broke up just a bit too quickly for my peace of mind. I keep having the nasty suspicion that it broke up because it had done its job."

"Could you check and see if Dr. Armden had any friends in Fort Wayne?" Illya inquired. "He could have decided that he wanted to convert them, as he planned to convert Dr. Morthley when be got to New York. He didn't appear to be too rational."

Waverly considered the idea. "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Kuryakin. At least, it will give you a place to start looking. Stand by."

It turned out that Dr. Armden bad a good dozen friends or colleagues in the Fort Wayne area, and it was late by the time the agents had contacted them all and explained the situation. Nothing was learned; Armden hadn't seen any of them for several months. They checked in again with Waverly, who could only sound regretful and urge them to get a good night's sleep before renewing the search Monday morning.

But the renewed search was not necessary. Napoleon was roused from a sound sleep Monday morning by the warbling of his communicator. Waverly informed him that Mrs. Armden had just called to say that her husband had returned the night before, acting rather strangely, and that he had just gone back to work as if nothing had happened.

Chapter 4

"Habit, Nothing But Habit"

JUST AFTER 9:30, Napoleon and Illya pulled into the visitor's parking lot at Falco Industries. A uniformed guard greeted them politely at the plant entrance and let them in as far as a little railed waiting area next to his desk. Their hesitant admission that they were U.N.C.L.E. agents brought no change in the guard's attitude, and he promised to try and have Dr. Armden located for them.

This was apparently the entrance to a manufacturing area; through a pair of wide swinging doors they could hear the rumble of machinery. As the two agents waited, four men in jeans and faded chambray shirts pushed through the doors and clustered in front of a group of vending machines directly across from the waiting area. After a minute spent in flipping coins, the loser began depositing dimes in the coffee machine. The first man to pull a cup from behind the little window put it to his lips and sipped cautiously. After a second, he made a face that lay somewhere between everyday disapproval and mild nausea.

"Better than usual," he said.

"It's Monday morning," one of the others said as he reached for the second cup. "It hasn't had time to ferment yet." He took a small swallow and grimaced slightly. "You're right; it isn't half bad today."

The third man made a similar face when he got a cup from the soft drink machine next to the coffee.

"Habit, nothing but habit," he grumbled. "They could put lighter fluid in here and we'd drink it."

The last man was pondering his choice when the guard hung up the phone and turned to the two agents. "They can't seem to locate Dr. Armden. He isn't in his office."

"He is in the plant, however?" Napoleon asked.

"Sure, he's here somewhere. Saw him come in myself, earlier than usual. Working on some hot project, I guess. He's probably out checking on something."

"Could we speak with his boss?" Napoleon wanted to know.

"I dunno; I'll see." The guard returned to the phone. 'Put me through to John Kilian, will you, Hazel?" He waited briefly, then resumed talking. "Mr. Kilian? I've got two men out here. They wanted to talk to Armden, but we couldn't locate him. They asked to talk to you." There was another pause. "All right" He turned to Napoleon and Illya, extending the telephone. "He'll talk to you."

Napoleon took the receiver. "Mr. Kilian? My name is Napoleon Solo. I wonder if you could answer a few questions about Dr. Armden?"

There was a quiet chuckle from the other end of the line. "If you guarantee you aren't recruiting for another company. If you are, you'll have to contact our personnel department. We aren't allowed to give out information directly."

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am. I represent U.N.C.L.E. and we had hoped to get Dr. Armden's services as a consultant in a certain matter. He agreed to come to New York, but then left us at the Fort Wayne airport yesterday. We'd like to know why he changed his mind so suddenly."

"Oh, you're the ones. I couldn't tell you why he changed his mind; he called me yesterday afternoon and said he was going, and then this morning he showed up here, ready to go to work on his latest project. I will say, though," the voice took on a formal tone, "that I quite surprised when he informed me that he was with you. He has spoken of U.N.C.L.E. recently, not at all favorably."