Solo's knees, lifted by the footbraces, stuck out diagonally to either side of the hurtling machine. The wind, unbroken over Illya's bent back, blasted into his face like powdered snow. His hair pulled at his scalp and his tie almost tore from under his vest.

They veered left, then left again, and were on a major through road which bore traffic even at this hour. A sign pointed to LONDON, 97 MILES. Their speed increased, and a voice floated back to him as Illya straightened and shouted something. Solo leaned forward and yelled, "What?"

Illya half-turned his head and shouted, "We'll be in London in about an hour. Hang on!"

Napoleon did a fast calculation, and his jaw dropped. Speed-driven cold air forced into his mouth and out his nose before he snapped it shut again. Then he ducked down too, bending along the curve of the driver's back, trying to keep the wind out of his eyes.

Engines roared faintly over the scream and thunder of the wind in his ears, and they began to overtake trucks. Great combinations, speeding towards London with goods and materials for the morning markets. Illya wound smoothly from lane to lane, passing them like a racer, keeping his speed up to an area Napoleon didn't want to know about.

He clung to the handgrip and locked his fingers around it, and kept his eyes squeezed shut most of the time. He opened them once to see the trailers of two trucks side by side, filling the entire roadway ahead of them, and heard Illya shout, "Knees in, Napoleon!" as they shot between the trucks.

For a measurable part of a second there were two walls of swaying gray steel inches away from them on either side, and a noise that clogged the ears with sound. Wheels hissed on pavement, powerful engines thundered and wind screamed. And then they were out in the low golden sunlight, and the snouts of the trucks shrank away behind them. The road unwound ahead, and London lay waking at the end of it.

Chapter 11

How Napoleon and Illya Heard a Violin, and the Old Old Gentleman Spoke of Bees, Drugs, Death and Other Mysteries.

DUSK WAS SPREADING over the gentle Sussex hills as Napoleon and Illya walked again along the winding lane that led back to Mr. Escott's bee farm. They talked quietly during the mile or two out from town.

"I never knew you felt that way about motorcycles, Napoleon."

"Well, I've never been that fond of them, and I do think your driving could have been more cautious."

"I wasn't used to the machine. Those old ones are tricky."

"All the same, I think the next time I'll wait for a helicopter from the local office."

They came around the curve of the dirt track and paused, as before, at the sight of the little cottage with the field of small hives behind it. And as they stood there, the faint wailing strains of a violin floated up to them. Both listened as they approached until the sounds were loud enough to form a recognizable melody. Illya nodded and said, "Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu."

Napoleon recognized the tune by another name, and made a face. "A whole island of punsters," he said wryly.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. I forgot your knowledge of American popular music starts with Charlie Parker and continues unidirectionally."

"Perhaps. I always preferred specialization."

"Umm," said Napoleon as the piece drew to an end and they stood on the doorstep of the cottage and knocked.

Several seconds later, the door opened and they were invited in. "And how did you find Stonehenge?" Mr. Escott asked as they sat down.

"Quite pleasant," said Napoleon. "Everything went very much as predicted, and we collected the delivery. There was a little problem..."

"Our equipment proved somewhat inadequate," Illya explained. "But we, ah, won through."

"Tell me everything. Spare no detail, no matter how minor. I am no longer able to gather my own data in the field, but the hunter's nose is still there."

Once again they reported all they could about the operation, and again, when they were talked dry, Escott shifted the conversation. "I hope you won't mind an hour's idle conversation. Although solitary by nature, I occasionally find my remote location a trial, and human society is a rare delight. I observed you had some transportation trouble the moment you walked in, but resolved to let your story unfold. You, Mr. Kuryakin, had obviously had less trouble but rather farther to go." The keen eyes narrowed slightly, and the old head nodded. "A long motorcycle ride always leaves its marks." He smiled and leaned back, and added, "Though fewer than an ordinary bicycle."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, wondering which would have to ask the inevitable question.

Napoleon lost. His suit had been cleaned and pressed again after his long walk through the foggy dew and that hurricane ride to London, and neither grass stain nor flaccid creases could have betrayed the morning's activities. He finally opened his mouth and got as far as, "How could you have told it was a bicycle, though?"

Escott sighed politely, and pointed to Napoleon's trouser-cuffs. "The fraying of the right cuff on the inside is characteristic of cycling. The fact that you returned to London is again apparent in the appearance of your creases. By the way, would you unhook that slipper beside the fire and hand it over here? Thank you."

Illya performed the requested service, and they watched as Escott packed an aged meerschaum with a pungent mixture from the toe of the slipper. He handed it back, and then carefully set fire to his well-tamped pipe. Between puffs, he said, "But would you be willing to talk of your organization, and your opponent's? I have heard rumors many places of something called Thrush, and I would be most interested to see if it bears any resemblance to a network I had some hand in cracking many years ago."

For the next few hours, Napoleon and Illya described the nature of Thrush as well as they could. The satraps, the Supreme Council and the Ultimate Computer, the semi-independent operations that went on within this great hierarchy; the range of activities they participated in, always with an eye to their ends, which were, simply enough, the conquest of the entire world and its inhabitants.

Escott finished a pipe and began on another while they talked, and then told of his struggles against a prototype of Thrush. As it grew later in the evening, he brought out, refreshments and the conversation continued. They covered everything they had found out about the Rainbow Gang and its leader, and wandered afield into tastes in music and odd facts of life.

But in the relaxed atmosphere, Napoleon and Illya found themselves remembering little details. The type of caps worn by the men who drove his truck, or the odd smell about Johnnie Rainbow's borrowed country estate. And gradually pieces of a picture began to build up, with Escott's voice weaving the individual bits of evidence into a tapestry of circumstance that wound around men whose names were unknown, but whose presence made themselves felt everywhere. They saw the perfect simplicity of the lighthouse as a head quarters, safe, solitary, and well-defended. They saw glimpses of his network of representatives, strung out about the country, working independently but always available for an assignment; a network which fluctuated from moment to moment, evading a similar growing set being established by Thrush. Thrush had always had some difficulty establishing native agents in England, and to encounter this ready-made operation must have seemed a gift.

But in the course of their organizing drive, they occasionally ran into stumbling blocks. One such was Johnnie Rainbow, who wanted to keep England safe for the common burglar, and avoid foreign entanglements except those necessary to get loot out of the country. Escott made a comment that stuck in Napoleon's memory, to the effect that thieves were more deserving of prison terms than murderers. "A thief," he said, "is very hard to reform. By yielding to temptation once he has weakened his will to resist the next time. But a murderer, nine times out of ten, kills once, under a combination of circumstances that could never occur again, and then is punished so he may never repeat something he would be incapable of anyway." He paused, and sucked reflectively at his pipe. "But on the other hand there are those who would make murder a hobby - or a habit. These are the demons I most love to run to earth."