Illya went to the left end of the counter, away from the clerk who was waiting on the one other customer in the store. Illya looked at them. The clerk was lanky and nondescript. The customer was an older man, gray haired, with glasses and a habit of biting his lip. They were talking quietly, and Illya shifted from foot to foot, too impatient to pretend he enjoyed waiting.

The clerk soon was in front of him. "Yes, sir? Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Illya said. "I have a rather odd request. I'd like to buy some gold shavings – any scraps you might have left from inlays or crowns."

The clerk smiled. "That's not really so odd. Not today. You're my second non-dentist customer for gold. When it rains -"

"Yes, I know," Illya said. "The point is, do you have such scraps and do you ever sell them?"

"As I was just telling the gentleman here" - he indicated the older man - "we're not in that business. Most of our dentists mold their own crowns and the scraps are turned over to the Ladies' Dental Auxiliary. Charity, you know."

Illya gazed at the older man again, a new interest in his eyes. "You're looking for gold?" Illya asked him,

"To fulfill a hobby," the old man said,

"Jewelry making?"

"No. I collect rare books. I like to restore the gold on the bindings, myself."

"Oh, too bad. I thought I might have found a fellow jewelry buff." At that moment, a phone set up a loud ringing in the back of the shop. The clerk puttered between the sound and his customers for long seconds, then excused himself and went out through a door in the back wall. Illya watched the old man, taking in everything about him from the well-bitten lip to the strange gleam in his squinting eyes.

The old man didn't like the inspection, and said, "Neither of us is going to find anything here." He pushed off from the counter and headed away. "I wish you luck somewhere else."

"But you give up too easily," Illya called after him. "I intend to wheedle some more."

"Good day, then. I warn you - that clerk won't be wheedled." The old man marched outside and directly to an old-model blue Chevy parked at the curb. He got into the back seat where Robard was waiting.

"No luck, Professor Adams?"

"Much luck," Adams said. "I didn't get any gold, but I ran into Solo's heir apparent. Illya Kuryakin. U.N.C.L.E. is close on our trail, I'm afraid, and with their methods, they may find us."

"So?" This word came from the front seat, uttered in a deep, hollow voice that resounded from the massive chest of a giant man who sat behind the wheel. He was even tall sitting down, with a bulbous head, a lantern jaw, and ears that stood out from his head as though they were pasted on. His hands dwarfed the wheel. Their power could have twisted it off the steering column.

"So, Julius," Professor Adams addressed the giant, "I want Kuryakin stopped in his tracks. Before he reports in."

"He's in the lab now?" Robard asked. "Then I saw him go in. That's his car right ahead of us."

Adams looked at the car. "I should have guessed. It's fancy enough for a paid killer."

Robard's hand fumbled inside his coat and came out with a pistol. Adams pushed Robard's hand down. "No guns! That's much too crude. We must think of some thing else, and above all, keep him from seeing us. He stared straight at me inside, but he can't really know anything:" Adams rubbed his nose hard. "Yes," he sighed. "Yes." He leaned forward to speak to the giant Julius, his words coming out slowly, one by one, as though Julius couldn't understand or assimilate them any other way. "Now, Julius, listen carefully and remember every thing I say. You'll have to do this alone. Robard and I are leaving the car. Wait until we get around the corner, and then..."

---

Inside the lab, Illya was glad to see the clerk reappear. He had no time to waste in waiting. He snapped right back into his demand for gold. "You don't happen to know of any place where I can get a bit of gold? Please think. It's very important."

"Sorry. Most people don't go around buying gold."

"Some do," Illya said. "You've never sold any scraps?"

"Not a one. It's against our policy. I'd suggest you get it from wherever you've gotten it before."

"But that's -" Illya was interrupted by the crash of metal from the street. When he checked, there was his car locked in bumper-to-bumper combat with the car behind it. He broke from the counter and ran outside.

He stood on the curb, estimating the damage. The U.N.C.L.E. car was jammed from the rear, edged side ways against the curbstone. The old Chevy behind it looked like some shovey monster which had just attacked. In that same moment, the Chevy gave a roar, a grinding of gears, and lurched back a meager foot, disengaging itself. A great bulbous head stuck out of the driver's window and a deep voice bellowed:

"Is that your car? Sorry, mister. I thought I was in reverse all the time."

"Hold on a minute," Illya called. "I'll see if there was much damage."

Illya squeezed between the bumpers and checked the rear of the U.N.C.L.E. car first. "Mine seems all right. Just a scratch. I'll check yours."

He turned around to inspect the grill of the Chevy when another roar from the motor straightened him with a quick prickle of hair on the nape of his neck that squealed DANGER! The old car roared and leapt forward.

In one motion, Illya lurched up from in front of it, his left hand hitting the hood to propel him sideways, and landed on the trunk of the U.N.C.L.E. car as the Chevy smashed into it again. He crouched there, taking stock. He was whole except for a scrape on his left ankle and the loss of his left shoe. That was wedged between the metal somewhere.

"For -! What are you trying to do?" Illya shouted at the great head in the front seat of the Chevy. "Break both my legs?"

Again came the booming, hollow, "Sorry, mister, I thought I was in reverse again. I guess I got nervous."

"Calm down. For my sake." Illya jumped easily from the trunk of his car and onto the sidewalk. "Let me direct you out of here before you kill somebody."

He had a clearer view of the giant now and was taken aback. This was no ordinary flustered citizen. This was some form of throwback to the bleary history of mankind. But he shrugged the notion aside. If you stayed on a city's streets long enough you met every kind and every shape eventually. He walked close to the driver, talking calmly. "Now put it in reverse and back up carefully so I can get my shoe. It could have been my foot caught down there!" He directed the man in the short backing maneuver. The man obeyed willingly enough. "Stop now," Illya told him, "and don't touch a thing!"

Illya darted to the front, made a stabbing motion and came up with his shoe. Hopping about, he got it on his foot. "I'll drive out first so you'll have plenty of room, all right? If you dare touch that gas pedal before I'm out of here -" The giant man turned his head to look him full in the face, and he stopped the threat in mid-voice. There was something about those little eyes set in the craggy face, and those huge, gnarled hands on the wheel. Standing up, this man would measure at least six-feet-eight. And the stare he was giving Illya - it wasn't embarrassed, it wasn't apologetic anymore - it was just plain menacing. "Don't move the car, that's all," Illya said in a smaller voice. "I'd hate to die for a parking space."