Solo thrashed, grappling for an edge. With his left hand, he smashed into the other man's face, pushing his bead back in a harsh, painful thrust that cracked his skull against the carpet. His right leg was free and he pulled it under him, getting to his knees, but the man was unhurt, protected by the carpet, and he, too, raised himself, gasping.

Solo tried a left-handed chop to the throat, but the desperation in his opponent made his reflexes quick and he fended it off as a yell burst out of him. "Help me, Louie! Help me!"

Solo wrenched free and got to his feet, the other man rolling away from him and coming up straight. They crouched, facing each other. Footfalls behind Solo told him the tall Louie had taken courage and come back. He swiveled to meet them both, but the move was too late. Louie's long body was full force on his back, taking him to his knees. Solo raised his hands, grabbed hair and suitcoat and flung Louie out onto the carpet, but now the shorter man was on him, and before he could rise, the two of them were pummeling him with blows designed to hammer him into the floor-boards. A shoe slashed in and the heel struck him in the temple, making the dim light black out. He lurched forward, hearing a frantic call through the momentary grogginess. "Come on, Robard, get out! Now!"

A hand whizzed into Solo's view, grabbing the fallen gun, but no fire came from it. All that was left of the fight was the thud of two pairs of feet running for the terrace.

Solo shook his head, ignoring the pain from his temple and the twinkling dots of light before his eyes, staggered to his feet, and followed. He sagged against the terrace doors and peered warily down the expanse of stone, dotted by the low walls that divided the apartments. His two assassins were setting records in the sprint and low-hurdles as they made for the end of the building and the fire escape. There was no point in giving chase. His gun was still in the bedroom.

Hands touched his shoulders timidly, then clutched at him, and he swung around reflexively, tensed to throw off this new assailant. But it was Rachel. Her face was pale, makeup standing in blotches about her eyes, lip stick like a stab of pinkish blood on her lips. She panted, but said nothing.

The silenced ker-plow of another shot flared orange from the end of the terrace and lead whined in to splinter the wood near Solo's head. He pulled himself back. Rachel cried out and ran for the sofa. Venturing a quick look, Solo saw the smaller man, Robard, halted at the fire escape, taking a last few potshots, afraid of pursuit. Two more rounds whizzed by and Robard was gone.

Solo rotated his shoulders, trying to settle his hammered bones into their proper places so they would hold up his frame. Rachel's red hair peeped up over the front of the sofa, followed by her terrified eyes. When she saw his relaxed posture, she stood up, but had to clutch at the sofa to keep her trembling body from falling.

"I'll get you a cab right away," he said, hoping to calm her.

"What was that?" she wailed. "What was that all about?"

"Whatever it was, I want to get you out of here."

She stiffened, some weird determination taking hold of her and stilling her shakes. "No! Don't even come near me."

He stopped where he was. He had been ready to reach for her, to comfort her, but she backed off from him.

"I'll get my own cab," she said accusingly. "I'd rather. I don't like any of this, Napoleon. I'll go down alone. Those men weren't burglars. They were after you! I should have known anyone with a name like Solo would turn out to be a gangster." She became a flurry of movement rushing about the room, gathering her wrap and gloves and purse. Her feet hit the carpet in anger and fright. "I'll go down alone."

He let her have her way. "I understand. You want to keep your distance from me. All right. I can't blame you." As she made quickly for the hail door, he added, "I'll watch you leave from up here. But there's nothing to worry about, Rachel. You're perfectly safe. I promise.

"Promise!" She laughed a harsh, nasty laugh. "Have fun with your playmates, but don't you dare ever call me again! The door slammed shut behind her and the room was quiet except for the click of the stereo shutting itself off.

Solo hurried into the bedroom, almost pulled the drawer out of the bureau frame, and grabbed his gun. He headed back to the terrace, tearing his coat off on the way and strapping on his shoulder holster. The gun he kept hard and handy in his grasp. He edged onto the terrace and looked both ways, but it was deserted. There weren't even any lights showing from the other apartments. He smiled. He hadn't expected any. It would be a good hour before anyone took the chance of looking out for the source of the disturbance.

He strode to the balcony rail and glanced down into the street, feeling guilty as he saw Rachel run from the entrance and dash for a taxi that waited for her. He should have gone with her. Yet from this vantage point he could protect her if she needed protection. The street was quite empty and, as the cab pulled away, he breathed easier. Rachel was safe at least. And hopping mad.

He went inside, closed and locked the terrace doors, pulled the curtains, and drew his coat on over the holster and gun. The room was a shambles. The tipped coffee table had spilled the remains of dinner and cascades of champagne onto the rug, there was an overturned lamp, and things on one side of the room were just enough out of place to give the place a disheveled look. His cleaning woman would be hopping mad, too. He sat down, pulling out his communicator. Calling Headquarters was next in line. He wondered just how he would explain all this to Mr. Waverly.

Before he could thumb the signal button, a sharp knock sounded on his door. He was on his feet, gun drawn, before the knock ended. Stepping quietly, he approached the door from the right and reached across to turn the knob. As the door swung in, he raised the gun, holding it out of sight, but leveled.

He straightened as he saw the figure in the hall. There was nothing menacing in her. She was a young girl - maybe twenty-one, maybe not - with free-swinging blond hair and enormous blue eyes that were designed for showing surprise. She wore a red, white, and blue Mod style dress, clipped off well above the knees, and her hands were nervously twining and untwining about each other.

Solo took her in with one glance, decided she looked innocent, but also decided not to trust anything today. He kept firm hold on his gun.

"Oh - Mr. Solo," she said, her voice soft and high. "Are you all right?" Her blue eyes darted over him. "I thought you were hurt. I saw that woman leave in a hurry, and then you didn't make a sound, and -"

Solo interrupted her torrent of worry with a short, curious, "You were listening?"

"Of course! When you didn't make a sound I got frightened."

Solo gripped the gun tighter, keeping it out of her line of vision. "Why were you -"

She cut him off. "I didn't know whether to come, myself, or call the police. After all, I'm not used to this sort of thing, and -"

"Look," he interrupted. "Do you ever run down?"

She took a deep breath and smiled. "Not very often, I guess."

It was a relief just to have a pause in her nervous tirade. "You do have a name?" Solo asked.

"Elaine Michaels. But you can call me Lainy." With no warning, her hand was on the door and she pushed herself into the room, squeezing persistently to get by. "I was so worried. I heard those noises that had to be guns with silencers, and -"