"Will you risk it? Touching me?" Maxine whispered.
"For you, I risk anything," Solo said.
"Go on! Go on!"
Solo leaned closer to her. The room—her room—was silent. The music that had been playing was gone now, the record player turning itself off automatically at just the right instant. Solo almost smiled; for his purposes he could not have done it better himself. A very cooperative record player.
Too cooperative?
The sixth sense, the warning, went off in his brain. The split-second sensitivity to danger, even to potential danger, that had kept him alive longer than any chief enforcement agent U.N.C.L.E. had ever had. Was it coincidence, the record player stopping at just the precise instant he was about to bend down and kiss her?
He leaned close to her, smiling, her perfume in his nostrils. His eyes looked into her eyes. Behind his boyish ardent smile, his mind went to work. He ran Maxine Trent through his mind like a card through a computer: Age 24; 5 foot 11 inches and all the right measurements to go with the height; a runner-up for Miss America one year; daughter of industrialist Clark Trent; known to like action-and danger. Introduced to Solo two weeks ago by John Knox, a young business executive Solo cultivated to hide his true occupation.
His true occupation was chief enforcement agent for United Network Command for Law and Enforcement—U.N.C.L.E. And U.N.C.L.E. was a supra-national organization sworn to keep the world safe and, if possible, sane. Any enemy of any peaceful and honest person in the world was the enemy of U.N.C.L.E. It was hard work, dangerous work. Now Solo wondered if the danger were close here, in the arms of Maxine Trent.
"Well, Napoleon," Maxine said. "I heard you were a man of action. Your certainly don't call this action—yet?"
Solo smiled. "You'd be surprised, my dear."
He was about to say more when the signal went off. A low sound, rising and falling, like a miniature version of the wailing horn of a Parisian police car. Solo reached quickly into the inside pocket of his coat and switched off the signal on the miniature radio set.
Maxine blinked up at him from the couch as he stood up.
"You're not leaving—now?" she whispered.
"I'm afraid I am," Solo said. "A previous appointment, my little alarm reminded me. Some other time we can pick it up, yes?"
She stared at him. He was a slender man of medium height. He was neither handsome nor ugly. A pleasant, friendly face that was usually smiling. His dark, brooding eyes were at the same time quick and bright. Intense eyes, but not hard and not jaded. Eyes that smiled an apology to Maxine now, yet were already seeing something else.
He turned quickly and walked to the door. The speed of the motion gave a slight indication of the strong, trained athlete's body concealed in his slender frame. What he lacked in size, he more than made up for in catlike speed, in skill and in training. He seemed no different from the thousands of young executives, budding doctors, youthful professional men, and wealthy, if idle, playboys. He could have been anything from a tennis bum to a first echelon government man.
Solo was none of those things. He was a man trained to kill with a single blow of his innocent-seeming hand.
Once in the corridor of Maxine Trent's apartment house, Solo turned quickly left and walked to the fire stairs. He went through the door and down and out into the midtown Manhattan street. It was late afternoon and the streets were crowded.
Solo walked a block, blended with the crowd. Only then did he take his small chrome metal and plastic sender-receiver set from out of his pocket.
He quickly raised the two threadlike antennae, pressed a button on the instrument that fitted in the palm of his hand, and spoke low into it.
"Solo here."
"Report to Mr. Waverly at once. Code Mayday," the crisp female voice of the radio communications girl said.
Solo clicked off his set, returned it to his pocket, and began to walk casually but quickly across town toward the East River and U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.
* * *
Illya Kuryakin ran his thin fingers through his thatch of unkempt blond hair. The small, thin Russian muttered to himself in Danish, which happened to be the language of the book he was intently puzzling over.
The private library was as quiet as a tomb. Kuryakin was one of the two persons in the small, book-lined room. The other was an old man whose clothes had seen better days, but whose thirst for knowledge was undiminished. From time to time, the ancient female librarian came into the room. She glared at Illya, who she obviously considered far too young to be a scholar.
Illya smiled disarmingly at the harridan. With his blond, round-bowl haircut he looked like a mischievous Russian leprechaun; or a blond knight-errant, an impish modern-day Prince Valiant with straw hair. His bright and quick eyes danced beneath his seriously lowered brow. His glance at the old woman was quizzical and amused—an amusement that did not show on his face as he steadily looked up at her.
"Can I help you, madam?" Illya said to the librarian.
"I— I—" the woman stammered in confusion, caught staring at Illya.
Illya spoke softly. "I understand. You are wondering what so young a man is doing in a library on such a fine day?"
"I—"
Illya smiled. "You are wondering why I am studying so obscure a book about poisons? Your wonder am I a spy, since I obviously read a foreign language. Ah, that is suspect, eh? A young man who reads a foreign language must be a spy at least, nyet? Ah the young people today, such irresponsible animals, nicht wahr?"
"I—" the librarian blustered, and then turned scarlet as this wisp of a boy suddenly reached out and pinched her.
"Why, you—"
Illya laughed.
"Well!" the librarian snapped, turned and stalked off.
Illya smiled once more, and returned to his work. This library was one of his favorite places to spend an afternoon in New York. A private library devoted to strange, half-known poisons, mysteries of ancient witchcrafts and other superstitions, all the half-insane fears of the human mind. That was Illya's single purpose in his life—to try to dispel the insanity of man, to try to save the idiot world from itself.
For that purpose he had studied, learned fifteen languages, left the service of the country of his birth to work for what he truly considered the only sane group of people on earth—U.N.C.L.E.—United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
For that purpose, he still studied, trained his small but lithe body, devoted himself to the work. He had no interest in either command or position, only in doing the job better than anyone. He had no time for such rewards and frills of the world as money, honors, fine living, or creature comfort.
The signal on his transmitter-receiver went off. Instantly, Illya became the quick, serious agent of U.N.C.L.E. The old librarian was looking around in fury for the source of the strange wailing sound. Illya shut off the signal, raised the small plastic and metal box to his lips.
"Kuryakin here."
"Mr. Waverly wants you at once. Code Mayday." the voice of the communications girl said.
Illya replaced the tiny radio set in his pocket, returned his book to the desk, smiled winningly at the ancient librarian.
"Take very good care of the books, liebchen," he hissed at the old woman.
He could almost hear her red-faced anger behind him as he walked out and down to the late afternoon New York street. Smiling to himself at his own joke, he did not see the old man in the decrepit clothes move with far greater speed than he should have been capable of at his age. He did not see the old man follow him.