"Why can't I be lush and lovely?" Mark Slate had exclaimed.
"Oh, but you are — in your own horrible way," April had said.
"Jealousy, Mr. Slate, will get you no place," Mr. Waverly had reproved.
"Except on some stinking cargo boat. Oh well — what's money and beauty and lush living compared with virility and superb intelligence?" Mark had grinned at April. "Wanna swop?"
"No swops." Mr. Waverly had dismissed them both. "Go, you, too — and learn likewise."
So they had studied their required knowledge, separately, then had joined to merge knowledge with intent, and intent with procedure, and procedure with objective. All of which brought April Dancer — lushly lovely, exquisitely apparelled, with a visitor's deposit of cash money large enough to choke two donkeys — to a sun bed beneath a flared umbrella on the whiter-than-white sands of Palaga Bay.
Complete, of course, with escort. One Orlando Four Palaga. You judged the society rating of any Palaga family by their middle name, which always was a number. When you got down to the twenties you were nearing the menial grades of the Palagas. But even these were important people, and all genuine visitors could trust them. Give an Orlando Twenty-six Palaga your wallet and say: "Hold this while I have a swim," and he would be holding it when you returned. He also would be holding a long, cool drink for which he had paid. And not a postage stamp would be missing from your wallet. Put a hair between the folds, and you would find it intact, the wallet unopened even to satisfy human curiosity.
The Palagas didn't need to use such fiddling tricks. And anyway, the maids, porters, waiters, interpreters, escorts or receptionists in your hotel or apartment house already had, in their own way, searched, recorded and photographed everything you possessed. Such work was all kept in the family, anyway. Why make it more obvious and spoil your holiday?
Which made it difficult if the normal contents of your purse and vanity case included U.N.C.L.E. communicator, special radios and miniature TV contacts built into powder compacts, or an eyelash container, or tooth-paste tubes; and lipsticks that served as knock-out injectors, nail files that could open locks or double as safe combination calculators; not forgetting the most effective U.N.C.L.E. sleep-gun, the golden charm bangle full of spare bugging devices, a comb that could be turned into a stiletto, and sundry buttons and brooches to fit on suits or gowns that recorded or relayed voices to a companion up to a mile away.
Packets of chewing gum, too, were innocent enough unless the searchers knew that by chewing them for a certain time they became a saliva-activated explosive of sufficient power to wreck a room or vehicle. There were also diamond earrings that could cut plate-glass, a cigarette lighter that could double as a steel-cutting torch, and other items not normally included in the holiday gear of wealthy lush-lovely young ladies.
The U.N.C.L.E. file so carefully studied by April Dancer gave detailed information about the Palaganian checking system, so much ingenious thought had to be given into devising different ways and means for the agent to carry her necessary field equipment.
As she lay her bronzed loveliness on the flower-gay sun bed she was not, apparently, much different from other lush lovelies lazing beneath the coloured umbrellas. Many had local escort companions, others had new husbands or old boyfriends. But it would be safe to assume that April Dancer was the only lovely wearing a miniscule bra with a built-in TV sending/receiving aerial, a necklace throat mike and a solid gold portable TV set in the shape of a compact. By resting her shoulder casually against the sun bed's steel frame she could have achieved a strong enough signal to transmit through the Early Bird Two Satellite.
Orlando knew nothing of these things. He knew only the pattern of love-making prescribed for such visitors and performed his work with trained precision. His caresses were just right — not too far but far enough — his kisses warmly languorous, his manners impeccable, his attentions devout. At three hundred dollars per twenty-four hours — less if the night was for sleeping alone — plus all expenses paid, he was not expensive.
Palaganian men were not tall, but they were lithe, bright-eyed, olive-skinned and muscular. They tanned to a glowing brown and had enough body hair to suggest virility. If not, they stuck some in the right places, should female visitors feel the need for such an assurance Orlando wasn't only a good specimen of muscle-boy. He'd had an expensive education, could speak seven languages, had run a less-than four-minute mile, was a high-dive champion and could ride as if grafted to the horse's back.
All in all a worthy companion for April Dancer, who herself was no mean exponent of languages, horse-riding, sports-car racing and the physical arts of fencing, karate and judo. In other circumstances she and Orlando could have really set the hours alight. But she also was an actress with a role to play. The role of the bored, rich-born lovely.
Which, she felt, was a great pity. But there, duty calls, she sighed.
"A long, cool drink," she murmured drowsily.
Orlando caressed her gently with practiced concentration.
April quivered, then knuckle-punched him in the stomach. She really did feel resentful. Orlando stirred sweet lust — which didn't mix with business.
"You choose the silliest times, Orlando!" She spoke lazily through a half-yawn. "A long, cool drink, huh?"
His eyes smiled at her, though his mouth had winced at the blow. He sensed a strange strength in this customer. She puzzled him.
"Ah, yes!" said Orlando, feathery fingers tracing the lines of her figure. "A long, cool drink — but of course, at once."
"No hurry." She smiled. "You are always too quick, Orlando. Slow down, huh? Give a girl a chance to unwind. Take your time."
He sprang up — a gleaming brown Jack-in-the-box released from prison.
"I will be very slow. For you, very slow indeed. Then you will miss me more — as I shall miss you." Here was real corn with the ring of a crepe suzette, April thought.
April watched him go, extracted compact from beach bag, flicked it open, operated the hidden switch, leaned the band of her bra against the sun bed frame and spoke in her throat, lips scarcely moving. "Hear me," she said. "Hear me, Mark."
"And see you," said his voice as the tiny picture in the compact mirror came into focus. "Marvellous reception." He scowled. "Too good."
Not the usual debonair Mark Slate but burned bronze beneath scruffy face fungus, hair tangle-matted, greasy cap slanted over one ear.
"You look feelthy," said April. "Where, oh where is my debonair side-kick?"
Mark snarled, "Who's your pretty boy?"
She giggled. "You've been peeking. Orlando is a nice boy. He is also a contact for local THRUSH operatives. These Palaga hombres play both ends against the middle. Orlando is a grade four. I should hate to tangle with a grade one in this family set-up. In most family-inheritance outfits, the higher you go, the dumber they get. Not so here. Oh, brother, they are one talented bunch!"