The Hollywood gossip had been all lies, because she hardly looked a day older — although part of that was no doubt due to her appearance today as Stacey Steele. It was perfect. It was all there, as it should be: the thigh-length boots of black patent leather, the red leather minidress with LOVE emblazoned across the breastline (the center of the O was cut out, revealing a daring glimpse of braless cleavage), the blonde bangs and ironed-straight Mary Travers hair, the beads and bells. Time had rolled back, and she was Stacey Steele.
“Come on in, luv,” Miss Steele invited, in her so-familiar throaty purr.
Aerobics really can do wonders, Webley thought as he followed her into her living room. Twenty years may have gone by, but if The Agency were to be revived today, Miss Kent could step right into her old role as the mod madcap Miss Steele. Exercise and diet, probably — he must find some discreet way of asking her how she kept her youthful figure.
The living room was a close replica of Stacey Steele’s swinging London flat, enough so that Webley guessed she had removed much of the set from the Hollywood soundstage where the series was actually shot. He sat down, not without difficulty, on the inflatable day-glo orange chair — Dane’s favorite — and opened his attache case.
“I brought along a little libation,” he said, presenting her with the Glenfiddich.
Miss Steele gladly accepted the dark-green triangular bottle. “Ah, luv! You always remember, don’t you!”
She quickly poured a generous level of the pale amber whisky into a pair of stemmed glasses and offered one to Webley. Webley wanted to protest that it was too early in the day for him to tackle straight Scotch, but he decided he’d rather die than break the spell of this moment.
Instead, he said: “Cheers.” And drank.
The whisky went down his throat smoothly and soared straight to his head. Webley blinked and set down his glass in order to paw through the contents of his case. Miss Steele had recharged his glass before he could protest, but already Webley was thinking how perfect this all was. This would be one to tell to those scoffers who had advised him against wearing his Harrison Dane costume to the interview.
“Here’s a copy of our latest issue…” Webley hesitated only slightly “…Miss Steele.”
She took the magazine from him. The cover was a still of Stacey Steele karate-chopping a heavy in a pink foil spacesuit. “Why, that’s me! How groovy!”
“Yes. From ‘The Mod Martian Caper,’ of course. And naturally you’ll be featured on our next cover, along with the interview and all.” The our was an editorial plural, inasmuch as Webley was the entire staff of Special Assignment.
“Fab!” said Miss Steele, paging through the magazine in search of more photos of herself.
Webley risked another sip of Glenfiddich while he glanced around the room. However the house might appear from the outside, inside Miss Kent had lovingly maintained the ambiance of The Agency. The black lights and pop-art posters, the psychedelic color schemes, the beaded curtains, the oriental rugs. Indian music was playing, and strewn beside the vintage KLH stereo Webley recognized early albums from the Beatles and the Stones, from the Who and the Yardbirds, from Ultimate Spinach and Thirteenth Floor Elevator. He drew in a deep breath; yes, that was incense burning on the mantelpiece — cinnamon, Miss Steele’s favorite.
“That’s the platinum bird you used in The Malted Falcon Caper,’ isn’t it?”
Miss Steele touched the silver falcon statuette Webley had spotted. “The very bird. Not really made of platinum, sorry to report.”
“And that must be the chastity belt they locked you into in The Medieval Mistress Caper.” Again Webley pointed.
“One and the same. And not very comfy on a cold day, I assure you.”
Webley decided he was about to sound gushy, so he finished his second whisky. It didn’t help collect his thoughts, but it did restore a little calmness. He decided not to argue when Miss Steele refreshed their drinks. His fingers itched for his camera, but his hands were trembling too much.
“You seem to have kept quite a few props from The Agencyhe suggested. “Isn’t that the steel mask they put over your head in The Silent Cyborg Caper’? Not very comfortable either, I should imagine.”
“At times I did find my part a trifle confining,” Miss Steele admitted. “All those captures by the villains.”
“With Harrison Dane always there in the nick of time,” Webley said, raising his glass to her. If Miss Steele was in no hurry to get through the interview, then neither was he.
“It wasn’t all that much fun waiting to be rescued every time,” Miss Steele confided. “Tied out in the hot sun across a railroad track, or stretched out on a rack in a moldy old dungeon.”
“‘The Uncivil Engineer Caper,’” Webley remembered, “and The Dungeon To Let Caper.’”
“Or being strapped to a log in a sawmill.”
“The Silver Scream Caper.’”
“I was brushing sawdust out of my hair for a week.”
“And in ‘The Missing Mermaid Caper’ they handcuffed you to an anchor and tossed you overboard.”
“Yes, and I still have my rubber fishtail from that one.”
“Here?”
“Certainly. I’ve held on to a museum’s worth of costumes and props. Would you like to see the lot of it?”
“Would I ever!” Webley prayed he had brought enough film. “Then I’ll just give us a refill.”
“I really think I’ve had enough just now,” Webley begged.
“Why, Dane! I never knew you to say no.”
“But one more to top things off,” agreed Webley, unable to tarnish the image of Harrison Dane.
Miss Steele poured. “Most of it’s kept downstairs.”
“After all, Miss Steele, this is a special occasion.” Webley drank. He had a little difficulty with the stairs — he vaguely felt he was floating downward, and the Dane Cane kept tripping him— but he made it to the lower level without disgracing himself. Once there, all he could manage was a breathless: “Out of sight!”
Presumably the downstairs had been designed as a sort of large family room, complete with fireplace, cozy chairs, and at one time probably a ping pong table or such. Miss Kent had refurnished the room with enough props and sets to reshoot the entire series. Webley could only stand and stare. It was as if an entire file of Agency stills had been scattered about and transformed into three-dimensional reality.
There was the stake the natives had tied her to in “The No Atoll At All Caper,” and there was the man-eating plant that had menaced her in “The Venusian Vegetarian Caper.” In one corner stood — surely a replica — Stacey Steele’s marvelous VW Beetle, sporting its wild psychedelic paint scheme and harboring a Porsche engine and drivetrain. There was the E.V.O.L. interrogation chair from “The Earth’s End Caper,” and behind it one of the murderous robots from “The Angry Android Caper.” Harrison Dane’s circular bed, complete with television, stereo, bar, machine guns, and countless other built-in devices, was crowded beside the very same torture rack from “The Dungeon To Let Caper.” Cataloging just the major pieces would be an hour’s work, even for Webley, and a full inventory of all the memorabilia would take at least a couple days.
“Impressed, luv?”
Webley closed his mouth. “It’s like the entire Agency series come to life in one house,” he finally said.
“Do browse about all you like, luv.”
Webley stumbled across the room, trying not to touch any of the sacred relics, scarcely able to concentrate upon any one object for longer than its moment of recognition. It was all too overpowering an assault upon his sensory mechanisms.