celebration, even if they didn't know what he was celebrating. He could go to some bar where he wouldn't be known, and find a quiet back booth where he could take his trophy out again and look at it. He'd like to have Sirrocco along to share it with her, but he wouldn't dare let her know about it. It simply wouldn't be right to involve her in something like this – which was, after all, technically illegal, and could get him a whole lot of trouble if it was discovered.
He thought about this while he opened a can of dessert and decided it seemed perfectly reasonable. He caught a bus at the foot of the hill about 9:30, after freshening up and changing clothes; the precious case now nestled lightly in his shirt pocket, under sweater and coat, next to his heart.
He changed to another bus a few minutes later and rode east towards the bright lights. He wasn't familiar with much of the north side of town except for Fisherman's Wharf, and the area beyond Chinatown was
It was noisy and crowded, and the lights were dim. He took a booth and ordered two drinks, but there was no chance of privacy and he didn't quite dare bring the case out of his pocket. He caressed its slick smoothness with the fingertips of his left hand after shifting it surreptitiously to a side pocket, and pictured the precious rod within.
Nobody had gotten off the bus with him, but he suddenly had the feeling he was being watched. He'd been there half an hour and hadn't noticed anybody eyeing him consistently – but then he hadn't been thinking about it. He looked around covertly.
The place, was so dark he couldn't even be sure how many other people were there. He suddenly decided it was time to leave. – He finished his -second drink, picked up his jacket from the seat beside him, and found a cable car headed north. He boarded it alone, and clanged and clattered off into the night with twenty tourists around him.
A distant boat whistle hooted mournfully across the moon-silvered bay as they paused for a moment at the top of Hyde Street, then plummeted jerkily towards the waterfront below.
He walked east from Ghirardelli Square until another nightclub caught his eye, promising a floor show and assorted distractions; inside he found a reasonably secluded booth and brought out his little treasure. Under a shaded lamp, his body concealing it from the outside, he released the catch and looked at the gamma laser for the first time in nearly two hours.
As he studied it he started to wonder whether he had really done the right thing. Technically he had stolen this from Thrush, which wasn't good – he intended to return it, but what would happen if he were caught with it when he tried to take it back? His hand started to shake, and he gripped the edge of the table hard. He'd be in serious trouble. After all, this was not just Thrush property – this was part of one of their more secret weapons projects and as such was subject to certain security regulations. To have violated them, even to this extent, would be grounds for severe disciplinary action. There wouldn't be any way he could convince them he'd only wanted to borrow it for the evening to admire it, and that there had never been any danger of it falling into the hands of anyone qualified to recognize it, let alone care what it was.
It looked like a rod of mirror-finished steel, 3/8 of an inch in diameter and three inches long. He couldn't see his reflection in the general dimness, but the slim shadowed cylinder itself seemed to have changed subtly. Its beauty was now somehow menacing. He had stolen from people who trusted him, and how could he hope to keep it secret from them indefinitely? If they suspected him, he would be followed…
Without undue haste, he put the case away and took a sip of his drink before glancing around the floor of the club. Nobody looked like anyone he'd noticed at the last place, and nobody could have followed him on the cable anyway. He glanced at his watch. It was just short of twelve, and he really didn't feel like leaving… Just then the lights dimmed around the small stage and a lime spot picked out an MC in skin-tight pants and a sequined jacket introducing a line of chorus girls. Harry decided to stay for the midnight show.
It was worth the two-dollar cover that had been tacked on his tab unexpectedly, but he left hurriedly after the show and another drink. He wasn't cheered by the songs and dances, and the flat box in his left hand pocket weighed on him like a millstone.' He was now convinced he had made a horrible mistake and would appear irretrievably guilty of treason while unprovably innocent of any wrong intent. Driven by a compulsion he could not have described, he fled into the night and was embraced by the cold streamers of fog.
'Maybe I just haven't spent enough time here,' said Napoleon, 'but I can't help feeling San Francisco's reputation for fogginess is greatly exaggerated. It's cold and clammy, and pieces blow through from time to time, but I've hardly ever seen really heavy fog here.'
The mottled sky overhead was paled with city-glow, but the gibbous moon appeared and faded, caressed by a hilltop to the west, and the lights beneath it were clear as they walked up from their car to 'The Blue Angel' at half past twelve.
'I can't tell whether you're appreciating it or complaining about it,' said Illya. 'Do you wish there was more fog?'
'Not especially,' admitted his partner. 'I just find it a little disappointing. Besides, we have forty-five minutes to kill, so I thought the weather might be a good subject to start a conversation with.'
The bar was about half full when they entered, but perhaps due to the lateness of the hour more customers were leaving than arriving. The two agents took an inconspicuous table in the corner where they could watch the front door and the back booth. Since their orders had included a repeated and specific injunction against attracting any kind of attention, they were informally dressed in the native style of turtlenecks and bellbottoms, Napoleon with a mustard blazer and Illya in a dark green bush jacket. They ordered drinks and made idle conversation.
Gradually Napoleon became aware of an odd feeling of attentiveness in the room. He was sure they hadn't been marked when they entered, but now interested eyes from the bar strayed their way more often, and seemed strangely to focus more on Illya than on himself.
Unaware of this interest, Illya continued describing a particular chess strategy he had recently read about while Napoleon, half listening, stared past his shoulder and wondered at the inexplicable attraction he seemed to have.
Too many people were looking at them. Not with hostility, but rather with an opposite sort of look. Something had to be done, and until he knew what about himself and Illya – especially Illya – attracted their glances, he couldn't tell what might be done. Then his eyes locked suddenly with those of a lean young man in leather pants and an open suede shirt, and held for a full fraction of a second.
'Illya,' said Napoleon under his breath, 'in case you hadn't noticed, we are uncomfortably conspicuous.'
'I'd noticed,' said the Russian. 'Can you tell why?'
Napoleon thought a moment. 'Illya,' he said finally, 'we've been friends for several years now, right? Partners for six or seven years?'
'Six this fall.'
'It seems longer. And you've saved my life a few times, and I've saved your life several times…'
'More or less.'
'And you trust me implicitly in odd situations.'
'As a general rule. Are you leading -'
'All I ask is that you trust me just this one time and I'll try to explain later. Okay?'
'Okay…'
'Hold my hand.'
'Hold your -?'
'Please,' Napoleon whispered intently. 'Trust me. Hold my hand for a few minutes. And smile when you look at me.'
'Well…' Illya extended his hand across the table and Napoleon took it. He looked defiantly along the bar and eight or nine pairs of eyes reluctantly returned to the big mirror on the wall behind the spigots and racks of multicolored bottles.
'Napoleon, I will take it on faith that you know what you are doing. But I must say -'
'Whatever you say, keep smiling while you say it. Look. Nobody's watching us now. I promise I'll explain it to you – but not right at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.'
'I trust your instincts, Napoleon – you've proven them often enough. But still, there are times when…'
