Kuryakin shook his head tiredly, fingers going to the bandages on his throat. Solo knocked his hand away. "Don't do that. Let's at least get you back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters before you start ripping the bandages off.

  Solo rose and poured his partner a glass of water, peering at his watch. "It's not even six a.m. yet. You should try to go back to sleep." He handed the Russian the glass.

  Kuryakin sipped at it, grimacing a bit as he swallowed. "Can you tell me what happened?" He glanced around the room again, as if looking for likely places for listening devices.

  Solo shrugged. "I'm sure someone's tuned in, but they probably have clearance. If not, it's not our problem. What do you want to know?"

  "The plant?"

  "You blew it up."

  "I remember the first explosion. The corridor." Kuryakin raised a hand to his bruised cheek and shook his head as if trying to clear it, wincing at the result. "A little of the plane trips. But nothing else."

  "You blew it. I'll show you the satellite films later." Solo shook his head in admiration. "That was some explosion, partner. You have quite a trademark."

  "Not me. Just simple chemistry." Kuryakin cleared his throat and looked at him uneasily. "What about casualties?"

  Solo blinked. "I don't know. We all got out. You were the only team member injured." He ignored the subject of Elsnic, realizing what worried his partner. "There were plenty of sirens and alarms going off. I think most people got out. After all, you got out and you were closest to the explosions."

  "You got me out," Kuryakin said dully. "There were casualties. The guard I left in the closet, at least." He put the glass aside and leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closed wearily. "What about Baranov? Zhukhov?"

  "I don't know. I can try to find out, but it won't be easy, and it may take a while."

  Kuryakin shook his head. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Even if they lived—" He stopped talking, staring blankly ahead of him.

  "You did what you had to." Napoleon said, trying to reach his friend.

  Kuryakin sighed. "When can we go home?"

  "Today. I promise, we'll be on a plane back to New York today."

  Kuryakin nodded, turned away from Solo and closed his eyes. But it was a long time before his respiration slipped into the even rhythm of sleep.

  Chapter Six: Return

  Kuryakin's debriefing, forty-eight hours later, was held in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, a courtesy the CIA rarely rendered. They sat around Waverly's conference table and though Solo had suffered though his own private debriefing and reprimand, he could see now that his boss was pleased with the operation and the points it had given U.N.C.L.E. with the intelligence community and the U.S. government. No doubt Waverly would be parlaying that credit to U.N.C.L.E.'s advantage for some time to come.

  Hair trimmed and black-suited again, his voice barely recovered, Kuryakin answered the questions of a phalanx of CIA and FBI agents about the similarities and differences between the Soviet plant and U.S. plants. Solo didn't understand half the questions, but he saw quite clearly that Kuryakin wasn't giving them the answers they expected all of the time and the questioners were getting frustrated.

  "This doesn't make sense," Elgin Griffith, the FBI representative complained. "I've seen cases of independent parallel development before. But this Soviet plant was just too similar and yet the differences don't make sense."

  "They make perfect sense, Mr. Griffith," Kuryakin said in his soft voice.

  "How so?" Peter Baker leaned forward, his hands folded before him.

  "If you study the historical development of the Fermi plant, you will discover that the essential Soviet differences were all at one time original Fermi designs that were changed after 1962."

  "When the fuel was loaded."

  "Precisely."

  "So you are suggesting that someone passed information to the Soviets on the Fermi plant until their access was abruptly cut off in 1962."

  "Or perhaps they were cut off," Kuryakin replied.

  "Wait a minute," Baker interrupted. "How do you know the historical development of the Fermi plant?"

  "I am a physicist." Kuryakin said shortly. "I have been following AEC developments since I joined U.N.C.L.E."

  Baker tilted his head at Waverly and growled, "Alexander..."

  "Don't complain, Peter. It is within my prerogative to assign my agents duties as I see fit. And in this case it gave you the answer you needed."

  Baker grimaced at the response, eyed Kuryakin, sighed and shrugged in capitulation. "Unfortunately, we still do not have the person."

  "True, but that is your task and that of the F.B.I, not U.N.C.L.E.'s."

  Baker nodded, glanced at his operatives and seeing no further questions in their eyes, rose slowly. "Well, I suppose that's that. Mr. Waverly. Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, it's been a pleasure."

  "Don't call us," Solo suggested. The smile on his face as he shook hands did not reach his eyes. "We'll call you."

  Solo turned to his friend as Waverly escorted the CIA agents to reception and found him lost in thought. Kuryakin had not asked about the results of the plant explosion and after consideration, Solo had decided not to bring it up unless he asked again. He snapped his fingers and when that didn't get a response, said "Ally Ally outs 'n free."

  Kuryakin stirred and frowned slightly. "What language is that? And what does it mean?"

  "English, actually. Hide and seek. And it means the game is over. Time to come out of hiding and go home for supper."

  Kuryakin smiled faintly, "Supper sounds good." But he didn't move.

  "You okay?"

  "Just thinking."

  "You know what the disclaimers say. Professionals only. Don't try this stunt at home." Solo paused a moment, seeing no reaction to his ribbing. "You sure you're okay?"

  Kuryakin shrugged. "Just thinking about the Fermi plant."

  Solo frowned and sat on the edge of the conference table, facing his partner. He'd been half dreading Kuryakin would raise the issue of casualties, but this was a new twist. He thought about the explosion he had seen and realized with a sudden leap of anxiety that the Russian plant did have a near duplicate in the U.S. And that plant was fueled. "Is something wrong at the Fermi Plant? Do you think you know who the mole was?"

  "I have no idea who the mole could be," Kuryakin flared testily. "As I just said. I barely met the Fermi personnel."

  "That still leaves question one."

  Kuryakin looked away. "How would I know if anything was wrong at Fermi? I am not a nuclear engineer. I took one brief tour of it. I have not seen all their experimental data. I am no judge."

  Solo watched his friend's hands, the fingertips rubbing against the thumbs, a characteristic sign of Kuryakin's nervousness or unease. "Methinks you doth protest too much."

  "And protesting does little good," Kuryakin murmured. He looked up at Solo. "Did you know the AFL-CIO and the United Auto Workers unions tried to fight the operating license for Fermi? Well, they tried to fight the construction permit too, but they were better organized when it came time to load the fuel into the reactor." He coughed painfully and scratched the bandage at his throat. Solo caught his hand.

  "Don't do that."

  "Easy for you to say. It itches."

  "Don't think about it. You were talking about Fermi and the unions trying to stop the fuel being loaded in the reactor."

  "They were concerned about the safety of their workers, about the fact that there is no way to evacuate people from Detroit in the event of a problem at Fermi. They were treated so poorly, they walked out of the AEC hearing, leaving the license uncontested."

  "I'll pass that on to Waverly."

  Kuryakin looked startled. "Why?"

  "It happened at the same time as the mole disappeared. Maybe he passed some information to the unions too, trying to stop the plant's development in the U.S. and someone eliminated him. It's only a possibility but—" Solo shrugged.

  "Oh. Right. I guess I wasn't thinking."

  "You're worried about the Fermi plant."

  "Don't give me more credit than I deserve. This is not my field."

  "What about your performance the last two weeks? Not to mention those impressive degrees?"

  "That doesn't make me a nuclear engineer. I am an enforcement agent who studies physics. There is a big difference."

  "Is there?"

  "You know there is." Kuryakin frowned at him, searching for a corollary. "However much you sail the Pursang, you are not a professional sailor."

  "I know a good boat from a bad one. I think you do, too."

  "I know nothing about boats."

  "Don't be deliberately evasive. You know what I mean. And whether you get paid to work in a nuclear plant or not doesn't change your knowledge or ability to evaluate one. In fact, there's a certain advantage of objectivity in your situation."

  "And a certain disadvantage." Kuryakin looked up at Solo and shrugged. "Let's leave Fermi to its experts. Somehow I think the flow of information to this Russian agent regarding it is going to be drastically reduced anyway."

  "Fine way of thanking you for your help. But truthfully, I'd be more than happy to never see or hear of a nuclear plant again." Solo studied his silent partner a moment. "You know, I worried about you on this assignment."

  "I told you I would be fine."

  "Not your physical safety. I worried about that too, but that I could do something about. I worried more about something I had no influence in. I could see how much you enjoyed hobnobbing with those physicists. You haven't been that long out of the labs. I wondered if maybe you were regretting switching to Section Two. Waverly told me to bring you back, but I don't think he realized how far away his agent had strayed."

  "I was doing what I was told." Kuryakin scowled slightly, miffed at the implied criticism.

  "Too well for my peace of mind."

  "You had nothing to worry about."

  "Didn't I?"

  "I am a Section Two enforcement agent."

  "Who studies physics."

  Kuryakin shrugged, tacitly dismissing that facet of his life. "A frivolous indulgence of a childhood interest, nothing more."

  Napoleon didn't buy it. "Which has its occasional uses."

  One corner of Kuryakin's mouth curled in a small smile and he shrugged again. "I suppose it does, doesn't it?"

  "Though not as frequently as a good grounding in the ways and wiles of the female sex."

  "Ah, but you can always be relied on when assignments call for expertise in those areas."

  "Delighted to, of course. And I know some very good teachers, if you're finally had enough of those pesky neutrons."

  Kuryakin rolled his eyes at him. "What day is it? Somehow, I have lost track."

  "Considering the bump you got on the head, I'm not surprised. It's Tuesday. Oh no. You can't be thinking —"

  "I do have class tonight." He rose. "Come on, I think I left my textbooks on my desk."

  "Hasn't physics caused you enough problems?" Solo complained, trailing after him.

  "You know I cannot miss class. I refuse to be given another academic dismissal, especially because of a CIA operation. And considering the alternative you gave me—"

  "You'd rather blow up a Soviet nuclear plant than romance a pretty girl? That does it. You aren't just crazy, you are certifiably crazy." They passed through the steel doors into the Section Two agents' offices and Solo frowned at two large crates covering his partner's desk. "What the hell is all that?"

  "Well, well." Blue eyes bright, Kuryakin pulled out a bottle of Stolichnaya from one of the crates and passed Solo the note taped to the top.

  "Compliments of the CIA." Solo grimaced. "Are you sure you don't want to have it tested?"

  Kuryakin froze a moment, then gave him a disgusted look. "Better watch what you say about me, Solo. Someone likes me."

  "Yeah, but look who does. You know what they say about the company you keep."

  "What do they say?"

  "What?" Solo looked up from examining the crates. "Never mind." He humphed. "Pretty chintzy method of payment."

  "To you, perhaps. I have never before seen a whole case in one place. I hardly thought to own one. Much less two."

  "Maybe one is for me," Solo teased, amused at the sight of his partner's delighted gloating over his prize.

  Kuryakin gave him a jaundiced look, pulled his Walther out from under his suit coat and levelled it at his partner. Grinning, Solo raised his hands just as two U.N.C.L.E guards came through the double doors. Kuryakin glanced at the security monitors, sighed in disgust and holstered his gun.

  "Sorry, guys. Just horsing around." Solo lowered his hands.

  The two guards gave them a disgusted look and left. "Horsing around," one said. "With loaded guns. With the safety off. And you said you wanted to be in Section Two. I tell ya, it turns their heads."

  "Look at it this way, you don't even look old enough to drink it," Solo teased.

  Kuryakin curled his lips in disgust at that ploy. "Napoleon. Remember whom you are talking to. I have just taken out the world's largest reactor. Despite my supposed looks, I feel quite confident that I could, if necessary, take out both you and those two guards and still make it out of HQ with those cases intact. Out of the legendary fifth entrance, if necessary. And I will, too, if you even suggest that any of this is for you."

  Solo brushed an invisible piece of lint off his suit, tacitly declining the challenge. "Selfish bastard."

  "Yes, indeed. This is mine," Kuryakin said with satisfaction, turning back to his prize.

  "That's gratitude for you. If it wasn't for me, the CIA would have left you for dead back in that plant. I risked my life to pull you out of there." Solo wasn't a bad manipulator himself.

  Kuryakin studied him with narrowed eyes. "Oh, very well. You can have one."

  "A case?"

  "Napoleon." Kuryakin looked offended. "One bottle."

  Solo chuckled in delight. "I've never cared much for vodka. But I'll take it. Souvenir. I'll keep it to remind me what you think your life is worth."

  "One does not keep good vodka to sit on a shelf. But take it anyway. At least you will have something worth my drinking when I come over."

  "All right. We'll toast the CIA with it when we break it open. Or their absence. But not for the next few days or so. I have a few more pertinent appointments to keep."

  "You prefer girls to vodka," Kuryakin shook his head in disbelief. "And you call me immature. Grow up, Napoleon." Carrying a bottle of vodka and his textbooks, Kuryakin walked out grinning, while the Chief Enforcement Agent, mouth still open, searched for words.

  "Well, I guess he told me," he mused, then shrugged, sniffed disdainfully at the two cases of vodka and reached inside his suit coat for his little black book.

  Author's disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. The Enrico Fermi Atomic Plant in Lagoona Beach, Michigan, a liquid metal (sodium cooled) fast breeder reactor, was the first breeder designed for utility power purposes in the United States. While it is true that many groups, including unions, tried unsuccessfully to fight Fermi's construction permit and operating license, there was never (to my knowledge) any mole, any Soviet interest in hindering its development, any leak of its plans to the Soviet Union, or any Soviet plant built from its plans.

  Fermi did have a troubled existence. After over a decade of development, during a 1966 push to minimal power levels, a clogging of the sodium coolant partially melted the fuel in the reactor. A combination of luck and skill saved Michigan, but the plant cleanup and restoration took years. Fermi's development costs continued to rise, while the power it generated was minimal. The plant continued to be plagued with problems, including several sodium explosions over the years, though none as spectacular as the U.N.C.L.E. enhanced one described in this story. In 1972, its investors dropped out, the AEC discontinued Fermi's operating license and the plant was dismantled. Later the AEC was billing its new Oak Ridge facility as the first breeder, the plant that might have taken out a good portion of Michigan conveniently overlooked. Who says only Soviets rewrite their history?

  Cost Accounting

  By Patricia J. Foley

  Sequel to "Red Retriever"

  First published in "Collection, Summer of '65"

  U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

  August 3rd, 1965

  Wednesday, 8:30 a.m.

  Solo hastily paged through the paperwork that had built up on his desk during the last two weeks, interested only in acquainting himself with any documents Waverly might question him about at their morning briefing. He was still a little out of favor with his boss for nearly botching the reactor mission. In such circumstances, Waverly would sometimes take a subtle revenge at these meetings by displaying his Chief Enforcement Agent's ignorance of current affairs.

  Fortunately, after years in the CEA position, he had as good an idea concerning what Waverly considered important as a student knows the testing style of a familiar teacher. He skimmed the mission reports from Section Two, wishing he was reading Illya's neat synopses instead of scanning the actual reports. He gave an even briefer glance over the summaries from Section Three. He shoved department circulars, memos, newsletters and unclassified intelligence reports to one side, but pulled out the budget reports.

  He was no accountant, in fact, he had hired one to handle his own personal affairs. What he had chosen to escape at home came back to haunt him at Headquarters. Waverly, often irritated with what he considered to be his CEA's wasteful expenditures on missions, would frequently interrogate his future successor on budget matters. Since he didn't need to incur more of his superior's wrath, Solo shook out the multi-columned sheets and began to squint over the tiny rows of figures. Then he sat back in his desk chair as the implications of the report in his hands hit home.

  As a Section Head, he oversaw a good many budget reports. As Waverly's second, he had access to not only the reports from his own section, but details for North American U.N.C.L.E., as well as summaries for U.N.C.L.E. worldwide.