Napoleon Solo watched Illya Kuryakin move confidently from one weapons station to another. Kuryakin adjusted knobs here and there, tapped an index finger against an uncooperative gauge, then moved on to the next station. Solo stood in the doorway, back against the jamb, AK-47 in his hands, ready to blast anyone who tried to stop them.

 Mission: destroy the weapons station, Thrush's latest contribution to the  balance of power. Derail their plans to sell the setup to a Third World Power. Waverly didn't tell them which Third World Power, and they didn't ask. Sometimes it was better not to know.

 The sabotage required a fine hand and a keen mind, a mind trained in computers and weaponry. Kuryakin was perfect for the job. Solo suppressed an ironic smile as he realized he was sent along to ride shotgun, nothing more.

 Not entirely true, of course. His genius for planning and strategy had gotten them inside, and his steely nerve and cool head kept them on time, through one complication after another. He glanced at his watch, his brow furrowed in concern. The new shift would be arriving any minute, and he didn't want to be anywhere near the place when all hell broke loose.

 Down the corridor came the sounds of heavy feet.

 "Uh, Illya, this would be a good time to speed things up."

 Kuryakin clipped a red wire, embraced it with the strippers, cleaned the plastic off, and wound the strands to another wire. His fingers moved in a blur. He set the timer. Punch, punch, click, click. He flipped the activation toggle and sprinted to the door.

 "All done. Let's go."

 But it was too late. The change of shift had arrived. Solo aimed his AK-r7 at the approaching footfalls. When the guards rounded the corner, he held his breath and sprayed the corridor with bullets. The first three Thrush crumpled to the floor. One in the rear took a hit to the head and was hurled backward against a wall already smeared with his brains. The fifth man lay twitching beneath the dead bodies of his comrades. His breath gurgled, and blood bubbled up from his chest. Somewhere in the distance, alarm klaxons sounded, set off by gunfire inside the building. Angry voices shouted orders in the distance.

 "How much time do we have before the bomb goes off?" asked Solo, his nonchalance soured by an edge of tension.

 Kuryakin licked his lips and replied, "Thirty seconds."

 Solo's breath caught in his throat. He looked around, gauging where they could go in thirty seconds, how far they might get. Not far enough.

 "I'm sorry," whispered Kuryakin.

 Solo uttered a short, breathy syllable, almost a laugh. Then he said quietly, "Me, too."

 Kuryakin extended a hand. "It has been an honor working with you."

 Solo grinned, his eyes bright, and shook the Russian's hand. Then he pulled his friend into an embrace and backed him against the wall. The last words he whispered to Kuryakin were, "It's been fun."

 Then the lights went out.

*****

 And came back up again, glaringly, accompanied by the director's voice screeching, "Cut! Cut! Cut! Oh, come on, guys, we've had this talk before. These are ruthless spies. Cold. Uncaring. They live for the job. They are not going to hug each other at the end." He punctuated his sentiment with exaggerated facial expressions, mimicking smoosh and disgust.

*****

 Smoosh? What kind of a word is smoosh?

 Shut up, I'm writing.

******

 Time stood still for Solo and Kuryakin. All around them, gray figures moved in slow motion, or sped by in a blur, shifting scenery, unplugging the special effects, rolling the camera dolly to a new angle. In one corner of his mind, Solo wondered what kind of experimental drug Thrush had injected them with. He wondered if they would survive the mission. He wondered if Kuryakin was really there at all, or was he alone and hallucinating.

 Hallucinating pavement and midday heat.

 Wondering who he was.

 The blond man moved along the barren highway with the steady trudge of someone who had already come too far. His jacket looked like he'd rolled in gray sand, and his blue eyes squinted in the harsh Arizona sun.

 For the hundredth time, he stopped and looked back at the dark-haired man who followed him.

 "It's all right," said the Russian in his native tongue. "Keep coming. We'll get there soon."

 The other man had haunting brown eyes. Something had frightened him badly. He held one hand in front of him to fend it off. He looked confused.

 "We're dead, aren't we?"

 The blond shook his head no. "Not unless the road to heaven is paved with heat-softened asphalt."

 "Then what are we doing here?"

 "We are walking to safety."

 "What happened to us?"

 Kuryakin sighed heavily and trudged back to take his partner's hand. "We were caught in an explosion. We thought we were going to die. But we didn't. And now we are walking to safety." He spoke slowly, patiently, but he was tired and his patience was wearing thin.

 The other  felt his irritation and his fear increased. "I don't know you," he said suspiciously.

 Kuryakin rubbed his face wearily. "Please, Napoleon, trust me. We are partners. We are friends. I am taking you to safety."

 The other's paranoia was evident in his voice. "Why are you calling me Napoleon?"

 Kuryakin scanned the horizon in all directions. "Why don't they come for us?" he asked no one in particular.

 "No one would name their kid Napoleon," said the other. "It would be cruel. Why don't you just call me by my name?"

 Kuryakin looked at his partner. "And what is your name, my friend?"

 The other stood for a moment, pondering the question. His brown eyes filled with fear. "I knew it a moment ago," he insisted.

 "Easy," said Kuryakin. "It doesn't matter."

 "Of course, it matters!" Fear was an emotion his voice was unaccustomed to expressing. The words came out with sharp edges. "I should know my own name!"

 Kuryakin clenched his jaw to stop its trembling. When he could speak, he said softly, "Let's keep moving, please."

 A hundred yards later, Solo complained, "I'm hungry."

 "Me, too."

 "Let's stop and eat."

 Kuryakin grasped his hand to keep him from acting on his idea and pulled him gently along. "We'll stop soon, I promise."

 "Are you sure we're not dead?"

 Kuryakin's eyes burned with sadness, and he pulled his partner into a bear hug. The wetness on his face made tracks in the cement dust that filled his pores.

 "Nye plach," said Solo simply.

 "I never cry," croaked Kuryakin.

 "I'll stop complaining. I promise."

 But it was a few more seconds before Kuryakin could pull away and speak.

 "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sor--"

*****

 "Cut!! Cut!! Jeeziz, people, here we go again with the schmaltz! What is it with you guys? We are filming a spy epic here, not a soap opera. Who's writing this stuff? Phil, get me a writer on the set, please!   Show me the page where it says -- what did he say? Was that Russian? Since when do we actually have the characters speaking Russian? The audience doesn't understand that crap! Get it out of there!"

 "But they're friends. And one of them is Russian, and the American must have been teamed with him because he knew Russian, too, and --"

 "Who are you? Phil!! Who is this?"

 "I'm the writer. You called for a writer, and I came."

 "So get rid of the Russian stuff." The director waved the script away and lit a cigarette.

 "But the episode is entitled 'The Russian Spies Affair.' They have to communicate in Russian to reinforce the illusion for Solo that they are Russian spies." The writer's patience was wearing thin. It was hell to write for a paycheck. Everyone wanted to change your stuff.

*****

 Stuff? First smoosh and now stuff? You  don't know better words?

 Shut up, I'm writing!!

*****

 Solo had the feeling that the blond was apologizing for more than a delayed dinner stop, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

 Kuryakin turned and kept walking.

 A moment later Solo jogged to catch up. "Hey, I remember something," he said brightly. "We like soccer, don't we?"

 Kuryakin smiled a half-smile. "Yes, we like soccer."

 Solo noticed for the first time that his clothes were covered with cement dust. His voice was filled with genuine dismay.

 "This was a nice suit!"

 Kuryakin laughed wearily and shook his head.

 "Do you know where we're going?" asked Solo.

 Kuryakin shaded his eyes from the drooping western sun. It tortured the left side of his face.

 "It took us two hours to reach Highway 93," he said. "That's where we are now. From here, I estimate about fifty miles to Interstate Forty and perhaps there we can flag down a highway patrolman. There seems to be no traffic on this route at all today." Thank goodness. Thrush would be looking for them when they didn't find their bodies.

 In a voice that sounded eerily normal, Solo said, "So we're about seventy miles from Kingman, Arizona."

 Kuryakin glanced sharply at his companion, but the face was still not right. No memory of self yet, just geography.

 "Does anyone know where we are?" asked Solo.

 "I attempted to communicate with our people twice," said Kuryakin, careful not to mention specifics. What little first-aid he could remember having to do with amnesia warned against pushing too fast. Let the victim remember in his or her own time. Damned frustrating. But if Solo couldn't accept Napoleon as his first name, he wasn't likely to accept the rest of his improbable reality, either. "Unfortunately, my communication device is not receiving, so I have no way of knowing if they heard me."

 Solo nodded.

 "Any other questions?" asked Kuryakin.

 "Yeah. Why are we speaking Russian?"

 Kuryakin laughed, a silent bitter shaking of his diaphragm. "Because," he said gently, "I am too tired to speak anything else."

 "Ah."

*****

 "All right, that's a wrap. Break for lunch, people. Be back here in forty-five minutes!" The director's voice dropped as he added, "That way, maybe we can start again in an hour."  He spotted the writer.

 "Hey, you!"

 "Yes, sir?"

 "See? The amnesia thing works. Didn't I tell you?"

 A patient sigh. "Actually, the amnesia thing is all wrong. It's not realistic. Amnesia doesn't work that way. Memories don't just come filtering back, and blam!, suddenly you remember everything, all neat and tidy. I really think --"

 "That's the problem with writers. Always thinking. Look, sweetheart, if I want a novel, I'll go to a bookstore. Meanwhile, we keep the amnesia. It works. Solo looks good, the blond Beatle looks good, the fans are happy, and they don't know shit from amnesia, so what's the problem? We have a fifty-two minute window here. We can't do an entire documentary on amnesia this week. By the way, while you're eating, rewrite the next scene, will you? Add some humor. It's too bleak."

*****

 Suddenly overhead, the thick fwap-fwap-fwap of a helicopter cutting through the desert air sneaked up on them from behind. Kuryakin spun around, drawing his automatic as he searched the sky for the vehicle. With his free hand he seized Solo's sleeve and pulled him off the road. The sparse brush was no cover at all, but Kuryakin flattened out on the ground and rolled in the dirt. Solo caught on right away. Their clothes were already so dusty, it didn't take much to add another desert-colored coat to what they already wore. Then they curled up as best they could under a small paloverde tree and waited for the helicopter to come into view.

 Kuryakin's eyes were trained on the sky. Solo's eyes moved casually about, examining Kuryakin, peering at his automatic pistol, glancing with little interest at the sky. The Alouette that scooted by overhead was painted a dark gray color, and on the side a stylized bird on a white background was clearly visible from the ground.

 "Thrush." The word slipped out of Solo's mouth unbidden.

 Kuryakin squinted at him, looking for recognition in the dark eyes. But as far as Kuryakin could tell, he might as well have announced, "robin" or "woodpecker" for all the meaning the word had for him.

 "What about Thrush?" asked Kuryakin, the English word sounding strange in the Russian sentence.

 Solo looked confused. He searched for an answer. "I don't know. I guess -- it just looks like a thrush to me."

 Kuryakin nodded.

 "Shouldn't we wave at them? Let them know where we are?"

 "No!" Kuryakin put a hand out to stop Solo from moving into the open. "They are not our friends," he explained.

 "Oh."

 They lay beneath the paloverde until the sound of the helicopter was a distant memory.

 "You're tired," said Solo. "We should rest."

 Kuryakin shook his head no. "No time. We must go as far as we can before nightfall."

 Solo nodded. "They're after us, aren't they?"

 "Yes," said Kuryakin.

 "What did we do?"

 Kuryakin realized he had a headache. He wondered if it just started or if he'd had it all along and hadn't noticed before. He wondered if he was in shock. Maybe he had a mild concussion. He realized he could die out here in this American desert, a stranger in a foreign land, unknown even to his best friend. The thought made his sad and happy at the same time. Sad, because it was such a melancholy scenario. And happy, because it seemed like such a Russian way to die. He decided to tell his partner the truth.

 "We blew up a weapons station. An armament testing station, to be precise. It belonged to those people in the helicopter. And they are somewhat annoyed with us."

 Solo laughed, an unfettered sound of appreciation. "You're funny," he chuckled. A moment later, he added, "I like you."

 Kuryakin smiled wanly. "I like you, too, my friend."

 They crawled out from under the tree and continued northwest along the highway.

 "We blew it up?" asked Solo.

 Kuryakin nodded.

 Solo chuckled again. "I wish I could remember that. What a sight."

 Kuryakin said nothing. At the moment, he wished only that he could forget. Some missions were more bizarre than others, but this one frightened him. He would never set charges with a thirty-second fuse, not unless they were on a suicide mission, and neither of them ever embarked on a mission assuming they would not come back. So why did the charge explode after thirty seconds? And stranger still, why did he know it would?

 Even stronger was the fact that they survived the blast at all. They were less than fifty feet away from a destructive force designed to destroy the entire weapons facility. With that proximity, they could not have survived. And yet, here they were, walking down this eerily empty highway, eluding a Thrush chopper with ludicrous ease, considering the lack of surrounding cover.

 "I'm thirsty," said Solo.

 "Me, too."

 They walked on. And then he saw something.

 Only in America, thought Kuryakin, as the smudges on the horizon took shape. They weren't very large, and they jutted up from the ground like green gumby boxes on the verge of the little-trafficked highway. They were Sanihuts. A rest stop. Six Sanihuts, in case six different vehicles happened to converge at the same moment with six urine-filled bladders inside them. Kuryakin marveled at the ludicrous vision, then allowed himself a moment of profound gratitude, for even this silly little rest stop had picnic tables, and a drinking fountain and a spigot, both of which provided clean, fresh water.

 Kuryakin washed his face and hands, then cupped them to make a bowl. He drank and washed, washed and drank. The coolness of it felt like heaven on his sun-scorched face. He soaked his handkerchief and draped it over his head. He looked around for his partner.

 Solo was gone.

 Kuryakin's gut tightened into a knot. "Napoleon! Where are you?!"

 A Sanihut door swung open and his partner stepped out, taking fastidious care not to touch anything inside. Solo's features were twisted in disgust.

 "That thing is filthy!"

 Kuryakin laughed out loud, half from relief, half from Solo's reaction to the Sanihut. His partner might not know his own name, but he was still Napoleon Solo. Kuryakin found that reassuring.

 "You can go in the desert," he said when he could stop laughing.

 "Good idea. Oh, wait." Solo climbed back into the Sanihut and emerged with a wad of toilet paper. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket and patted the outside of it. "There. I don't relish the idea of using the local flora."

 Kuryakin doubled over with amusement. He laughed till he ran out of air, then he staggered to a picnic table and sat on the bench. He wiped his face with his damp handkerchief.

 Solo watched him, his face a bemused question mark.

 "Sorry," gasped Kuryakin. "It was so funny. The look on your face when you came out of the Sanihut."

 Solo smiled. "We make each other laugh. That's a good thing."

 "Yes," smiled Kuryakin, wiping his eyes. "Yes, it is." He stood up. "Help me dig through the trash."

 "What are we looking for?"

 "Something we can carry water in."

 They found a half-gallon cardboard orange juice carton that was still fairly fresh and a couple of beer cans that rinsed out satisfactorily.

 "Not much," said Solo.

 "No, but we can't carry much more than this anyway." Kuryakin rinsed the orange juice carton one last time, then filled it from the spigot. He straightened up to see Solo moving toward the highway.

 "What's your hurry?" called Kuryakin.

 "A car," said Solo. "I see a car coming." He raised a hand to wave it down.

 Kuryakin grabbed him from behind and whirled him toward the Sanihuts. "No, no! Come with me, quickly!" He pulled him out of sight behind one of the huts and waited for the car to pass.

 "But what if they're our people?"

 "They're not," said Kuryakin flatly. He peered around the Sanihut as the pale blue Volkswagen bug buzzed down the road. It didn't look like a Thrush vehicle, but he didn't feel like taking chances. Besides, his gut told him that stopping a passing car would prove fatal. His gut also told him that this entire scenario was all wrong. His entrails never lied to him.

 He looked at his partner and marveled at the openness of the face, the lack of guile, the frank bepuzzlement. What was that American expression? The lights were on but no one was home.

 "You don't think they'll come for us?"

 Kuryakin pulled his communicator out of his pocket and tried once more to open a channel. The pen sputtered and cackled with static, then fell ominously silent. He sighed heavily and put it back in his breast pocket. "They don't know where we are," he said sadly. "And it's a very big desert."

 "They think we're dead," said Solo.

 Kuryakin was suddenly very tired. "They may be right, my friend." Because the reality that surrounded them was too surreal to believe. He handed his partner the carton of water. "Here. You get the first turn carrying this. I'll fetch the beer cans. Let's go."

*****

 The director sighed heavily. "If this is the rewrite, my God, the original must have been incomprehensibly dismal. Where is all this rumination happening? Show me in the script where they ruminate. You realize, of course, that rumination does not film well. Jeeziz! We are a visual medium! Do you hear me, people?! Action! We need --"

*****

 The sun lowered itself gingerly toward the cactus-covered horizon. The temperature was dropping fast. Kuryakin felt the chill through his jacket. A wind came up as the earth cooled and beat at them mercilessly. It added to the chill.

 Solo walked with one hand massaging his belly, his single silent commentary on the state of his empty stomach.

 "We need a place to spend the night," he said simply.

 Kuryakin nodded. He was too tired for words, even in his native tongue.

 "Let's go that way," said Solo, pointing down a dirt road.

 Kuryakin forced his lips to move. "Why?"

 Solo shrugged. "It's a road. It must lead somewhere. Maybe to a house."

 Kuryakin would never have called the two ruts in the hard-packed earth a road, but he was too tired to argue. He let Solo lead the way down the unpaved road. He made a mental note that they were traveling west, directly into the setting sun. They would need to head east in the morning to find the highway again.

 They walked for another thirty minutes along the dirt road. The sun was gone now. They were navigating in twilight. The falling temperature and strengthening wind combined to keep them moving briskly. Kuryakin pulled his sport jacket tightly around himself and walked with his arms crossed in front. He stopped short as two large jackrabbits zipped across the trail ahead.

 "Big ones," said Solo. He tapped Kuryakin's arm. "You keep telling me we're friends," he said. "Can I use your gun?"

 Kuryakin pulled the automatic from its holster and handed it to his partner.

 Solo put a finger to his lips to signal silence, then advanced along the road with the automatic at the ready. Even with no memory of his life as Napoleon Solo, his training showed in every movement. The gun muzzle pointed skyward, awaiting a need. His dark eyes scanned the brush ahead for another jackrabbit to break cover.

 Kuryakin shook his head back and forth. No way. Trying to hit a jackrabbit with a pistol? The animals were too fast.

 But Solo paused and lowered the gun sight. Kuryakin peered into the distant twilight. Ahead of them, two jackrabbits sat up on their haunches and peered at the large intruders into their territory. Even with the silencer in place, the crack of the gunshot was appallingly brutal in the pristine desert air. One rabbit dropped dead. The other bolted away to safety, having learned a hard lesson about the food chain.

*****

 "All right, now I've heard everything," complained the director. "Appallingly brutal in the pristine desert air? People, come on, this is not The Twilight Zone. We're filming Man from U.N.C.L.E.!" He stood up and gestured dramatically into the darkness around the set. "Are you listening to me?!" He could make out dark biomorphic shapes, none of which had the balls to reply.  "Jeeziz! You try to make quality TV, and you have to do it all by yourself. Phil! Cue the actors! Can't they see we're taking a break?! Yes, yes, they're nice guys. I think they're swell. Hey, I said, we're taking a break! Cut! Cut!!"

 But no one cut.

*****

 Solo winked at Kuryakin and handed him back the automatic.

 "Dinner."

 Kuryakin was impressed. "I didn't know you were such a frontiersman," he remarked.

 Solo shrugged. "Neither did I." His voice was full of wonder. He lifted the jackrabbit by its ears. They were still warm. "Look." He gestured to the right. "There's a cabin."

 It wasn't a cabin. It was the stone remains of what had once been a structure. Only three walls were standing. There was no roof. The floor was packed earth. But they were not the only ones to have sought refuge in this place. The remains of someone else's campfire blackened the dirt.

 They used the last remaining light to scavenge for firewood. Nothing they collected could be called logs or even sticks, but they managed to gather enough dry, flammable brush to serve the same purpose. Kuryakin built a fire. He was pleased to see Solo skinning out the rabbit. That particular task did not appeal to him.

 In the end, they tore off cooked bits and stuck the beast back over the flames while they consumed the scorched outer flesh. They washed it down with the last of the water from the salvaged orange juice carton.

 It was delicious.

 "We probably should not have a fire," said Kuryakin, now that they were eating. "Thrush may spot it and come after us."

 "Well, they better bring their own rabbit," said Solo, "because I'm not sharing this one with anyone but you."

 Kuryakin smiled. "What are you planning for breakfast?"

 "I don't know. Let's live through the night before we worry about breakfast." He licked the rabbit off his fingers. "All done? Okay, I'll put this out."

 Kuryakin stopped him. "Just a few more minutes," he said. He stretched his hands over the dying flames. "It's going to be very cold."

 "That's the desert for you. Burn you during the day and freeze you at night," said Solo. "Don't worry, we won't freeze. We'll snug up against that wall, right next to each other, and share body heat. We'll be all right." He stopped fooling with the fire and looked into Kuryakin's face. He seemed surprised by his own words.  "Damn, I'm good," he said softly. "Maybe my name is Davy Crockett."

 Kuryakin chuckled appreciatively. Then his expression darkened. "This must be hard for you," he said.

 Solo's expression lengthened into a mixture of sadness and confusion. "I feel like Frankenstein's monster," he said softly. "Like I just woke up on the table, after the lightning strike. Full grown. Just born. Filled with lots of trivia, but wiped clean of everything that was me."

 Kuryakin nodded.

 "But I think I've figured us out," said Solo.

 "Oh, really?" Kuryakin felt a spark of hope.

 Solo winked at him. "We're Russian spies."

 Kuryakin blinked at him for moment, then laughed under his breath.

 Solo's eyes crinkled with humor. "Well? Not bad, eh? We run around in the American desert blowing up weapons installations, but we speak Russian, and we can't flag anyone down because they may be the enemy. So we must be Russian spies. Am I right?"

 Kuryakin nodded. "You are right. We are spies."

 "And you said my name is Napoleon. Well, if I'm a spy named Napoleon, it must be a code name of some kind, right? I must work in France or something . Or maybe -- oui! Je parle français! I speak French!"

 Kuryakin smiled. "Yes, you speak French."

 Solo smiled back. "You're humoring me, aren't you?"

 "Only partly. I am a Russian spy. You are from this side of the ocean."

 "Ah," said Solo. "That explains why I speak Russian with an accent." He grew serious. "Hey, we're not criminals or anything, are we?"

 "No. We are not criminals."

 "Good." Solo put out the fire and covered the hot ashes with dirt. Then the two friends got as comfortable as they could in the shelter of the tallest wall. Solo pressed his back against the sun-warmed stone, and Kuryakin pressed his back against Solo. Kuryakin cradled his automatic in one hand and held his jacket shut with the other. After a few moments, Solo's natural heat filtered through the layers of cloth and he relaxed a bit as the warmth spread through him. Solo lay one arm over Kuryakin's upper body, balancing his hand on the other's shoulder. When he spoke, his breath moved the hair on the back of Kuryakin's head.

 "Are we really spies?"

 Kuryakin smiled into the darkness. "Yes, my friend. We are really spies. Does that alarm you?"

 Napoleon was silent for a while. Then he said wryly, "It just seems like a hell of a career twist. Who do we work for?"

 Kuryakin hesitated, but before he could respond, Solo continued.

 "We're not CIA, are we?"

 It was much easier to confirm or deny Solo's guesses than to take a chance on giving him information he wasn't ready for yet.

 "No, we are not CIA."

 Another pause. Then, "Oh, God, we're not FBI, are we?"

 Kuryakin shook with amusement. Solo had told him five FBI jokes on the way to Arizona. "No," he answered around the end of his laughter, "we are not FBI."

 "Well, that's a relief." A long pause. Then, sleepily, "G'night, Illya."

 "Goodnight, Napoleon."

*****

 "It's about time you doused the lights," grumbled the director. "Heads are going to roll. How can I work like this? Half the crew ignores my directions, the writer does rewrites that are worse than the original. Why me? That's all I want to know. Why me?"

 "Maybe it's revenge," said Phil.

 "Revenge for what?"

 "For not taking the show seriously enough. The writers are trying to inject realism, and you're shooting to schedule and cutting corners."

 "I thought you were on my side."

 "I can't take sides. I'm a literary device."

 The director's hands trembled as he lit another cigarette. "Shit, I was wrong. We are filming The Twilight Zone, after all."  He made a wry face at his little joke. "Well, stow your twisted humor, Phil. I'm going home for the night. Bring it back in the morning, though. I might be in the mood for it then."

 "Good night."

 "Nighty-night. Where the hell is the door? First they leave the lights on, then they turn them all off. And where is the writer? Hey! Wait! I need to talk to you a minute!"

 The writer turned and waited for the director to approach. "I was just headed home."

 "Weren't we all? Now, listen, tomorrow, I want to see some new pages, understood? I want filmable action here, not rumination. Not two touchy-feely friends having a cosmic experience together in the desert. I want chases, I want escapes, I want derring-do. And where's the innocent in this script? We always have an innocent. I can't believe they approved this crap for filming."

 "There was an innocent in the original, but that was several rewrites ago," said the writer wearily. "I put one in and they take it out. I take it out  and you want one in."

 "Well, they were wrong. I am right. We need an innocent. Period. Rewrite your rewrite, sweetheart, and while you're at it, give the characters some balls, will you? Enough with the transcendental meditation! Good night!!" It was more an expletive than a leave-taking.

*****

That was good. I liked that.

Thanks. Now leave me alone. I'm almost done.

*****

 Morning came early in the desert. Assorted birds and small animals served more than adequately as an alarm clock, not to mention the strength of daylight unfiltered by curtains or blinds or roof shingles. Kuryakin awoke with the peaceful feeling he always experienced when sleeping out of doors.

 Seconds later, he remembered where he was and what his situation was, and the feeling of peace evaporated. At least he was warm. Solo had one of those metabolisms that provided enough body heat for three people. Kuryakin didn't want to get up, but his bladder insisted. He rolled away as gently as he could and moved silently outside the stone walls to urinate.

 When he returned, his partner was still sleeping. He was tempted to return to Solo's side and warm his front half, but the intimacy of such a gesture would surely be misinterpreted by the American. He smiled to himself. People with central heating do not understand the survival nature of body contact. They think everything is sexual.

 His stomach growled, and he was thirsty. Nothing could be done about either situation. He read once that certain cacti could be a source of water, but he didn't recall seeing any nearby. He sat cross-legged a few feet from his partner and lowered his head in his hands. Solo slept on. Kuryakin decided to use the privacy for a personal matter.

 A short time later, he straightened up and crossed himself in the Russian fashion, up, down, right, left. Solo's voice startled him.

 "Caught in the act."

 Kuryakin jumped six inches.

 Solo grinned. "Sorry. I was wondering how you got us out of that weapons facility alive. Now I know. Divine intervention."

 Kuryakin tilted his head and peered carefully at his partner. "Napoleon?"

 "You were expecting, maybe, Davy Crockett?"

 Kuryakin grinned with relief. "You're back! I mean, you remember who you are!"

 Solo sat up stiffly. "Oh, my aching head. Yes, I remember." He ran his tongue around his mouth. "We're out of water, aren't we? Hey, I thought you were a card-carrying Communist."

 Kuryakin shrugged. "The Communist Party does it's best work with social issues. For miracles, you have to go elsewhere."

 Solo flashed a grin. "I've been elevated to the status of a miracle?" He groaned as he got to his feet. "I sure don't feel like one. Did you ever notice -- oh, Jesus -- that the body really starts to hurt on the second day after a trauma?" He moved his left shoulder experimentally, then his right. Then he straightened his back and sighed.

 "Are you all right?" asked Kuryakin.

 "I have to pee. I'll be right back."

 When Solo was out of sight, Kuryakin crossed himself again for good measure. It was good to have Solo himself again. But along with that relief came the worry. He wondered how Solo's memory could have reappeared so suddenly? Amnesia didn't work that way. Not even Capsule B.  It must have been some new kind of Thrush drug. If it wore off during their sleep, that could explain how Solo woke up knowing who he was again. But when and where was he drugged? And if Solo was drugged, why wasn't Kuryakin? And the whole thing with the thirty-second detonation still bothered him. If he really did set the timer for thirty seconds, he'd made an amateur's mistake. How long would it be before Solo mentioned it? Or maybe he was saving it for his report. Suddenly Kuryakin wasn't hungry anymore. He decided he couldn't wait. He had to talk to Solo about this. He had to know what he planned to tell Waverly.

 Solo reappeared, straightening his soiled clothes. He ran his fingers through his hair. After a moment, he noticed that Kuryakin was watching him.

 "Why the long face, partner? We lived through the night. I've got my memory back, such as it is. And I just found a dime in my pocket. As soon as we reach a phone, we'll call for a pick up." He tossed the coin at Kuryakin.

 Kuryakin caught it in mid-air, but he said nothing. Instead, he stared at the coin to avoid looking at Solo.

 Solo lowered himself to the ground next to Kuryakin. "Hey."  He nudged the Russian's arm with the back of his hand. "You were a lot more talkative yesterday when you were running around in the desert."

 "Sorry. I was trying to formulate an apology."

 Solo's face turned into a question. "Apology for what?"

 Kuryakin made an incredulous noise. "I nearly  got us killed! I can't believe I made such a stupid mistake. I swear to you, I set the detonator for thirty minutes, not thirty seconds! But there is no way to prove it. I have been trying to deny it to myself, but the fact is, I must have blundered. You will have to report it." He dropped his eyes to the ground and added softly, "It's not going to look very good on my record."

 Solo took the dime back and rolled it between his thumb and index finger, back and forth. "My report to Waverly." Solo tossed the dime from one hand to another. "Want to hear it? Okay. Here goes.

 "Faced with the unforeseen necessity of defusing a dozen nuclear warhead launch devices, Mr. Kuryakin was unable to set the timer before the arrival of the new shift of guards. Realizing that the mission would fail if he allowed us an escape window, he set the timer for thirty seconds, knowing we would die in the blast. But somehow, we survived." Solo winked at his partner. "Feel better?"

 "But Napoleon, I --"

 "You did what you always do," said Solo. "You did an impossible job under hazardous circumstances. The mission goal was accomplished, and we both thought we were going to die. Period. End of report." He looked solemnly into Kuryakin's blue eyes.

 Kuryakin had to look away. "Thank you," he said simply.

 "You want to thank me?" asked Solo. "Easy. Don't tell anyone I thought I was a Russian spy, okay?"

 Kuryakin grinned. "Okay."

 "We'd better go. We've got a long walk ahead of us."

 "Yes."

*****

 But what about the director? You left the reader thinking the director would pop up somewhere. You can't just forget about him.

 You know, this would be a lot easier if you would quit reading over my shoulder. I haven't forgotten.

*****

 "Hey, you feel better today. I can tell. We're speaking English."

 They shuffled eastward, toward the highway. Kuryakin marveled at the heat of the morning sun. It beat against his face as savagely as the afternoon sun had done the day before. No difference. That wasn't right. It should be cooler in the morning. After all, they nearly froze during the night. Without the lights. The lights?

 "Napoleon, something is wrong."

 The American had already stopped walking. It was like that sometimes, as if they were connected by a psychic thread. More than once, it had saved their lives. They were aware of it, but they never talked about it.

 Solo gazed about at their surroundings. His forehead furrowed in the two ruts that signified confusion. "We're not outdoors," he said at last.

 Kuryakin made a sound that was almost a laugh, but it caught in his throat. "I knew something strange was happening when we lived through that explosion!"

 Solo nodded. "Agreed. In addition, you never make mistakes with explosives. We wouldn't be alive if you did. Therefore, you did not make a mistake."

 "So what happened?" Kuryakin unconsciously moved a step closer to his partner.

 "We are being controlled," said Solo softly. "Somehow."

 A figure stepped out the of the shadows in the distance.

 "Didn't you guys hear me yell cut?! Fer Chrissakes, get out of here! We're through for the day!"

 Solo and Kuryakin exchanged quick glances, then separated slightly. If the newcomer was armed, they did not want to make it easy on him. Better to move in opposite directions.

 "Who are you?" asked Solo as Kuryakin positioned himself to overpower the man.

 "Cut the crap," snarled the director. "Yeah, I heard you were a funny man, but this is taking things too far." He tilted his head back as if calling to someone in the rafters. "You hear that, Phil?! This is too damn weird! It ain't funny anymore!" Then under his breath, "Goddamn practical joker."

 Solo observed Kuryakin out of the corner of one eye. Not ready yet. Keep the man talking.

 "Yes, we noticed it, too," he said, spreading his hands innocently. "Something strange is definitely going on. Where is Phil, anyway?" He glanced around, filled with unease at the encroaching darkness so soon after dawn. But they  weren't outside anymore. If they ever were.

 "Who the hell knows," grumbled the director, reaching into his coat pocket.

 He never withdrew his hand. Kuryakin tackled him from the side. The two of them went down in a grunting heap.

 As soon as he found his wind, the director bellowed, "Jeeziz H. Christ! That's it! I've had it with this crazy crew! You guys are fired!"

 Kuryakin finished checking the man's pockets, found nothing but cigarettes and a lighter, and backed away. He glanced uneasily at this partner.

 Solo grinned easily, shook out his sleeves, and ran his hands through his hair. The newcomer was unarmed. Therefore, he was harmless.

 "You can't fire us," said Solo.

 The director was so angry, he was salivating. "Well, maybe not, but I can quit, goddamn it! And then where will you be? Answer me that!?"

 Solo shrugged easily. "I have no idea, but then I didn't know where I was five minutes ago anyway. Illya, try your communicator."

 Kuryakin pulled his pen out of his pocket, made the necessary rearrangement of its parts, and twisted it to open a channel."

 "Open Channel D. Emergency relay. Kuryakin here."

 The director's eyes bugged out. His complexion was an unhealthy mottled purple. "It's a frigging prop!"

 From the pen came the reassuring voice of Alexander Waverly. "Go ahead, Mr. Kuryakin."

 The director began to laugh. "Okay, okay, I've been had big time. I give! I give up, Phil! Can you hear me? You win! This takes the cake!" He found his director's chair and slumped into it. He looked very tired.

 Waverly's voice sounded again. "Where are you? And who is that screaming in the background?"

 Kuryakin reported while his partner checked the vicinity for whoever the director thought he was talking to.

 Solo returned as Kuryakin was closing his pen. "I think this is the only one," he said. "The place is empty, except for us."

 "Good. Where are we, by the way?"

 "It looks like a television studio. Thrush must be using it as a cover."

 "Any ideas about the drugs they used on us?"

 "Nope. But we'll take this fellow along with us. He should be able to provide some answers. Interrogation should have an easy time of it with this one. He's practically babbling as it is."

 Kuryakin nodded. "Perhaps they drugged him as well. Perhaps he is an innocent in all of this."

 "I guess we'll find out," said Solo. "Let's go."

 Section Three homed in on the Russian's transmission and managed to meet them outside the studio within minutes. They took charge of the raving director.

 "We're in New York!" said Solo, raising his eyes to the familiar morning face of the city.

 "I am glad to see it is morning," said Kuryakin. "Whatever they gave us, it is alarmingly efficient. My sense of reality was severely disturbed."

 "Mine, too. Hopefully, this guy will still have some in his blood so our lab boys can analyze it and figure out how to counteract it before we encounter it again." Solo took a healthy lungful of air and exhaled noisily. "Taxi?"

 Kuryakin shook his head. "Let's walk. Maybe we can find a place to have breakfast on the way. I'm starving."

 Solo grinned and clapped his partner on the back. "Good idea." He stepped away for a moment to let Section Three know their plans. Then he was back, and they set out for U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

 For several minutes, they walked in companionable silence. Then Kuryakin spoke.

 "Napoleon?"

 "Hmm?"

 "You never…? You know." Kuryakin crossed himself quickly.

 "Oh, sure, lots of times. Every time I'm shot at, or captured, or blown up. It comes with the territory."

 "Territory?"

 "Yeah. There are no atheists in foxholes. Or in Section Two. Hey, how many FBI agents does it take to talk to the President."

 "Ya nye znayoo." I don't know.

 "None. All you need is the right phone number."

 Thwack.

 "Ow. You hit me! Crazy Russian."

 Kuryakin's eyes twinkled. It was good to have things back to normal.

*****

 Not bad. But I want to write the next one.

 What's the matter? Tired of my FBI jokes?

 No. I just want to do one in Russian. So many nuances of feeling are lost in English, you know?

 Aaahhh. Yes, I see. All right, then. The next one is all yours.

 You won't mind translating it?

 Why? Waverly reads Russian. And if he wants it in English, let Translation take care of it.

 Spasibo.

 You're welcome.

End