Ever After Chapter 5

THE PRISONERS

I.

There was a fight, of course. They couldn't be expected to give up without a fight. Fred held Steed at bay with the machine gun pistol while Emma Peel attacked Tara King. They exchanged karate strikes and blocks, then Emma delivered a blow a bit too slowly and Tara King grabbed and twisted her arm behind her back, tripping her simultaneously face first down onto the floor. A karate chop to the neck and Emma Peel lay still. Steed started to rise but Fred lifted the machine gun pistol menacingly and he subsided back into his seat, giving his best insouciant look.

Tara King stood up, her face glowing triumphantly as she gazed from Fred to Steed.

''Youth over age every time,'' Fred said.

Good thing Emma was unconscious, Steed thought.

''What happens now?'' he demanded. Tara King peered into her handbag - a large, white, squat leather bag which looked as if it were about to sprout arms and start grabbing things, and removed two pairs of handcuffs. She knelt and applied one pair to the wrists of Emma Peel. Then she began patting Emma down, found the walkie talkie in her jacket pocket and removed it. She rolled Emma over and completed the search, finding the gun which had been tucked into the waist band of her trousers. She held it up to Steed. ''So she thought she could defeat me without using her gun? Self-confidence goes before a fall, eh, Mister Steed?

''So I've heard,'' Steed said with a chagrined smile.

Tara King took the machine gun pistol from Fred, and held it to the head of Emma Peel. ''Let Steed...my Steed, put the handcuffs on you.''

Steed rose to his feet and put his hands behind his back, allowing Fred to cinch them together tightly. Then Fred searched him, and found the walkie talkie in his jacket pocket.

They were remarkably lax, Steed thought, as Tara King brought a pitcher of water and poured it over Emma Peel, causing her to sit up gasping. They'd searched them superficially, but they hadn't examined the soles of their shoes, his belt, things like that...didn't they read Modesty Blaise or watch James Bond movies?

Tara waved the machine gun pistol at them. ''Parked behind Steed's Bentley is my car. Get into it.''

''Where are we going?'' demanded Steed.

''To the Village.''

''You can't let Mrs. Peel go like that,'' Steed objected, nodding at her wet hair and face as she gave him a Peelish look.

''She'd draw attention without even trying,'' Fred told Tara King.

Tara brought out a towel from the lav and wiped Mrs. Peel's face and hair. Emma gave her a Peelish look as well.

They were herded out into Tara King's car and placed in the back seat. Fred drove, with Tara King right beside them. Tara flashed the machine gun pistol at them. ''Any attempt to escape, Steed, and Mrs. Peel will suffer for it. And vice versa, Mrs. Peel.''

Steed and Emma Peel exchanged glances. Emma Peel closed one eye in a wink. Steed's head inclined unobtrusively to anyone except Mrs. Peel.

When Tara King looked back at them via the rear view mirror, which she did frequently, she found Steed with his eyes closed, and Emma Peel snuggled close to him, with her head against his shoulder. Tara King's lips would curve in a triumphant smile. They were defeated...she had defeated them.

Far behind, a car...not a white van but a hastily traded-for, much more unobtrusive car, followed them.

II.

''Shouldn't we be blindfolded?'' John Steed said, a couple of hours later.

Tara King turned to face them, smiling her triumphant smile once again. ''It's not necessary,'' she said smugly. ''You won't be leaving. No one escapes from the Village.''

''You're very confident,'' Emma Peel said.

''The Village has been in existence for five years, Mrs. Peel, and no one has ever escaped. No one ever wants to escape. You won't want to, either. All of your wants and needs are cared for. All of your desires are met. It's a paradise.''

''From which we can never leave.''

''Well, if you're going to look for a down side...there'll be no pleasing you.''

They were driving down a long road between two Welsh mountains. The road seemed to go down and down...and down and down...until it swallowed them up and they were driving through darkness. The car came to a halt, and they were suddenly surrounded by men dressed in white form-fitting suits. Steed and Emma were unceremoniously dragged from the car.

''Good-bye, Steed, Mrs. Peel,'' said Dr. Tara King.

III

''What a quaint village,'' observed Emma Peel. She was walking arm and arm with John Steed down the gently rolling pathways of the village, with its quaint gingerboard houses, its seemingly pastoral simplicity...the men and women all dressed in the same outfits - men in black shirt and slacks, women in white dresses and carrying sun parasols.

''It will drive me crazy in a week,'' Steed said out of the side of his mouth.

''That's undoubtedly their plan.'' Emma sided back to him.

Steed paused and addressed himself to the lighting of a cigar.

''How many days are we going to give them?'' she asked as he attempted to blow a smoke ring.

''None at all. I say we make our move tonight.''

'''Tonight?'' Emma nodded. ''Audacious, Steed.''

He smiled and blew one smoke ring inside another. ''They'll expect us to wait a day or two, to feel our way around and get the lay of the land. They'll also be expecting us to be trying to get out.''

''As opposed to taking over the asylum with the help of the inmates? I don't know if that's going to be possible, Steed. Everyone here looks pretty contented.''

''Bunch of sheep,'' Steed said disparagingly.

Emma glanced around, twirling her parasol. ''Except for that man...there.''

Steed casually glanced in the direction that her parasol was twirling, and as casually glanced away. He saw a tall, brooding man standing on the edge of a gigantic chessboard, contemplating the game..a loner - the only person they'd seen who was not with someone else...a man whom he recognized. ''It's John Drake. He died, a year ago.''

''Time to bring him back to life, then.''

John Drake turned around. He was tall, an inch or so taller than Steed, with a lankier build. Brown hair cut short, face handsome in a gaunt sort of way, eyes angry. He stared at them for long seconds. Then he turned and walked away.

IV.

John Steed gazed downward with eagle eyes, searching, probing...finding. Ah, there was another straight-edged piece. He picked it up and fit it into the border he was building. ''Ever read 1984, Mrs. Peel?'' he asked, quietly. It was hard to hear, over the loud jazz music on the Victrola, but Steed and Emma Peel were so attuned to each other's voices that they had no problem.

Emma Peel was sorting through the pile of pieces, separating out those with matching colors. They were busy working on a jigsaw puzzle featuring a fantasy golf links.

''Years ago, Steed,'' she said, absently, using her long fingers to turn over piece after piece. ''I was never impressed with it. Orwell wasn't much of a science fiction writer, in my opinion. And it was boring.''

''Quite...but I was thinking more along the lines of the surveillance in the book. Big Brother is watching you.''

They turned to look at the big screen television set behind them. Although it was switched off, one button on it glowed red. Was it watching them?

''How many residents would you say this Village has?'' asked Emma.

''About...two hundred,'' Steed said, musingly, pouncing on another piece.

''And there can't be two hundred...watchers...watching them.''

''You wouldn't think so. Surely there couldn't even be one hundred watchers...watching them.''

''Ye-es.'' Steed glanced at the big black box again. ''I envision a rack of television sets, with cameras alternating between each one.''

''Hard on the neck, looking up and down all those television sets every few seconds,'' Emma commented, discarding one piece she'd been trying to fit into another with a sigh and moving on. ''And sound.'' she continued. ''Hard on the ears, listening to a jumble of hundreds of people talking to each other.''

''But at night, that changes.'' said Steed. ''Everyone is supposed to be asleep, and nobody's talking. The watchers have it easy. They see someone moving, they hear someone talking, and they set off an alarm. Nights are not our friends.''

Emma glanced out at the sunset. ''So what are you saying? We're not going to wait for the witching hour of midnight?''

Steed fit a final piece into place, and the border was complete. ''No time like the present, Mrs. Peel.''

They stood up as one. Steed held the front door open for her and they went out into the fresh air.

''Going somewhere?'' asked John Drake.

IV.

The next morning Emma Peel and John Steed slept late and awoke betimes.

Waves of sunlight poured in through the open windows, rolling over the furniture and saturating them with warmth.

Then came the voices. Murmurs of discontent.

Steed rolled out of bed and padded to a window. He stood to one side, peering out cautiously. All of the inhabitants of the Village seemed to be out in the streets, looking around, lost as sheep.

''The natives are getting restless,'' he told Mrs. Peel.

Emma propped several pillows behind her back and sat up comfortably, looking as smug and as satisfied as an oriental potenate. ''They're missing their television in the morning.''

''No radios, no television, no electric can openers, no cooking,'' said Steed. ''Which reminds me, I'm hungry.''

''Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Steed. And tepid water.''

Steed sighed.

Among other things, they had spent the night before in snipping away at the electrical system of the Village. It was now quite dead.

Steed glanced out of the window again. ''Uh oh,'' he said.''

''What's the matter?''

''A mob seems to be forming. And they're not heading our way.''

''How silly of them.''

There was a rustle of silk and Emma joined him at the window. Steed was right.

''They're going to John Drake's,'' Steed snapped. ''He's the only discontented one here, and they know it. They think he's done this on his own.''

''We'd better get dressed for action,'' Emma replied, whirling away from the window.

III.

There were bicycles in the Village. Old fashioned bicycles, the kind with a very large front wheel and a very small rear wheel. Several of those bicycles had been cannibalized and now Steed and Emma rode down the streets on fast bikes, the kind with which you could really get some speed up if you needed to.

They rode past John Drake's house, and paused. ''It's like a scene out of Frankenstein,'' Emma said sadly. ''I'm surprised they don't have pitchforks and flaming torches with them.''

A mob was milling around Drake's house, but they had not yet acquired the courage to go in after their quarry. They were working themselves up to it, however. Steed and Emma exchanged glances, in essence saying, 'leave them,' and then pedaled on. They made for the high ground.

There was only one 'high ground' around the pastoral village. Now it contained a stack of wood laid out as a bonfire. John Drake had never returned to his house but had spent the rest of the night creating it. Emma and Steed biked up to it and dismounted. John Drake appeared, none the worse for wear for having spent the entire night out in the open.

''They're bound to come up here sooner or later,'' Drake said in his abrupt manner.

Steed looked at his watch. ''Noon. We have to hold out until noon.''

''Why so sure it will be noon?''

Steed shrugged. ''Noon. Midnight. Those are the times when Things Happen.''

It was all too easy, thought John Drake, as his eagle eyes were the first to see the dot on the horizon. He nudged Steed and then pointed to it. Steed nodded and looked at his watch. Good old Mrs. Gale. You could always depend on her in a crisis. But it was too easy, thought Drake. For two years he'd struggled to leave this place, and never succeeded. And now...just like that...a helicopter was coming over the horizon. And here they were, just waiting for it. He hid his face in his hands for a second or two. Hope was springing within him, and he was all too familiar with that old story, of a man imprisoned by the Inquisition. He too thought he'd been about to escape, and just as he'd breathed freedom's sweet air, the Inquisitor had appeared and drawn him back, deliberately crushing all hope at that penultimate moment. Could it happen this time as well?

The helicopter was closer now, and they could hear the steady beat of its rotors. Drake lit the bonfire. ''That will bring them coming,'' he commented.

Steed and Emma nodded. ''Only to be expected that we'd have to fight a few people before we made our escape,'' Steed said. ''That's the way of things.''

''The people I want to fight are at 3 Stable Mews,'' Emma said coldly.

Steed nodded. ''We'll be taking care of them next. No holds barred, this time.''

It happened very fast. The helicopter, a huge one, swooped in. It landed right beside them on the hilltop. There was a woman piloting it. Mrs. Catherine Gale, Drake deduced. They piled into the rear and Mrs. Gale took off again, sweeping the helicopter into a wide arc and returning the way she came. The madmen of the Village were still a hundred yards away from the top of the hilltop as they passed over them.

Drake looked at his hands. He took a deep breath. ''Rather anticlimactic,'' he said, hoarsely. ''But, God, how good it feels.''

IV.

Cathy Gale dropped them off at a small county airport nearest London, and then took off to return the helicopter to whomever she'd borrowed it from. John Drake offered to come with them to 3 Stable Mews, but Steed declined with thanks. ''This is something just between the four of us,'' he explained, and Drake nodded.

''Keep in touch,'' he said, extending a hand.

Steed nodded, tapping his blazer pocket where various code names and addresses now dwelled. ''Will do.''

V.

John Steed and Emma Peel arrived once more back at 3 Stable Mews. They looked at each other.

''We can't go home again,'' Emma Peel said sadly.

Steed shrugged. ''Wherever we are will be home. America was rather nice. That California...we'd be right at home there.''

Emma nodded. ''California...here we come. Well, let's leave on a happy note.''

Simultaneously they climbed out of the car and made their way up to the false Steed's flat.

This time, Steed didn't pussyfoot around. He raised a foot and kicked the door in. He was in in a flash, just in time to shove the false Steed back into his chair. ''Ladies first, old man.'' he said, cheerfully.

Tara King rose to her feet slowly, her face a frozen mask of consternation. Emma Peel waited for her, standing on the balls of her feet, snapping her fingers rhythmically. She wanted Tara King to make the first move. Steed smiled inwardly. Mrs. Peel was going to have some fun.

Tara grabbed a vase from a nearby table and flung it at Mrs. Peel. Emma moved her head out of the way with a sinuous twist of her torso, but otherwise remained unmoving. The vase crashed behind her and shattered into a thousand pieces. The two Steeds winced simultaneously.

Tara glanced around for something else to throw. Her eyes caught the swords hung on the wall. With a long stride she was there and ripped one down. She did not have the decency to flick a sword over to Emma. The age of chivalry had withered away, as far as Tara King was concerned.

Tara brought the sword around in a swinging arc. Emma ducked underneath it and lunged forward, burying her shoulder into Tara's diaphragm and literally picking her up and carrying her several feet, slamming her back into the wall. Tara gasped and lost her grip on the sword. Emma caught it before it fell to the floor and backed up. She gestured with her head for Tara to get the other sword.

But Tara King wasn't a swordswoman, and Emma Peel was. Tara merely advanced, carefully. She'd judged Emma's character correctly. Emma wanted to do this mano a mano. She tossed the sword to Steed, and then turned her attention back to Tara King, just as Tara had known she would. But the rest of the fight did not go as Tara had expected. They exchanged karate blows and blocks, in much the same way as they had done a few days previously. Only this time, Emma Peel's blows were very fast and very sure very no-holds-barred. Tara King wasn't prepared for the increase in speed and precision, and she was extremely disconcerted by the beatific smile on the older woman's face. When the final blow came that knocked her unconscious it was almost a relief.

Steed looked at Fred with a beatific smile of his own.

''Our turn now, eh, old chap?'' Fred said.

Steed shook his head.

''Not at all, old chap. Although I could beat you to a pulp, make no mistake about that. But there's no point in proving it. We've won, you've lost.''

''Hardly sporting of you, old chap.'' Fred said.

Steed only grinned. Coldly.

''I'm still John Steed,'' Fred said tightly.

Steed nodded. ''And you're welcome to him. But you're to leave us alone, understand?''

Fred blinked at him. ''I beg your pardon?''

''We're going away, Fred. We're going to make new lives for ourselves. You and Tara King can keep Department S.''

Fred blinked again.

''That's it?'' he said.

Steed nodded. ''If knowledge of the Village were to get out it would seriously undermine the work of all of our secret service departments. If knowledge of what you did to Mrs. Peel and myself were to get out, it would also undermine things. So knowledge isn't going to get out. And Mrs. Peel and I are sick to death of Department S, which could do these types of things to loyal agents, so we're just going to go...elsewhere.''

''I see,'' said Fred. ''So that's it, is it? You're just going to leave?''

Without warning Steed whipped the sword around so the edge was just under Fred's chin. To his credit Fred only blinked.

''We're just going to leave,'' Steed replied. ''And as long as no one tries to find us, or interfere with us in any way, all will be well.''

''I'd nod if it wouldn't mean giving myself rather too close of a shave,'' Fred said. ''But your terms are accepted. You're free to go.''

''Thanks,'' Steed said laconically. He removed the sword from Fred's throat and stood up.

''Mrs. Peel?'' he said.

''Ready, Steed,'' she said, calmly.

John Steed and Emma Peel exited the flat, closing the door of 3 Stable Mews behind them.

''California,'' John Steed said musingly. ''Hollywood, you think?''

Emma nodded. ''Hollywood. I think I'll make a good actress.''

''Mrs. Peel,'' said John Steed, ''You'll be the best. Especially with me as your agent.'' He took her arm, and they walked out into the sunshine of a new day.

Ever After Chapter 4

THE RETURN

I.

''These peapods are marvelous,'' said John Steed, helping himself to more from the bowl with his chopsticks. ''Here, try one, Mrs. Peel.

He extended the chopsticks towards Emma and placed a peapod in her open mouth. ''Mmmm,'' she agreed. ''Delicious.''

Emma Peel surveyed the table and scooped up selections of sweet and sour chicken and pork. ''I love eating in American restaurants.'' she commented. ''They give you such big portions.''

''Well, it's such a big country,'' Steed replied, eying the mussels with askance.

''I'd like to travel to China sometime,'' Emma said, ''See what real Chinese food tastes like.''

''You've been to Hong Kong.''

''Yes, but that's not China, is it? It's very Westernized. I want to see the real country. Peer at the peasants. View the rice paddies. Eye the Forbidden City. Gaze on the Great Wall.''

''You know,'' said Steed, ''I've always wanted to walk on Hadrian's Wall. That's still there, isn't it?''

''Hadrian's Wall? Well, yes, bits and pieces of it.''

''Ah, Roman England,'' Steed said musingly. ''So romantic, isn't it, Mrs. Peel? I can see you as Boudicca, grasping your spear and standing in your war chariot, ready to ride down the Roman legions.''

''You have a funny idea of romance,'' Emma said with a smile.

''I'd be the Roman centurion whom you'd have to run over.''

Emma smiled. ''Have some more sesame shrimp, Steed.'' She popped a morsel into his mouth.

They ate for a few minutes in silence.

It was their second night together after having recovered their memories, which had been wiped away by the evil Dr. Tara King. Doctor Hartley had used hypnosis to bring back not only their memories as Steed and Emma, but also their actions in the past year - Steed as a concert pianist and Emma Peel as a department store display designer.

''The question remains, Steed, and I can't let it go,'' said Emma, leaning back as a waiter stopped by to refill their water glasses, ''Are we alive, or are we dead?''

The waiter raised his eyebrows.

''Well, I'm certainly alive, Mrs. Peel. I thought I proved that last night,'' Steed said, sipping water.

''I meant,'' Emma Peel enunciated every word, ''are we alive or dead. In England.''

''Ah. In England. Yes, of course. That is the question.''

''It affects everything, Steed. If we're dead...then our wills have been read, our possessions dispersed...all our friends and family have been grieving for us for two years...''

Emma's smile faded and her eyes turned bleak.

Steed put his hand over hers.

''Unfortunately, Mrs. Peel..how could we not be dead? Indeed, it would be worse if they replaced us with doubles.''

''Doubles...'' Emma murmured, comforted by the feeling of Steed's warm, strong hand over hers. She lifted her eyes to his. ''How are we going to find out?''

''We have to get back to England. But incognito. We can't go as Brian Harris and Diana Smythe - the villains will have a watch for us at the airports. We'll need new papers, new passports.'' ''And where will we get them from?''

''I'll have to call an old friend. Mrs. Gale.''

''Steed! You can't just call her out of the blue! What if we are dead?''

''Then she'll get a pleasant surprise. Or, knowing Mrs. Gale,'' Steed smiled reminiscently, ''an unpleasant surprise. You're right, Mrs. Peel. Mrs. Gale is the ideal person to call, because she can tell us right away if we're alive or dead.''

Their waiter, who had stopped by to ask if they'd like more tea, went away again.

They walked slowly through Chinatown on the way back to their hotel room, hand in hand. The Californian night was warm and very pleasant, and when they arrived at their hotel they decided to go for a swim in the outdoor pool. They felt safe at the hotel, for they'd checked in under assumed names. (It was the 1960s, a more innocent time, and there was no asking for IDs before handing over the room keys). They swam together leisurely, they played frisbee with some kids who were also enjoying the pool, Emma borrowed a dolphin float from a young girl and floated around in it til Steed 'sharked' her, rising up from underneath her and dumping her into the water.

They returned to their rooom and showered together, and then got into bed. Steed checked his watch, then picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. ''I'd like to make a long distance call,'' he said. He gave the number, and seconds later the call went through. ''I love the American telephone system,'' he mouthed at Mrs. Peel as he listened to the chirping of that distinctive British telephone ring.

''Cathy Gale,'' came a familiar voice.

Steed's mouth went suddenly dry. What was he going to say to her? What if she believed he was dead? If he did this indelicately, she'd punish him for it when they met in person.

''Hello?'' came her voice.

Steed handed the phone to Mrs. Peel. ''You talk to her.''

Emma glared at him as she took the phone. ''Hello, Mrs. Gale?''

''Yes, speaking.''

''Mrs. Gale...this is going to be rather difficult...we talked, many years ago. I don't suppose you remember my voice?''

''No, I don't. Who is this?''

''Mrs. Gale, my name is Emma Peel.''

''Emma Peel?''

''Yes. Do you...remember me at all?''

''Of course.'' Cathy Gale said warmly. ''We talked a few times, after you joined Steed in working for Department S.''

''And we bouted a few times,'' Emma reminded her, ''on the piste.''

''That's right. I was impressed with your fencing skills. I knew you'd do well with Steed. And when your husband came back, I was so happy for you.''

A cold hand clutched Emma's heart.

''I beg your pardon?''

''Two years ago, when your husband was found in the Amazon?'' Cathy Gale said, suddenly cautious.

Emma took a deep breath. Steed looked at her in alarm and she smiled at him reassuringly. She returned her attention to the phone, but put one hand over her eyes, as if to help her concentrate.

''Mrs. Gale...have you seen Steed recently?''

''No, I'm afraid not. His new partner...a bit too immature for the job, I think. Wants to keep him for herself...I'm surprised Steed puts up with it, but, there you are.''

''Steed's new partner. What's her name?''

Beside her, Steed stiffened indignantly, mouthing the words, 'new partner?'

There was a silence, then, slowly, Mrs. Gale said, ''Surely you know?''

''Please, Mrs. Gale. All will become clear. What's Steed's new partner's name?''

''Tara King.''

Emma's hand across her eyes clenched. ''Tara King.''

''That's right.''

''Mrs. Gale, when's the last time you saw Steed?''

''A couple of years ago. He brought Miss King by - introduced us.''

''And how was he looking at the time?''

''Well, he was his usual self.''

''I see.''

''All right, Mrs. Peel, I've answered your questions, now you're going to have to answer some of mine. What's going on?''

''Let me put it this way, Mrs. Gale. My husband never returned from the Amazon, and even if he had, I wasn't around to hear about it.''

''Oh. Dear.''

''And, Steed is right next to me. I'm going to give him the phone. Talk to him, will you?''

Steed grimaced at her as she handed him the receiver. He tried to give it back to her, but she gave him one of her looks. He put the receiver to his ear. ''Hullo, Mrs. Gale,'' he said cheerfully.

''You sound like Steed,'' Mrs. Gale's voice came grudgingly. ''But you're going to have to do better than that.''

''Ask me a question, Mrs. Gale. Something that only you and I would know.''

''Very well. In all the time we worked together, did we ever kiss?''

''Oh, Mrs. Gale, what a question!''

''Yes, but can you answer it?''

''I was playing the role of 'Johnny-the-horse,' and you were my bird. I had to impress a few mugs, and I gave you a kiss. You weren't best pleased. I was dressed like a vicar at the time.''

''It was the kiss and not your costume as a vicar that displeased me, Steed.''

''Quite.''

''After I left Department S, I went on a vacation. What was my first communication with you?''

''You sent me a Christmas card. It was postmarked from Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA. And in a curious coincidence, Mrs. Gale, I am actually calling you from the United States at this precise moment in time.''

''All right. Steed. Tell me what's going on.''

''Mrs. Peel and I need your help.''

''Go on.''

Steed took the glass of whisky that Mrs. Peel handed to him, and began to talk.

II.

''Well, howdy there, pardners,'' Cathy Gale greeted them.

''Don't be cruel, Mrs. Gale,'' said John Steed. He pushed the Stetson back on his head, and rubbed his large belly. ''These high heeled boots are killing me.''

''You can say that again,'' said Emma Peel, rearranging her massive bosom. ''If I could see my feet, I'd take mine off.''

''I wish I could help you, Mrs. Peel,'' Steed sighed.

They'd arrived at Gatwick Airport, rented a car with their fake passports, in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Tex Wayne, and driven to to the Blue Boar Inn just a few kilometers away, where Mrs. Gale was waiting for them with a large white van.

''Get in,'' Mrs. Gale told them, indicating the van.

In the privacy of the rear of the van they changed into less bulky clothing, removing the wigs, face and body padding. And the boots. They still didn't look like themselves, for Mrs. Peel was now a red-head with a short, short hairstyle, and Steed was blond with a military style haircut and a goatee.

They climbed into the cab of the white van with Mrs. Gale. ''What is that noise?'' Steed asked, putting his hand on a small black box that separated the driver's from the rest of the front seat.

''I've got a little Pekinese in there,'' Cathy Gale said. ''Pay no attention to him.'' She engaged gears and brought the van out on the road. As she drove she checked the rear view mirror frequently. ''I've been doing some research,'' she reported. ''John Steed and Tara King are still the top agents at Department S. And they've been doing some good work. Foiled quite a few dastardly plots from the Other Side. More to the point, no information has disappeared while on their watch. So, whatever their purpose in replacing you, it doesn't seem to have been in an effort to steal secrets.''

''What about me?'' Emma Peel asked. ''Have I been in the picture at all?''

Cathy Gale shook her head. ''You'd sold Knight Industries shortly after joining Department S, and set up The Peel Foundation. That was your doing, I hope?''

''Yes.''

''All right. , when Peter Peel...came back...you left St... Department S. You joined Peter Peel in the Amazon, setting up a mission to fly medicine and supplies to the indigent peoples. You're supposed to be there right now. The Peel Foundation is still functioning and giving significant monies to charity, and Knight Industries is doing fine as well.''

Mrs. Gale drove in silence for some minutes, as Steed and Emma Peel mulled over this information. ''Well, at least we aren't dead.'' Emma said.

''We've been replaced,'' Steed said quietly. 'And we've been replaced by Our Side.'' Steed massaged his forehead with both hands. More than Mrs. Peel, he'd given his entire life to Department S, and was feeling extremely betrayed right now. He hadn't wanted to believe it. But now...he dug his fingernails into his skin...but the pain didn't make him wake up. He released his forehead and faced reality. He nodded. ''I am afraid you're right, Mrs. Peel.''

''But why?'' she demanded. ''It's been tormenting me for days. Why? Why would they do this to us?''

''More to the point,'' said Cathy Gale, ''What are we going to do about it?''

She said it in a matter of fact way, with no emphasis on the word 'we.' She had taken it for granted that they would take it for granted that she was in this with them. Steed glanced at her and then held out his hand to her. She shook it firmly. Emma gave her a thumbs up sign, and she grinned.

''I think the first step is to find Tara King,'' Emma declared. ''Both Steed and I remember her as the Doctor who brainwashed us - at least initially. She would seem to be the prime mover in this little...tragedy we have here.''

''Steed...or Tara King...'' Cathy mused. ''I know where Steed lives.''

''I would certainly like to see this Steed,'' said John Steed. ''And perhaps...turn the tables?''

''Replace him?'' Emma said. ''No, Steed.'' She said it more urgently than she meant to.

Steed looked at her. Took her hand.''All right, my dear. All right.''

Emma took a deep breath. She didn't want to play identity games. She hadn't liked it in the past, and she definitely didn't like it now. She didn't want to do anything that would separate her from Steed - place him at risk of being brainwashed again. Not with a double for him out there. They had to work as a team, now so more than ever. Because they had only the two of them...well, the three of them, now. Them...against their Own Side.

''We're going to Steed's place.'' Cathy said. ''We'll persuade...let's call him Fred for the sake of distinction...to tell us where to find Tara King.''

''They may be expecting us,'' Steed said. ''They know we've regained our memories.''

''If he's anything like you, he'll be in his flat, waiting for you to attack him.'' said Cathy. ''With Tara King at his side. Just the two of them.''

''Should we do exactly what they expect, then?'' Steed said cheerfully. ''They went to so much trouble to create new identities for us. They didn't kill us then. They won't kill us now.''

''Probably not,'' said Cathy Gale.

Emma Peel smiled. She let the two of them argue - or banter - or whatever it was they were doing together, while she sat thinking. Why...why would their own side replace them? It wasn't for money - if her Peel Foundation and Knight Industries were still in business. It wasn't for secrets - if Steed was still an agent and Tara King was an agent and they were doing 'good things.' Why, then? Why?

If it had just been Steed and Peel, she would have been willing to believe that it was a personal thing. Some agent had wanted to work with Steed and so had her replaced. But the scope of what had occurred was too vast for that. A great number of Department S members must have been involved. Unless...someone had combined business with pleasure?

''Steed...'' she said, ''do you remember...it was an old joke...an in-joke, I heard you say once. No one escapes from Department S.''

Steed looked at her. ''Yes, of course.''

''Tell me what that meant again?''

''It was just a saying...coined a few years ago. A couple of agents had wanted to retire...they were in their prime. But before they could retire, they'd died.''

''In accidents. Not from natural causes.''

''That's right.''

''And that was it? Just two agents?''

''Well, three from Department S. I'd heard a couple of other departments got hit as well. The whole of the Service went through a bad patch.''

''Of agents dying before they were able to retire.''

''Well, plenty of agents retired. Old ones. But young ones...young ones were never allowed to leave, anyway...what is it you're driving at, Mrs. Peel?''

Emma shrugged. '''No one escapes from Department S.' We did. Not voluntarily, but we did.''

''What are you suggesting, Emma?'' asked Cathy Gale.

''I don't know, Cathy. I'm just trying to think of reasons, of motives for this insanity. And that's all I can come up with.''

''But...if we weren't planning on retiring...and we weren't...why would they go after us?'' demanded Steed. ''Why not go after someone who wanted to retire?''

Emma shrugged. ''Steed...Fred, rather...is still there. In Department S. With a new partner. I'm gone. And Fred's new partner is Tara King, who brainwashed us. Why would someone with the skills of a ...a mad scientist, settle for being a mere agent?''

''Mere agent? I think I resent that,'' said Steed.

''With Fred instead of you, she settled for being a mere agent,'' Emma said.

Cathy Gale made a choking sound and then started to cough.

''Keep your eyes on the road, Mrs. Gale,'' Steed told her.

''I'm sorry, Steed. Anyway, we're here.'' She brought the van to a halt. At the end of the road was Steed's apartment block.

''You two get into the back,'' Cathy ordered. ''I'll perform a reconnaisance and be back in fifteen minutes.'' She placed a wig on her head and large glasses over her eyes - the kind that were in style, took the Pekinese out of its kennel with the words, ''Come along, Snookums,'' and left them behind. It took them some seconds before they could control themselves.

''That's not the name of her dog,'' Steed said. ''She doesn't even have a dog.''

''Oh, Steed, I'm sure she took one look at Snookums in a pet store window and couldn't resist.''

''My auntie Genevieve had a dog once,'' Steed mused. ''It was a gigantic Doberman Pincher, and she was a tiny woman. But she had forearms like a lumberjack. Around children and other little old ladies, she had it under tight control. But when it was a postal worker or some smart aleck young man ...whoosh. It went to the end of its telescopic lead like a rocket.''

They dissolved into laughter.

Cathy Gale returned to the van and stuffed Snookums unceremoniously back into his kennel. ''Streets are clear. No other vans, no occupied cars, no surveillance equipment that I could see. And...your Bentley is there.''

''Which probably means that Fred is there.'' Emma observed.

''Which means you two are probably walking into the lion's den,'' Cathy retorted.

Steed nodded. ''Keep the engine running, Mrs. Gale.''

''Wait.'' Cathy reached into her purse and removed two identical keychains, one of which she handed to Steed, one to Emma. ''Just in case we're separated. This one is for my cottage in Lancs, this one is for my Peugot, which is currently at my flat here in London and which I certainly hope will remain there, and this one is for this van. If we are separated, our rendezvous point is the British Museum. Every day at noon, until we show up. Right?''

''Right.''

''And here...'' she reached into her purse again and took out two walkie talkies. ''If I haven't heard from you in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in.''

Steed and Emma stepped out of the van. ''Emma,'' Cathy called. Emma turned back to her. Cathy handed her a pistol. ''Better safe than sorry,'' she said. Emma nodded. She stuck the pistol into the waistband of her trousers, pulling out her shirt to hide it, then turned and followed Steed toward the block of flats.

Cathy Gale took a deep breath, and checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. It was going to be a long wait.

John Steed and Emma Peel walked on cat-like feet into the entrance way of Stable Mews. . Numbers 1 and 2 were on the ground floor, Steed's flat was on the first floor. They took the stairs rather than the elevator, but did not stop at the ground floor. Instead, they went up the remaining two flights, checking the landings of each of the floors, to see what they could see. Nothing. They returned to the first floor.

''Do we knock?'' Mrs. Peel whispered.

''I say we go right on in,'' Steed replied. ''It's my flat after all.''

He stood to the left of his door, so that his silhouette would not appear in the glass, and pressed the button on top of the door jamb. The door clicked open. Steed nudged the door wide open with his foot. Silence on the inside.

Steed stopped, lost. Normally, he'd put his bowler on top of his umbrella and poke it around the door, waiting for a reaction. But he'd left his Stetson in Mrs. Gale's van, and he didn't have an umbrella, anyway.

''Helloooo,'' he called. ''Anyone home?''

No response.

Steed looked at his partner. ''After you, Mrs. Peel.''

Emma grinned. She took off her jacket, and, holding it by the collar, walked into the living room.

She came to an abrupt halt. A man looking remarkably like John Steed was seated on the divan, a newspaper scrunched over his lap as if he had been reading it when disturbed. On the over stuffed chair beside him was a young woman wearing a preposterous wig and a miniskirt, drinking a large Old Fashioned.

''We've been waiting for you,'' said the man who looked...and sounded...like John Steed.

He wasn't quite like Steed. His hair was greyer, the hairline higher, his sideburns came down to the end of his ears. His belly strained slightly at his doublebreasted suit.

''Hello, Fred,'' Emma said. ''Hello, Dr. King.''

The impostor raised an eyebrow. ''Fred?''

Steed heard this outside the flat. He raised the walkie talkie to his lips. ''They're both here,'' he whispered. He stuffed the walkie talkie into his pocket, keeping his hand on the transmit button, and entered the room with a casual air. ''That's right.'' he said coldly. ''Fred.''

Both he and Emma looked not at the fake Steed, but at Tara King. They both recognized her.

''All right, Dr. King,'' said John Steed. ''Start at the beginning.''

''Sometimes people get burnt out,'' Tara King said abruptly. ''Or they lose their nerve. Or they start...second guessing their superiors. They want to leave the Department...but they can't leave.''

Steed and Emma exchanged glances.

''They are sent to the Village instead,'' Dr. King said. ''A miniature city where they are kept and cared for, where they have all the comforts of home. Where they stay for the rest of their lives.''

Steed and Emma exchanged glances. Horrified ones this time.

''It was thought to try a more humane approach,'' Dr. King said. ''Instead of imprisoning them...recondition them. Wipe out their old memories and give them new ones. Put them back into society. It was decided to experiment with you two.''

''Who decided?'' demanded Steed.

''One Ten. With input from myself.''

''So...Major Bee knows nothing about this?''

''Only the highest levels know this...Steed.''

''So this Village still exists?'' demanded Emma Peel.

''That's right!'' Tara King rose to her feet. ''That's right! And thanks to you it will continue to exist! You've proven that the best brainwashing in the world can't prevent agents from regaining their memories. So that experiment is no more. The Village continues.''

Fred lifted the newspaper from his lap. In his other hand he held a submachine pistol. ''And you two are its next residents.''

Ever After, Chapter 3

Ever After, Happily...Interlude

by Caroline Miniscule

Emma Peel lay nestled in the arms of John Steed. They had not made love - though they had started out to do so. But as they had started to undress each other while they kissed, Emma had suddenly began to cry, and Steed had wound up holding her in his strong arms while she had sobbed uncontrollably.

''I'm sorry, Steed,'' she had mumbled. ''It's okay, my darling,'' he murmured, stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. They had comforted each other many times in the past, but he had never, ever, seen Emma Peel cry before, and his heart was breaking. But he held her close and after a while her sobs lessened until finally she fell into a sleep. Steed lay beside her contentedly, stroking her hair and thinking pleasant thoughts.

The next morning, Emma Peel woke up. She lifted her head from Steed's chest and kissed him gently on the lips. His eyes opened immediately. They stared at her questioningly, and this time when they began to kiss, she did not cry.

After a time, they showered, dressed, and went for a walk on the beach outside their hotel room, which Steed had decided to rent in the name of Brian Harris. They walked slowly, enjoying the scenery, the sound of the waves lapping the shore and the cries of the birds, and enjoying the feeling of their fingers intertwined.

''The first question is,'' said Emma Peel, ''are we alive or dead?''

Steed looked at her. ''I didn't think you'd have to ask that question after this morning,'' he said regretfully.

She shoved him with her shoulder. ''Don't be silly. I mean us. John Steed and Emma Peel. Are we alive or are we dead? If we're dead...how did we die and how easy will it be to resurrect us? If we're alive, what are we doing, and how can we arrange a swop?''

Steed nodded. ''I think a more important question is, who did this to us? That will dictate our actions in either case.''

Emma looked at him grimly. ''It's obvious, isn't it? Our Side did this to us, Steed. If it was the Other Side, why set up these elaborate charades - these new lives? All the planning, the money that must have been involved. Why not just kill us and have done with it? No...it must have been Our Side...our own side...''

Steed quickly put her arm around her and hugged her. She returned his hug.

''Why would Our Side want to do this to us, come to that?'' he said. ''We were the best..the elite agents of Department S. It doesn't make sense.''

Emma nodded. ''Well, we'll have to find out. One way or the other, we're going to get our lives back. And a couple of people are going to pay, very dearly.''

Steed, thinking of the Emma Peel crying in his arms the other night, nodded. Yes, someone would pay.

Ever After Chapter 2

It was a long walk back to the office, and as Diana walked she felt the tension ease out of her body, and the memories and events that had battered her just a few minutes before started to fade, as if she had just woken up from a dream, and no matter how hard she tried to grasp at those memories to hold on to them, they faded away.

Brian...she thought desperately...remember Brian...I must go to him.

So it was that when Diana returned to her office it was with no memory of the preceding hour, but just one conviction - she must see Brian Harris. There was something she had to do, and when she saw Brian it would come to her.

She went into Norma's office - Norma was a friend, Norma was a romantic, Norma would understand.

''Norma, I need to take a couple of days off. Starting this afternoon. Please.''

Norma looked up at her, surprised. ''Certainly, Diana, certainly. Nothing wrong with Roger, I hope?''

''No, of course not, not at all.'' Diana smiled. ''I just have to go visit...an aunt of mine.'' Suddenly she didn't want to mention that it was Brian she was going to see. Norma would probably think that anyway.

Norma smiled. ''Alright, Diana. Don't worry about a thing. You go off and take care of your business.''

Diana sighed, relieved. ''Thanks, Norma. I'll be back in a couple of days.''

Diana left the office, and Norma's gamine smile faded. Diana was right - Norma did assume Diana was going to see Brian Harris. Norma picked up the phone and dialed long distance - to London, England.

''Mr. Smythe? Norma here. Something happened today. Diana's going to take a couple of days off. She's going to fly to Denver, I'm sure. Where Brian Harris is.''

Norma listened to Smythe for a few seconds, then said, ''Alright,'' and hung up. Immediately she picked up the phone again. When the individual on the other end answered she said, ''Mr. Pat? I have a job for you and Mr. Knee.''

Diana left the building straight from Norma's office, taking the tube, the subway that was to say, back to her flat. The first thing she did was call up the airlines, and make a reservation for the next flight to Denver, leaving in just a couple of hours. Then she called a taxi. She threw a couple of things into a suitcase, closed and locked her door behind her, and was waiting outside for the taxi when it arrived.

She arrived at the airport with an hour to spare. Diana put her suitcase into a storage locker and then began to pace around the airport, to anxious to sit in one place. Besides, she hadn't brought anything to read. Diana paused in front of a newsagents. She may as well get something to read on the trip. Something to occupy her mind. Better than just letting her thoughts run around in her head like mice in a cage.

There was not much of a choice at the newsagents, lots of romance novels with sickeningly sweet covers that made her want to gag. She turned away from the books and found the rack of magazines. She chose several crossword puzzle books and a book of cryptograms - ''Expand your mind with these brain teasers!'' the blurb read. Well, she could certainly do with expanding her mind.

Diana managed to get a window seat, and barely noticed the portly man who sat beside her. He had also, as coincidence would have it, acquired a book of crossword puzzles to do. Diana took her pen and began on page one of the first book of her crossword puzzles. Beside her, Mr. Florrie began on his own crossword book. Minutes passed...Florrie looked sideways at Diana who was working with a pen and going through the crosswords one at a time quickly and efficiently, while he was still working on the first one.

Time passed, and she had finished all of her books. Mr. Florrie handed hers with a rather bemused smile. She accepted it and went to work on the half remaining pages.

Brian Harris entered his dressing room, followed, as usual, by his manager John. He had just completed his final concert in Denver and it had gone much better than the debacle in New York at Lincoln Center. But he was no happier this night than he had been a week ago.

''Do you want to see anyone?'' John asked, as usual. Brian shook his head. ''I'm making an early night of it tonight,'' he said briefly. ''I'm going to my suite. And no - don't send anyone there, either.''

John looked at him curiously, but said, ''Alright, Mr. Harris.''

Brian went into the inner dressing room to shower and change, and then slipped out the back door and past the dozens of people waiting at the stage door. For a few seconds Brian felt a pang of guilt - he hated to disappoint the fans who were waiting for his autograph, and those other fans who were waiting for a bit more - though those fans were the last on his mind, now.

Diana should be with him now, he thought. Why wouldn't she come with him? Diana, she probably thought he went home with a different fan every night. Well, he didn't. He could, but he didn't. And if he liked to tease her with the fact that he could, and it didn't matter to her that he didn't, then that was all parsnips.

By the time he reached his suite Brian Harris was in a slow burn. He didn't know why he felt so angry, he only knew that he did, and that he was angry at Diana. He should go out and get a woman...serve her jolly well right.

Brian meant to head to the door once again. with that object in mind..but instead he found himself seated in front of his piano. That was one of the perks written into all of his contracts - he was always to have a piano in his suite. That was a bit odd, that, Brian thought idly, for the last year he'd always had a piano in his suite and he'd never played on it once. He stared at the keys, alternating black and white, and reached out a hesitant finger to tap them.

He didn't feel like playing Rachmaninoff...he didn't feel like Chopin or Mozart or Brahms...Greensleeves...he'd play Greensleeves...

Greensleeves, you do me wrong

To cast me off, so discourteously,

And I have loved you for so long,

Who but my lady, Greensleeves?

Brian stared at the piano keys...he placed his fingers on the keys...he didn't know how to play Greensleeves.

That was impossible. He must know how to play it...if nothing else he should be able to pick it out by ear...but his hands stayed on the keys...he couldn't do it.

Well, alright then, no Greensleeves. What else could he play? How about something simple...Mary Had A Little Lamb. He straightened his back, arced his palms...and stopped. How did one play Mary Had A Little Lamb?

Brian Harris blinked at the keys. Had he been drinking and not known it? Impossible. Perhaps he'd better have a drink and then try it.

Scotch and soda in hand, Brian returned to the piano. He gulped down half the drink, then attacked the piano...and Mozart's beautiful music rolled off into the night...beautiful...beautiful...alright now, segue into something very, very simple, like...like Piano Man, that piece of Billy Joel's that he so liked, a nice pop piece that made such a change from the classics. He hummed the lyrics:

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright

But he looked at the keys and for the life of him he had no idea what keys to hit.

How could this be possible? How could he play incredibly difficult pieces from Brahms, Mozart, those chaps, and yet he couldn't play something as simple as Mary Had A Little Lamb?

Brian Harris felt the palms of his hand grow cold and clammy with sweat. What was wrong with him? Had he had a stroke? Brain fever? Brian buried his face in his hands ...Diana, he thought...Diana, I need you. His eyes closed, Diana's lovely, smiling face appeared in front of him, comforting, secure. Brian remained at the piano, hands over his eyes, unmoving.

There came a knock on the door. A familiar knock. 'Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.'

Brian leapt to his feet, turning over the piano bench in his haste, and jerked open the door. ''Diana.'' She walked into his arms and stood pressed against him, her head buried in his chest. He held her, pressing her to him, feeling the warmth of her body.

''My dear,'' he said, holding her tighter, ''You're trembling.''

''I don't know why,'' she whispered. ''I can't explain it. I needed to see you, Brian.''

''I'm glad you came.''

They stood together for a few more seconds, then Diana pulled away.

She walked further into the room, and Brian closed the door behind her. He turned, and then for some reason pulled a chair in front of the door. Then he went back to Emma and they hugged again. She lifted her face to his and very gently they kissed. Then they sat down on the couch, holding hands.

''Something's wrong, isn't there,'' Brian said at last. ''Something wrong with the two of us. I've sat at that piano for the last couple of hours, trying to play the simplest pieces...and I can't. I can't read music, I can't play by ear...I can play all the classics...but nothing else!

''On the flight here, I went through about ten crossword puzzle books and a book of cryptograms in three hours. In ink. It was incredible. I felt like a genius - I knew everything. And, when I got done with the last page of the last book, I turned it over and drew this.''

She took a piece of paper from her pocket. Brian unfolded it. It was the sketch of a man, wearing a vast eagle's head mask over his face, arms outstretched with claws at the end of them, and the words Ee-urp! resounding above him. It was a comical sketch, but Brian didn't smile at it. He looked at Emma.

''Something's wrong with us,'' he repeated.

They sat, holding hands, staring off into space as they thought.

''Analysis?'' Brian asked at last.

''Takes too long,'' Diana replied. ''Spending twenty years on a couch telling every minute activity to an individual who nods and says 'yes' and 'go on', is not my idea of solving the problem.''

''What then?''

''Hypnosis.''

''Hypnosis! You must be joking.''

''No, Brian, I'm serious.'' She turned to face him. ''We find a reputable hypnotist, of course. One off us stays in the room while the other gets hypnotized. We get sent back...into time or into subconscious, whatever you want to call it, and we find out what's going on!''

They stared into each other's eyes. Brian nodded. ''Okay, Emma. We go first thing tomorrow.'' He brought up her hands to his lips. ''Will you stay here tonight?''

Diana stared at him. She said, not angrily, ''Why did you call me Emma?''

He blinked. ''I...I don't know.''

''Yes, Brian, I will stay here tonight.''

They leaned forward to kiss...when there came a knock on the door.

''I have to see who it is,'' Brian said. ''I'll get rid of them.'' Diana rose as well.

Brian got up and skirted the chair in front of the door to open it. A man filled the frame of the door, and in his hand was a gun. Brian slammed the door with all the speed and reflexes of the hands that could dance over a keyboard and look as if they were merely floating. He turned to glance at Diana, said one-two-three, and opened the door again. The massive man had gotten a running start. He burst through the doorway, his shoulders brushing the jambs on either side, and tripped headlong over the chair in his path. Diana kicked him in the head as he tried to rise and he subsided with a whimper.

''What on earth was all that about?'' Diana demanded.

''I don't know, but I have a hunch we're going to have to find out very soon,'' Brian commented. ''My darling, I hate to disappoint you but I don't think we'd better stay here tonight. I've heard the best hypnotists are in California.''

''They would be. Right, you have a car?''

''Of course not. Limousines and chauffeurs, everywhere I go!''

''Well, call up the limousine service, then. From the lobby, of course. Tell them you need a car, but you've already got a driver.''

''Right.''

Thirty minutes later, the chauffeur who had brought the car round was telling a curious 'fan of Brian Harris,' that Brian Harris had decided to drive back to New York, 'to see an old friend,' as he'd put it. But would be returning the next day, solemn promise. Meanwhile, Brian sat in the front passenger seat of the limousine, with a bottle of champagne filched out of the back, while Diana drove them at top speed towards Los Angeles.

For a long time they drove in silence. Brian sipping his champagne, replaying the image in his head of Diana very coolly and calmly kicking their attacker in the head and rendering him unconscious. He also replayed in his mind his own actions - the placing of the chair in front of the door, his reaction not of surprise but of...well, of what? adrenalin? at the sight of a man with a gun facing him. The slamming of the door, the turning to Diana - what had he expected that dear woman to do, and why had he been so sure she'd be able to do it? But she had, of course, knocked him unconscious as easy as winking.

''Let's play a game,'' Diana said at last.

''A game? While you're driving the car?'' Brian asked facetiously.

''Not that sort of game,'' she glanced at him with a smile. ''Word association. Is there any paper or writing material in the glove box?''

''This limousine is a first class machine from a first class service. They provide my every desire.'' Brian opened the glove box, and removed a squat notebook and a pen. He held it up. ''Voila.'' he flicked past the first few pages, in which the limousine driver had apparently kept track of mileage and petrol purchased, and then sat with pen at the ready.

''Word game. Right.'' he said.

''Any chocolates in that glove box?''

''Under the seat,'' Brian reproached her. He brought out a box of individually wrapped gourmet chocolates, unwrapped one, and popped it into her waiting mouth. She savored it. He helped himself to one as well.

''Word game. Right.'' she said at last. ''I say a word. You write down the first thing that pops into your head.''

''Right.''

''Night.'' said Diana.

''Day,'' replied Brian immediately. He wrote it down.

''Sun.''

''Moon.''

''Emma.''

''Peel.'' Brian hesitated, felt a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. ''Emma Peel,'' he said. ''That sounds familiar.''

''Yes, yes it does.''

Diana continued driving. Brian gave her another chocolate.

''Horse.''

''Derby.''

''Piano.''

''Man.''

''Steed.''

''John.''

''John?''

''Steed.'' Brian sat very still, as sweat broke out on his brow and the sickening feeling in his belly reached acute proportions. He curved his arms around his stomach.

Diana was herself not doing to well. She took a deep breath. ''Something's wrong,'' she gritted. ''Something that's not naturally wrong. Not the both of us reacting like this.''

''I've had enough of this game,'' Brian gritted in return. ''At least, not playing it in a moving vehicle.''

''Right. Turn on the radio.''

At four o'clock in the morning, Diana decided that she'd done all she could for one night. Her eyes were burning and each time she thought of the names John Steed or Emma Peel it was like a knife stabbed her in the stomach, yet she couldn't help thinking of them. And she rather thought that Brian was in the same boat, his arms still wrapped around his stomach and his patter noticeably absent.

''I'm going to turn into the next rest area,'' Diana told him, ''We've got to get some sleep.''

''Sounds like a good idea to me.'' Brian agreed.

Ten minutes later a sign loomed up on their left, announcing a rest area. Thank heavens for American efficiency. Diana pulled the limousine, with its opaque windows, up between two parked semi-trailer trucks, their engines throbbing. ''There's room for both of us in the back,'' she commented.

They got out of the front seat, and into the rear seat. It was not a giant-sized limousine, with room for a sauna, but with the seats turned down it was as large as a queen sized bed. The two of them were too exhausted to do anything but fall into each other's arms and sleep.

Diana woke up three hours later, feeling wonderful, her head resting on Brian's chest, his arms wrapped around her. It felt very, very right. She yearned to stay there, in his arms, but they didn't have time to waste.

''Brian,'' she whispered, kissing him gently, ''We have to get going.''

His eyes opened immediately. They gazed at her, and their expression almost made her melt. ''Must we?'' he said huskily.

''We must,'' she said softly.

''Under protest,'' he said, and giving her a squeeze, let her go. This time, he took the wheel, and she the passenger size, and she nibbled on chocolates as he drove.

They drove in companionable silence. Indeed, Brian glanced over to see that Diana was drowsing and he did not disturb her.

''What an awfully big city Los Angeles is,'' Brian told her, several hours later, as they sat in the limousine, parked by a curb in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. Brian had a very thick Yellow Pages on his knee. He paged through it until he found the Aitches, and looked for hypnotism. ''There's a whole page of hypnotists,'' he pointed out to Diana. ''Fancy that.''

''Anyone look promising?''

''How about this chap? He ripped the page out and handed it to her, finger pointing at a name.

''Dr. Robert Hartley. Hypnotism and Help, Guaranteed.'' Diana read. ''He'll do.''

''He's certainly got a very prestigious address,'' Brian murmured, reading it. ''Right on the LA equivalent of Harley Street. We can walk from here, my dear.''

Dr. Robert Hartley was a man of average height, balding, with friendly eyes and a soft voice. He invited Brian and Diana into his office and offered them coffee.

They had already discussed the tactic they would take. Brian explained that he was a concert pianist - Hartley said he'd heard of him which Brian found very gratifying, and perhaps if they delayed the session for an hour they could go find a piano and ...Diana kicked Brian in the ankle and he got back to the point.

''I can't play simple pieces, Doctor.'' he said abruptly. ''Rachmaninoff, Brahms, Mozart, Chopin, yes. Anything else, no. I'm wondering if I have some kind of mental block. I'm wondering if you hypnotize me, will I be able to figure out why that is?''

''Of course, Mr. Harris. Here, sit down on the couch. Miss Smythe, if you'll excuse us?''

'''Oh, no, doctor,'' Brian said quickly. ''She must remain. In fact, I rather think that the only way I'm going to feel comfortable enough to be 'sent under' as you'd say is if she held my hand.''

''Well, certainly. Miss Smythe?''

''I'd be delighted, Doctor,'' Diana said, giving Brian another kick in the ankle.

Dr. Hartley went to his desk, and brought out a large coin suspended from a chain. ''Yes, it's done just like it is in the movies,'' he said ruefully to their looks. ''Now, just bear with me...''

Ten minutes later, Brian Harris was in a hypnotic trance.

''Ask him what his name is?'' whispered Diana.

Dr. Hartley looked at her, startled. ''I beg your pardon?''

''Please, doctor, this is very important. Ask him what his name is.''

Hartley turned to his patient, and said, slowly and clearly, ''What is your name?''

Brian's lips worked, his forehead creased, his blank eyes grew blanker.

''What is your name?''

''John,'' he croaked. ''John Steed.''

Diana's hand went to her mouth.

''John Steed,'' repeated Hartley. ''Why do you call yourself Brian Harris?''

''D...on't know. Don't know.''

''Ask him who is Brian Harris,'' Diana said urgently.

''''Who is Brian Harris?'' Hartley queried obediently.

''Concert pianist. Con..cert pianist...looks...like...me.''

''Who told you?'' Diana demanded urgently. ''Who told you you looked like Brian Harris?'' Robert Hartley repeated this question faintly, looking from one of them to the other and perhaps wishing he had a pair of straight jackets handy.

''Woman...doctor...Dr. Tara King. Told me...looked like Harris. Would be...Harris. Laughed at me...nothing I could do...nothing I could do...'said they'd killed...said they'd killed...'' Suddenly John Steed's eyes looked out of Brian Harris' face, and they filled with tears as they looked at Emma Peel. ''They told me they'd killed you,'' he said huskily, and he went into her arms and wept.

''Will he be himself again, when he wakes up?'' Diana asked Dr. Hartley, wiping away tears of her own as she looked at the sleeping form of the man she knew as Brian Harris, who must really be John Steed.

''Yes,'' he said quietly. ''You heard me give him his instructions. He's going to sleep, and when he wakes up he's going to remember everything. Now, what about you?''

Diana took a deep breath. ''I think it was time I was myself again, too. But I'm going to wait, until Br...Steed is awake and in command. How long do you think that will take?''

''At least a couple of hours. I should really let him sleep longer, but I get the impression that this is rather urgent.''

''Indeed it is, Doctor. Indeed it is.'' Diana looked down at the sleeping form of John Steed, the tear tracks still on his cheeks, and rage and anger and yes, hatred, filled her, for the people who had done this to them.

She recalled a psalm from the Bible and spoke it aloud. "It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them."

She looked at Dr. Hartley, and smiled a smile. ''Deuteronomy 32: 35.'' she pointed out. ''A very apt quotation.''

''I ...somehow I think so...Miss Smythe.''

''No,'' Diana said decisively. ''You heard what he called me. My name is Emma Peel.''

Ever After, Chapter 1

Previously I had shared the transcript of the Diana episode that featured Patrick Macnee (the two actors had co-starred opposite each other as John Steed and Emma Peel in the Avengers four yeasr or so previous.

This first chapter re-tells the story of that episode, as if it were an Avengers story.

EVER AFTER

Doctor Roger Smythe and Doctor Tara King were dressed in the white linen gowns of their profession, but their visitor, who was not a doctor, outdid them all, with a cap on his head that completely hid his hair, and a surgical mask that obscured his chin, face and nose. Only his eyes were visible, bright blue eyes that seemed almost incandescent.

''We'll look in on John Steed first,'' Dr. King said, leading the way down the corridor. ''I really think his Preparation is the crowning event in my career.'' They paused in front of a blank wall at the end of the corridor, and Dr. King pressed a button. The plate glass window in front of them glowed into life.

On the other side of the glass, a man sat in front of a wooden mock-up of a piano. He wore black tie and tails, his fingers flashed over the keys, his eyes were closed and his face uplifted in rapture at the music he was 'playing.'. It was John Steed.

''Meet Brian Harris,'' Dr. King said, smugly.

''A concert pianist?'' the masked man said. ''How is that possible?''

''I could have made Steed in to anybody. It was just Brian Harris' bad luck that he resembled Steed so closely. And, of course, had no family.''

''But a concert pianist? I don't think Steed can even carry a tune.''

''He can now. He may not have the innate spark of genius that caused Brian Harris to scale the heights, but he can reproduce any Brian Harris performance that Harris recorded - and that's enough for most listeners.''

The masked man nodded.

''Steed now has an entirely new persona overprinted over his old one. Faint childhood memories, young manhood, the Ecole de Music, eleven years of concert touring. Wine, women and song. He is Brian Harris.''

''What about Emma Peel?''

''My esteemed colleague,'' Dr. King nodded to Dr. Smythe, ''has taken care of Mrs. Peel.''

They retraced their steps to the other end of the corridor, and Dr. Smythe pressed the button which revealed Emma Peel in her own white room. She was surrounded by artistic materials, and sat in a chair sketching intently on a large pad.

''Meet my sister,'' Roger Smythe said with a smirk. ''She's divorced, and she's moving to New York to start a new life. She's already been hired at a department store and will take up her position as a fashion illustrator in a few weeks.''

''Mrs. Peel, as a fashion illustrator for a department store? How delicious.''

Smythe shrugged. ''It was necessary to give her a mundane profession. Any position in which she had to exercise her physical or mental skills might interfere with her programming and cause her to start thinking ambitiously, which would undoubtedly dredge up old memories. As it is, she has extreme artistic talent and will probably blossom into one of the great artistic talents of New York.''

''Not that that's saying much,'' Dr. King said with a sniff.

The masked man nodded. ''And so the partnership of John Steed and Emma Peel has ceased to exist. They have no knowledge of each other.''

Dr. King and Dr. Smythe exchanged glances. ''Well,'' said Smythe, ''We couldn't go that far.''

The masked man's blue eyes turned into chips of glacier ice. ''I beg your pardon?''

Dr. Smythe shook his head decisively. ''The bond between the two of them was too strong. If we'd attempted to eradicate it completely, their subconsciences would have gone to war immediately, knowing something was missing.''

''So we took care of it,'' said Dr. King. ''They know each other, in fact they'd once been lovers. But Brian Harris' self-absorbed life-style has driven her away. So they each exist in the other's history. But we've put in mental triggers - they will never be able to...er, get together...again.''

The masked man nodded. ''Very good, doctors. I am quite pleased with you. Now...there's an individual by the name of Bond...

One year later

Diana Smythe stood in a department store window, trying to make head or tail of the window plan that one of her co-workers had designed before falling ill. A woman entered the window, short, elderly, with the charm of an elfish face.

''Hi, Diana.''

''Hi, Norma.'' Diana greeted her boss cheerfully.

Norma looked around, a smile on her face. ''Every time I get in one of these windows it's just like being on stage. It reminds me of the time I was an angel in the Christmas play in the third grade.''

Diana grinned. ''Were you a hit?''

''Not exactly. I whooped on one of the Wise Men. How's it going?''

''Fine. Unless I've got Marshall's plan upside down. In that case I'm in a lot of trouble.''

''How's he feeling?''

''Well, he's in the third day of the twenty-four flu.''

Norma shook her head, then gestured at the window. ''I do appreciate your helping out like this, Diana.''

''I'm glad to help.''

Howard, the copywriter for the advertising department, entered the window at this time. Tall, with a soft middle, and hair that would have looked like Albert Einstein's on a bad day, he carried a handful of white placards. ''Here they are, hot off the paint brush.''

''Oh, thank you, Howard,'' Norma told her copywriter. ''You didn't have to bring them down yourself.''

''Oh, anything to get out of that office. I'm having trouble writing the ad. Everything I write seems to be phony.''

''What's the ad for?'' queried Diana.

''Fake fur.''

Norma had been going through the signs. She held up one that read, in big, still-wet letters, DIANA SMTHE - YOU'RE NEEDED. ''Diana Smythe, you're needed.''

Diana Smythe felt a frisson of some kind of emotion she couldn't identify, before the memories in her head clicked smoothly together. Of course. Brian Harris. The emotion became one of irritation.

''How on earth did he find me?''

Norma's face had lit up with curiosity and the scent of a possible romance. ''Who found you? Who needs you? What does this sign mean?''

''It means the ghost of London past has come back to haunt me." Diana said resignedly.

''Well,'' commented Norma, ''its calling card's a family size. Well, come on, let's finish here and go down and risk lunch at the cafeteria.'' She turned and saw a man walking past the window, bearing another sign. ''Hey, are we being picketed?''

Howard caught a glimpse of the words on the sign. ''That's not a picket.''

''This is only the beginning, friends,'' said Diana Smythe. Memories were flooding back. Brian Harris...in love with her...but in love with himself more...always chasing after her...flattering but exhausting...yes...she remembered.

''So, whose this old friend?''

Diana glanced at Norma, reluctant to answer for she knew Norma's match-making instincts. But she said, ''Well, it's Brian Harris.''

''Brian Harris? The concert pianist?'' Norma said delightedly.

''The same.''

''The Brian Harris?'' commented Howard. ''He's a genius.''

Diana nodded. ''I'm sure he'd be the first to agree with you.''

An attractive young woman entered the window at this moment, carrying an envelope. ''Is there a Diana Smythe here? ''

''Oh, yes,'' said Norma helpfully. ''There she is.''

The woman handed an envelope to Diana. ''This is for you.''

''Not another one,'' Diana said heatedly. She tore up the envelope. ''Tell Brian enough is enough.''

Norma took the pieces Diana handed her. ''Enough,'' she said, handing the pieces to Howard, ''Is enough.'' finished Howard, handing the pieces to the woman.

''Who's Brian?'' said the woman in bewilderment. ''I'm from accounting. That was your overtime check.''

Diana smacked her forehead.

A couple of hours later, Diana entered her office, her eyes glancing over an individual seated in a chair face obscured by a newspaper. ''You're late,'' said a familiar voice, and once again Dina felt that frisson of emotion she could not identify, before the emotion settled into pleasure at viewing an old friend.

''I'm late?'' she queried.

Brian Harris put down the newspaper. ''You're nine years, seventeen minutes and thirty two seconds late.'' Harris gazed at Diana Smythe, and the conflicting emotions that he himself felt were not in evidence. He hadn't seen Diana Smythe in nine years - he knew this, but he was in love with her, he knew that, too.

''I do apologize.'' Diana said with a smile.

''You're forgiven.'' he told her, matching her smile.

''How are you?''

''I'm a delight. And you?''

''Charming as ever. How did you find me?''

Brian moved very close to her. ''When you left I put salt on your tail. You're not exactly inconspicuous. I went to London Airport and I said, 'Where did the tall girl go?' They, recognizing my impeccable taste, pointed due west.'' he reached into his pocket and brought out a small box. This is for you''

Diana's face glowed as she accepted the box. ''Oh, Brian, you should have.'' She opened the box, as Brian said lightly, ''It's nothing.'' And it was true - there was nothing in the box. Diana glanced at Brian questioningly.

'' I never lie.'' Brian said with a broad grin. He handed her a sheet of paper. ''Now, this was supposed to be in it. It's an invitation for dinner. You can fill in the name of the person you want to have it with. Will seven thirty be all right?''

Diana shook her head in amusement. ''Seven thirty will be fine, thank you.''

Brian grinned, turning away as he consulted his memo pad. ''I hope I can manage it.'' he murmured.

Norma entered the office and her eyes lit up as they fell on Brian Harris.

Diana introduced them and they exchanged how-do-you-do's. ''Norma is my boss,'' Diana amplified.

Brian ran his eyes up and down Norma's figure with flattering attention. ''You're the most intelligently constructed boss I've ever seen.''

'' Thank you. Are you in town for a visit or a concert?''

Brian looked shocked. ''Hasn't anyone told you?''

''No.''

Brian glanced between Diana - who got up to get him some coffee, and Norma. ''I'm playing with the New York Philharmonic tomorrow night at Lincoln Center.''

''Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know.''

Diana handed him a cup of coffee. ''Lincoln Center? Brian, that's marvelous.''

''Yes, I've progressed from simple pianist to internationally renowned artiste. That means that Brian Harris is spelt wrong in eight languages. My current favorite is Blarney Harris.'' He sipped his coffee.

''In Japan?'' asked Norma.

''No, in London.'' He put down the cup. '' I say, I wonder if you could come with Diana to the concert tomorrow night.''

Diana had sat down at her desk. '' I didn't know I was going.''

''Well, of course you're invited. I have influence. I can get you the very best seats at a reasonable price.'' He hesitated a beat for that to sink in, then grinned. '' No, you're my guests.''

''What about Norman?'' asked Diana.

''What do we want with a Norman?''

'' Norman is my husband.'' pointed out Norma.

''Oh, pity.'' Brian smiled at her.

''He'll be out of town tomorrow night.'' Norma said, very quickly.

'' Splendid.''

At this point Howard entered. Diana started to introduce him, but Brian interrupted with a conspiratorial grin at Howard. ''Oh, you don't have to introduce us. He's my conspirator. He carried the cry of my heart to you.''

''I didn't know you were the Brian Harris, then.''

''I am always the Brian Harris.''

''You know I don't think there's a record album of yours I don't have.''

Brian looked at him with closer attention. ''Oh, really?''

'' I particularly like that Rachmanoff piano concerto.''

''I'm inclined to agree with you.''

''It's...it's...what's the word I'm looking for?''

''Magnificent?'' suggested Brian. Diana smiled behind him as Howard snapped his fingers.

''Yes, that's it. You know, I wanted to come to your concert tomorrow night. Do you think there'll be tickets at this late date?''

''Be my guest.'' Brian said immediately. '' Join the ladies.''

''Oh, thank you, that's very kind of you.''

''And after a scintillating performance, and an encore of Rachmaninoff specially for you, we'll open a bottle of champagne in the dressing room.''

''Oh, I'd love to.''

The phone rang, and Diana picked it up. ''Hello? Yes, I'll tell him.'' She replaced the receiver. '' Your limousine is awaiting downstairs.''

''Oh, I shall have to desert you. The limousine awaits. I have to do some interviews.'' He pulled out his memorandum pad. ''I have to do some today. I have to do the Tonight Show today, and...that can't be right. I have to do the Today Show today.''

''No, no, no. They do tomorrow's Today Show tomorrow. Tomorrow's Tonight Show they do today.''

''I beg your pardon?''

''Today's Tonight Show they did yesterday.'' Howard gestured at Diana for her further help in explaining.

''It's very simple.'' Diana commented. '' You see they do the Tonight Show today for tomorrow But It's too late to do the Today show. They did that already this morning.''

''I think I'll be better off with Dick Cavett.'' Brian replaced his memo pad in his vest pocket and bestowed smiles on Norma and Howard. '' It's very nice meeting you. Goodbye.'' He bent over Diana and gazed at her deeply. ''See you tonight, which is today. Perhaps we'll extend it, to tomorrow. Goodbye.''

Diana smiled up at him. ''Goodbye.''

Brian exited the room, and Norma and Howard turned towards her.

''Oh, Diana, he's wonderful.'' exclaimed Norma.

''He's a great guy.'' agreed Howard.

''Yes,'' said Diana, pensively, ''he is.''

Diana looked at herself very briefly in the mirror. She did not spend a great deal of time on her looks as a rule. But she wanted to look extremely nice for Brian tonight...at that point the door rang. She went out to answer it. Brian was there.

''Brian, you're early,'' Brian informed her. ''I haven't finished dressing yet. Help to yourself to a drink. I'll be right with you.''

He turned to the right and found himself at her wet bar. Diana shook her head admiringly. ''You've still got it. Your sense of where the bar is located is still 100 proof.''

'' How about you? Can I offer you a drink?''

''Yes.''

''The usual?''

''Yes. ''

For some reason, Brian said, ''Extra dry martini, straight up with a twist.''

Diana's lips twitched. ''Tall scotch.''

''And water.''

''Soda.'' corrected Diana.

''Of course!'' Brian said, snapping his fingers. '' The usual! Tall, scotch and soda.'' Why had he done that, he wondered. He knew what Diana liked to drink. He also knew that she didn't like him referring to all the women that he had had, at one time or another in his life.

Brian glanced around the room, with its many knick knacks and decorations, including a telescope by a huge plate glass window. '' I love the drama of this room, you know. It's very similar to Roger's flat in London.''

''Yes.'' said Diana. '' The furniture is the same including the art collection.''

''There's only one jarring note. That picture over there.''

''Which one?''

''The atrocious one. It's the only time I've ever really disagreed with Roger's taste. Who's the artist?''

''Me.'' pointed out Diana.

''Oh, I'm sorry.'' said Brian, going back to mixing the drinks.

''There's no need to apologize.''

''No,'' commented Brian candidly, ''I'm sorry it's atrocious.''

He handed her a drink. ''There's your scotch and water.''

'' Soda.'' said Diana.

''Of course.'' Brian pulled back his left hand and handed her the drink in his right. ''Scotch and soda. Now. What shall we drink to?'' he moved closer to her. ''Exciting, unusual. I guess we'd better drink to us.'' The two of them sat down, Diana on the divan and Brian on a chair. ''The past. The two of us just talking, relaxing, and exchanging ideas...''

''Brian. I seem to remember our past was a quite frantic series of interruptions..''

Brian hadn't been paying attention. He interrupted. ''By the way, how are you getting on in America. Are you getting acclimatized?''

''Well, I'm getting there. I know longer call the subway the tube. I say X, Y and Zee instead of X, Y Zed. And I'm learning to tell my dates 'why don't you give me a call' instead of 'why don't you knock me up.'''

Brian laughed heartily. ''Extraordinary language.''

''You should hear what they say about ours.''

Brian sipped his drink, gazing at the sweep of Diana's auburn hair. ''Do you know,'' he said soberly, ''there's not been a moment I haven't thought about you.''

''And I've read about you.'' Diana said quietly.

''And thought about me?'' Brian asked, equally quietly.

Diana shrugged. '' Inevitably one reads, one thinks.''

''Yes. Well, you don't need to believe every scurrilous thing you read. In particular that incredible thing..''

Diana waved a hand at him. ''No, no, no. I've never read that one.''

''Good.'' Brian got up and joined her on the divan. ''I bet you don't know where I was last week. Waterford.''

''Waterford.'' said Diana, somewhat blankly.

''Yeah. You remember that absolutely mad day. Ha ha. The canoe. We left our clothes on the shore, we had to buy 'em back again from those children that came by...''

Diana joined in his laughter but said, ''The part I remember best about that particular day...''

''Yes, what?''

''Is my not being there.''

Brian blinked. ''It wasn't you?'' He recovered smoothly. ''It should have been. Do you know, I've often wish I hadn't been such an idiot and walked out on you.''

''I walked out on you.''

''Right. I wish you hadn't been such an idiot.''

The telephone rang. Diana picked up the receiver. ''Hello. Yes, he's here. It's for you.'' she handed the receiver to Brian.

''Ah.''

''You gave out my number?'' Diana asked, slightly annoyed.

''I knew you wouldn't mind. I gave it to the hotel in case there was a call. Yes? Hong Kong? Yes, I'll accept the charges. He began speaking, in a really atrocious Chinese accent. Dem guy ganor. Desoto desonto. Jee see san lie. Dozo.'' He hung up the phone. ''My shirt maker.''

Diana laughed. ''Brian, you are incorrigible.''

The phone rang again. ''That's probably for me.'' Brian commented.

''Has it occurred to you that someone may wish to call me at my apartment on my phone. Hello?'' She listened very briefly, then held the receiver out to Brian.

''Hello. Yes, this is he. Ohh, Barbara. It's Barbara Walters. That's very kind of you, Barbara.'' Another phone rang. ''Will you get that please, darling?''

''Certainly,'' said Diana with resignation.

Brian returned his attention to the receiver in his hand. ''I'm very glad. I'm delighted that you want me to play the piano, but, I honestly don't think I can do it at six am. I mean, my fingers don't even start to lift until one.''

''It's your manager.'' Diana called to him.

Brian covered the receiver. ''Oh, what's he want?''

''He wants to know if you're interested in Denver.''

''Well, only if Denver's interested in me''.

''Only if Denver's interested in him.'' Diana told her receiver and hung up.

Brian was still on his call to Barbara Walters. ''Look, I'm awfully sorry, Barbara, but even for you it is too early. Perhaps when it's a little later. Bye.''

The doorbell rang.

''Don't tell me you gave out my address as well.'' Diana commented.

''My tailor, darling.''

Brian opened the door to a short man of obvious Italian extraction, with brilliantined hair and a moustache. ''Good day.'' He entered, carrying a gleaming black set of tails.

''Ah, Mr. Spinelli. Come in, come in.''

''Excuse me. I have brought your tails.''

''Wonderful.''

''And I am sure you will find them exactly to your taste. But, more importantly, to mine.'' He helped Brian slip on the jacket.

''Lovely. They're really perfect. ''

''Of course, it's a Spinelli.''

Diana sighed. Clearly Spinelli and Brian Harris had gone to the same school of ego-mania.

''Of course.'' commented Brian. ''But there is just one thing I have to do. This is important.'' He moved in front of Diana's coffee table, which would serve as a piano bench in a pinch. He stood quietly for a second, eyes straight ahead as if looking at an imaginary audience, then he brought his hands down to flip his tails out of the way as he sat down on the bench.

''The left one doesn't flip correctly.'' he reported.

''Impossible.'' snapped Spinelli.

''No, no, no.'' said Brian in all seriousness and concern. ''See for yourself.'' He repeated the flip and once more the left one didn't flip correctly. ''Mr. Spinelli. A gracefully flipped tail makes all the difference in the appearance to the piano player. Now, you'll just have to add more flip.''

The short man glared up at him. ''Mr. Harris. I have given those tails the precise degree of flip for performing at Lincoln Center. If you were performing at Carnegie Hall I would tend to agree with you, but for Lincoln Center, they're perfect.''

Brian loomed over the tailor. ''Mr. Spinelli. I'm the one who's going to be doing the playing, and I'm the one, therefore, who's going to be doing the flipping. And I demand more flip.''

''One does not demand of Spinelli! For five generations the name Spinelli has been synonymous with excellence in design, workmanship, detail and flip.''

''Mr. Spinelli. When I say more flip I want more flip!''

''Mr. Harris. I won't touch them!''

''I insist!''

''I refuse!''

''You won't get paid!''

Spinelli blinked. ''You want flip you'll get flip.'' He seized the tails. ''Good day, Mr. Harris.'' He looked at Diana. ''Mrs... Miss, . Lady..'' he bowed and left to Diana's amused ''Goodbye.''

'' Wasn't I right?'' Brian appealed to her.

''Of course. There's nothing worse than a limp flip.''

The doorbell rang.

''I'm terribly sorry, my darling, but, I've invited a few reporters in for an impromptu press conference.''

'' How many?'' demanded Diana, her hand on the door.

..Well, Maybe ten. Perhaps twenty. I do hope you don't mind but I do think it's going to delay our dinner just a little.''

''Yes,'' said Diana coldly. ''Possibly another ten years.'' She opened the door and watched the reporters - men and women, enter. Brian greeted them with all the aplomb in the world.

''Come in, gentlemen, and ladies. Oh, it's delightful to see you all.''

Diana ungritted her teeth. Brian obviously wanted her to act as his hostess, she would act as his hostess. She went into the kitchen, removed a few blocks of cheese and her cheese slicer, and got to work on canapes.

Diana Smythe spent a restless night. Every time she closed her eyes Brian Harris' face rose in front of her eyes...but he wasn't playing the piano...instead he was smiling and grinning and flirting with a succession of women and then turning and staring at her with a lifted lip as if mocking her...her anger was growing and growing...

The next morning Diana had forgotten her dreams, but the feelings of irritation with Brian Harris remained. She was almost ready to leave for work when the doorbell rang. ''Good morning.'' said Brian with a smile. He carried a tray on which there were silver chafing dishes, and there was a paper under his arm.

''Good morning.'' Diana said cheerfully.

''Breakfast is served. Your morning paper.''

Diana took the paper from underneath his arm and glanced at the label on it. ''Jones. Apartment 11A.''

''We can put it back before they get up. They'll never miss it.''

'' I'm afraid they will. They've just bought a puppy.''

''Oh.'' said Brian unrepentantly. He lifted the covers off the chafing dishes.

''Brian. I find that deeply moving. But you do seem to have forgotten I don't eat breakfast.''

''But I cleaned and caught these kippers for you.''

''Besides, I have to go to work.''

''Work. You're not going to go to work today, are you?''

''Of course.''

''But I thought we'd spend it together. Look, all I've got is a press conference this morning, a radio interview over lunch, then I've got a few publicity stills at two, and then we can go to the Lincoln Center and you can listen to me practice for an hour or two. Won't it be wonderful?''

''Brian, I have to work.''

Brian took hold of her hand. ''Oh, but I wanted you with me.''

''I'm sorry.''

''Why don't you phone in and tell them a little white lie.''

Diana was actually tempted, but then she thought better of it. ''No, no, no, I can't do that.''

Brian was getting irritated. ''What possible difference can it make if you don't go to work today. I mean, it's not really all that important, is it?''

That was a mistake. Diana's voice grew icy. '' I beg your pardon. My work may not be as glamorous as yours, and I may not receive an ovation for it, but my job is just as important to me as your job is to you.''

Brian was shocked. ''Being a concert pianist is not a job!''

''Well, being a fashion illustrator is. And I have certain responsibilities and I can't just walk out on them.''

Brian caught up her other hand, but Diana drew away from the warmth of his touch. ''Oh, darling, what happened to the Diana Smythe who was full of life? A free spirit. You did everything for the moment. All you want to do is go to work in a bloody shop.''

Diana maintained her iciness. ''That is called making a living, Brian.''

'' Well, you've certainly changed.''

''Unfortunately you haven't. You're still totally preoccupied with yourself.''

''Now, look,'' Brian raised his voice, ''Diana, all I want you to do is to take the day off.''

''You're still as understanding and flexible as after.''

''Darling. Dammit! You're being childish and immature.''

''You haven't changed a bit. You still like to push people around! But you are not pushing me!''

''All right! All right!'' He sat down, pouting. '' I'll go to Lincoln Center and spend the day alone! With my piano.''

Diana glared at him. In clipped tones she said, ''I'd tell you what to do with your piano. But it's a physical impossibility.'' She closed the door, with herself on the other side of it.

'' I'm an artist.'' Brian Harris snapped. '' I can do anything with a piano.''

Diana was back in the department store window, putting in the final touches. Norma entered. ''Hi, Diana.''

''Hi, Norma.''

''Well?''

Diana walked away from her, busily arranging the tilt of the hats on the mannequins. ''Well, what?''

''Well, how is Brian?''

''Oh, he's fine.'' Diana said uninterestedly.

''Diana, you meet a man you haven't seen in ten years. A man you obviously knew...very well. And all you can say is fine?''

Diana was getting tired of her friend's matchmaking. ''Norma, fine is fine with me.''

''Has he changed?''

''No, he's still as charming and stubborn and handsome and pigheaded as he always was.''

''Half of him sounds delicious.''

Diana smiled. ''One minute I adore him and the next minute I'd like to throttle him.''

''Well, you'd better make up your mind right away because look whose here.'' She indicated the man outside the window - Brian Harris bearing a bunch of roses. Norma gestured him to come inside.

''Oh, this is ridiculous.'' Diana said,

''He brought you flowers.''

''Mm, he's very big on long-stemmed apologies. At times, my flat in London looked like a greenhouse.''

At this point Brian arrived. ''Hello.'' he greeted Norma. He handed her one the roses, which she thanked him for, and gave the rest of them to Diana.

'' Thank you.'' she told him sincerely, sniffing at them delicately.

Norma glanced between the two of them, so obviously in love, and said, ''Well, I guess I'd better go do whatever it is ...I'd better go do.''

'' Don't forget this evening.'' Brian told her. '' My dressing room after the concert.''

''Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world.''

Brian watched her leave and then turned to Diana. He took a deep breath. ''Um. I realize that the things I said this morning were unnecessary, harsh, and I hate to say it, but childish.''

''I think that summed it up rather nicely.'' Diana greed.

''I'm sure you do.'' Brian said with a smile. '' I realize I'm just a pain in the neck!''

''I was thinking a bit lower.''

Brian moved closer to her. ''Do you know what I did this morning? I thought and stared at the piano. I couldn't even play chopsticks. All I was thinking about was our argument. Look, darling,'' his voice softened, ''you know I get ..I get nervous before a concert. I admit I'm self-centered and sometimes I speak before I think, but the fact is I'm sorry.''

Diana stared at him in surprise. ''Brian, do you know what you've just done?''

''No?''

''You have just apologized.''

Brian looked just as surprised. ''I did, didn't I?''

''It's a first.'' This was true, Diana remembered. When she was angry at him in the past, he'd always given her flowers...but he'd never actually said he was sorry...

''Don't let it get around.'' Brian said in a conspiratorial whisper. '' It could ruin my image.'' He moved yet closer and their was a tinge of yearning in his voice as he said, ''You are coming to the concert tonight, aren't you?''

''Of course.'' Diana said, surprised that he doubted it.

''And dinner afterward. Just the two of us?''

''I'd love it.''

''Forgiven?'' asked Brian, moving closer.

''Forgiven.''

''Friends?'' yet closer.

''Friends.''

They stared into each other's eyes, and then Brian bent and closed his lips very gently over Diana's. They looked at each other, deep into each other's eyes, but the spell was broken by the sound of clapping. They looked up to see a crowd of people in front of the window, delighted with the show.

That night, Brian Harris entered his dressing room, followed by his manager. Brian's face was covered with a sheen of sweat and his tails hung limply.

'' A disaster.'' Brian announced.

''Mr. Harris, everyone is entitled to an off night. I would certainly not call it a disaster.''

''In my entire career I've never received as bad notices as tomorrow's.''

''So you had a little problem with your Beethoven. The rest of your performance was brilliant.''

Brian glared at him. ''What do you mean? They walked out. I wish I'd been with them.''

''They gave you six curtain calls.''

''Three. If Beethoven had not been deaf, he'd be turning in his grave.''

''Do you wish to see anybody?''

''No, they want their money back.''

''You know, you'd feel better if you get out of those tails and into something more comfortable.''

''Yes, into a 747, jumbo, back to London, dear, rainy old London.''

''And don't be so harsh with yourself. And don't talk down. Be affirmative.''

''You know, John. You're quite right. Forgive me, Ludwig,'' he said this to a picture of Ludwig van Beethoven that hung on the wall. He reached into a drawer, brought out a bottle, and entered the inner, changing room.

There was a knock and John opened the door to Norma and Howard.

''Won't you come in?''

'' Thank you.'' they said, and entered.

Howard said happily, ''Hey, he's not here.''

''He'll be with you in a moment.''

''Oh.'' said Howard, less happily.

''Have a seat,'' said John, gesturing. ''Excuse me,'' and he went out of the room.

''We should have waited for Diana.'' Howard said nervously.

''She's talking to friends.''

''We made a big mistake coming here.''

''To the dressing room?''

''To the concert.''

''I don't know what to say to him.'' Norma said worriedly. ''I can't lie. He'll see right through me.''

''Do you think we can get away with just, 'good night?' What happened?'' He just didn't play well tonight.''

Brian re-entered the room, wearing a dressing gown, his hair plastered down from the shower he'd just taken.

''Howard, Norma.'' Brian greeted them pleasantly. ''How good of you to drop by.''

''We simply had to.'' Norma said awkwardly.

''How could we leave without telling you that...''' Howard stuttered to a halt.

Brian looked at them, vaguely amused. ''Yes?''

''Great..great, the seats were just great.'' said Norma quickly.

''Perfect.'' agreed Howard.

''And soft.'' added Norma.

''Soft, soft.'' agreed Howard.

''Did you enjoy the concert?'' asked Brian.

Norma blinked. ''Enjoy is not the word. 'I can't remember another night like this in my life.''

'' Oh, me too'' agreed Howard. ''I'll be talking about this for weeks.''

''Yes.'' said Norma quickly. ''I don't know anybody who could have done what you did...the way you did it tonight. Well, I suppose we really ought to leave you alone because I'm sure you have a lot of people waiting...'' she glanced around but of course there was no one else in the room, ''to talk...to you.''

''Aren't you going to stay and have some champagne?''

''No, thanks very much.''

''We've to get up very early in the morning.'' said Howard quickly. ''You know.''

''Oh, I understand.'' Brian said. ''Well next time I come back we'll have to do it again.''

''Why?'' asked Howard.

''They've asked me back in three months time.''

''Really?'' said Norma. She recovered quickly. ''That is simply marvelous. We'll see you then. Goodnight. Goodnight, and thanks again for anything.''

Howard peered around the door. ''And, once again I just have to say...'' and he closed the door.

John entered with Brian's tails. ''Do you want these pressed?''

''No.'' said Brian irritably. ''Burned.''

John sighed and opened the door into the hallway. He stepped back to allow Diana Smythe to enter the room, and closed it behind him.

''Forgive me, Brian,'' Diana told him, '' but I got into a conversation with some rather long-winded friends. They really enjoyed the concert.''

''Then they must have missed it.'' Brian snapped. ''The one I was at was dismal.''

'' Brian.'' Diana said sympathetically.

''No. Intellectually I know that I perform poorly on occasions. But, I can't stand what happened tonight, darling, I hate myself. '' He held up his hands. ''I'm divorcing all ten fingers.''

''Brian.'' Diana said again. ''You had moments of brilliance.''

''You're remembering the past.'' Brian said bitterly. ''You of all people should know that I did not perform well.''

They sat down on the divan in the dressing room. ''Now, listen.'' said Diana seriously. ''Your Chopin was beautifully performed. And you're Mozart was excellent.''

''What did you think of my Beethoven?'' Brian demanded.

''Your Beethoven?'' Diana stalled.

''I want the truth.''

''I was quite moved.''

''Yes, I saw you squirming. I was atrocious! I decimated Beethoven!''

''Those are your words, not mine.''

''Well, I want to hear your words.''

''Well, you played with conviction and...''

'' The truth.''

''Well, actually I was disappointed.

Brian stared at her, jarred out of his own self-loathing. ''Disappointed?'' he said in a dangerously low tone.

'' Mmm. I simply don't think you played as well as you can.''

''You don't?''

''No.'' Diana moved away from him.

Brian stood up and said very coldly, ''May I ask what qualifies you for such an evaluation?''

Diana stared at him. ''Well, it's an opinion and I'm not without some musical knowledge. I did study music in school.''

''An hour a week,'' snapped Brian, ''of music appreciation at a Buckinghamshire boarding school does not entitle you to set yourself up as a music critic.''

''You asked me to tell you what I thought.'' Diana defended herself.

Brian was angry - he was furious, and he didn't know why. But he couldn't stop himself. ''Well, you should think before you say what you thought.''

''But I thought...'' Diana too did not know why Brian was so angry - surely he was not one of those men who thought that their women should always give them unqualified praise when it was not deserved?

''You should think before you say what you're think you thought.'' snapped Brian.

Diana did not appreciate having her thoughts and ideas dismissed. She said very coldly, ''I think we should stop this before one of us says something we're totally sorry for.''

''One of us already has. I'm totally sorry for what you said. Good night.'' Brian picked up the bottle and went back into the other room.

Diana stared at the closed door for a long second. ''Good night, Brian.'' she said very quietly. ''And goodbye.'' She tightened her fur cloak around her shoulders and left the room.

That night Diana had the same dream. It was always the same. She stood alone, no props around her...while Brian stood surrounded by women, enjoying their company, always turning back to look at her and sneering at her...and she kept growing angrier and angrier...but sometimes she thought she saw a look in his eyes...he wasn't sneering at her so much as begging for her help...

Brian Harris did not sleep well that night either. He was alone in his hotel suite - which had a piano in a place of honor. He sat at the piano and tinkled the keys...but he didn't feel like playing Rachmaninoff or Chopin and he didn't feel like he knew how to play anything else, let alone chopsticks.

What had happened? He'd been on stage playing Chopin, brilliantly, as usual, and then he'd taken a side glance and seen Diana in her place of honor and the way she had looked...it seemed to have triggered something in him. And then while he'd been playing Beethoven he simply hadn't been able to remember the notes...or even how to play!

And then the way he'd acted towards Diana. When she'd come to his dressing room intent to cheer him up and he'd hounded her to tell him the truth and then he had berated her for doing so. He hadn't been able to stop himself...but why. And she'd left, of course. Diana wasn't one of those women who'd take a lot of guff and then sit and wait to take some more - she'd left and how was he going to get her back?

Brian held his head in his hands. Words echoed in his head, ''Diana, you're needed...you're needed...I need you.''

Diana Smythe sat in her chair, her eyes far away. She felt a sickly sweet feeling of loss and yearning...she was remembering Brian Harris...all the things she remembered about him...she was in love with him...yes she was, but she could not stand the way he treated her...

The doorbell rang. Diana stood up and took a deep breath. ''Don't let it be Brian,'' she thought.

It was Brian. He had his coat over one arm. ''Bum bum bum.'' he said, whipping the coat off his arm to reveal a magnum of champagne. '''I also do card tricks. Charming smiles. And apologies.'' Diana let him kiss her on the cheek.

She wanted to say many things, but it was like her brain was on autopilot. ''Brian. Why do you keep coming back?''

He stood looking at her, hands at his sides, defenseless. ''Probably because I love you.''

''Because you love me?'' Diana said with a tinge of disbelief in her voice.

''Well, is that so illegal in the United States?''

''But, Brian, you have no reason to love me.'' This was true, Diana thought. He was an internationally renowned pianist and monopolized the conversation and never listened to what she had to say...he was obsessed with her looks, that was all...

''You were born.'' Brian said quietly. ''That's reason enough.''

Diana actually laughed. ''I'm terribly sorry, Brian, but you said precisely that, one night in Cambridge 11 years ago.''

''Oh? Well, what's so terrible about being consistent? And what's so wrong about being loved?''

''Because,'' Diana said quietly, ''with you it's a conversational gambit.''

''I suppose you're going to say that I'm not capable of loving.''

''No, no, you are capable of loving, but it is yourself that you love.''

Brian stared at her. ''True.'' he said. He crossed over and sat down on the arm of her chair, and she leaned her head against his chest.

''But once you love one person you can love another.'' He took her hand. ''Darling, come with me. Look, I've got a concert tour, it's booked to the end of the year. All around the world. Now we'll travel, we'll laugh.'' He squeezed her shoulder. ''We'll be full-time lovers and part time sparring partners. You're marvelous when you're angry, and I'm marvelous when we make up. What do you think?''

Diana sat still for long seconds, warring within herself. She wanted to. More than anything else. But she did not want to be a sparring partner, even if it meant that they'd be making up every night. Was there no way to change hi? No, there could be no way.

Brian himself was thinking, ''Please, please say yes...I need you.''

Very quietly, Diana said, ''No.''

Brian didn't let any expression of despair show on his face. ''I want to ask you something else.''

'' Mh hm?''

''Are you still in the mood for dinner?''

Diana gazed up at him with a look that caused his heart to beat. ''I'm starved.''

Brian bent down and kissed her. He wanted to kiss her, hard, to take her in his arms, but he couldn't. Instead he stood up and said, '' Good. What have you got in the house?''

Diana laughed. ''I've half a can of artichoke hearts, some pickled gherkins and some fig newtons.''

''We'll go out.'' he turned. ''Darling. Diana. Thank you for being honest with me. I think we'd be better if we looked upon ourselves as two ships that passed in the night.''

Diana nodded. ''And count ourselves lucky that we didn't collide, and sink.'' She kissed him on the cheek.

Diana sat in her office, doodling on her sketch pad. Norma was there, sipping coffee. It was Monday, and another lovely day at work. A day to draw pictures and think of advertising copy.

Howard entered, cheerfully. ''Good morning.''

''Good morning, Howard.'' said Norma.

''How was your weekend.'' Diana queried.

''How could the weekend be with the kids fighting and the dogs yapping and Ethel complaining.''

''Why was Ethel complaining?'' demadned Norma.''

''Because I was away all weekend. How was yours.''

Diana smiled. ''It's the most relaxing Sunday I've had in weeks.''

Howard looked at her. ''What did you do Saturday?''

''I saw Brian off. Why do you think Sunday was so relaxing?''

A phone rang and Norma answered it. ''Hello. Oh, yes, just a minute please. Diana, it's for you. It's Brian calling from Denver.''

Diana picked up her extension. ''Hello, Brian.'' she said warmly. ''Marvelous to hear you. Yes, Brian, I would love to have breakfast with you. But don't you think the fact that you're two thousand miles away makes it a titch difficult?''

At that precise second two men clad in tuxedos appeared in the doorway. One of them carried a tray. ''Mrs. Smythe?'' asked the man in the lead.

''Sh. She's on long distance.'' Norma told him.

The man in the lead said, ''Excellent. Over there, Fred.'' The second man carried the tray in and put it down in front of Diana.

''Oh, Brian, you are deliciously mad.'' She took up the orange juice. ''Good morning, darling.''

Diana didn't eat breakfast, so she merely listened while Brian talked, telling her all about Denver and the people he was meeting. After he hung up, she went back to work.

It was time for lunch. Diana lifted the lid off the chafing dish on the tray, and then almost dropped it, as a sudden feeling of terror rushed over her. All that was on the tray was a single rose. Why in the world would she feel so horrified at the sight of it?

''Meine liebling, meine rose...'' she murmured to herself. And then stopped. Now why in the world had that phrase popped into her head. She didn't even know how to speak German...did she? But..it was a song, a song playing in her head.''

Diana leapt to her feet. ''I'm going out for lunch, Howard. See you in an hour.''

''Sure, Diana.''

Diana didn't wait for the elevators, she took off her high-heels and then headed down the stairs of the building two and three at a time. Finally outside, she put her high-heels back on and started walking rapidly, anywhere, as kaleidoscopic images flashed across her eyes. Men's faces, all kinds of men's faces, men that she didn't know but whom she knew meant danger to her. And then always there was Brian's face, smiling...wearing a bowler of all things, and then everything was all right again.

''I think I need to go into therapy,'' Diana told herself at last. ''Something is going on and I don't know what it is...does Brian have this much of a hold over me?''

Diana walked through the crowds of people that always infested a Manhattan side walk, until finally she came to Central Avenue, and she followed the path into the park. It wasn't much like walking through Hyde Park in London, but it was better than nothing.

As she walked, hearing the sounds of the birds and looking at the trees, she began to calm down. But that song, Meine liebling, meine rose, it wouldn't go out of her head. Suddenly, behind her, Diana heard the sound of hoofbeats. She turned to see a policeman on horseback. The horse was a magnificent beast, its head arched proudly, its hooves stepping high...a magnificent steed.

Steed...steed...a picture slipped sideways into Diana's mind. Brian's face, very close to hers, lips warm and inviting, herself pressing him away. ''You don't need to worry about that,'' came his voice. ''I've been to the vet and had myself fixed. You don't think I'd want the patter of little Steeds all about, do you?''

Steeds. Steed. Steed?

Something seemed to shatter in Diana's mind. She clutched at her head as she sank to the ground...''Steed, Steed, John Steed,'' echoed again and again in her head.

''Hey, lady? Hey, miss?'' came an urgent voice.

Diana opened her eyes to see a young black kid looking at her, his face alive with concern.

''Are you okay?'' he asked. ''You're holding onto that tree for dear life.''

Diana took a long, shaky breath. She smiled at the good samaritan, and as she started to get to his feet he helped her. ''I'm fine, thanks. Just a bit of a...well, a daymare, I guess you'd call it.''

''Uh, sure.'' said the kid. ''There was a cop who rode past here. You want me to go get him and take you to a doctor?''

''No, no, thanks, I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I'm perfect. Thanks for your concern.''

''Sure.'' he nodded at her, then ran off.

Diana took another deep breath, then turned and retraced her steps. She had to get back to her office. She had to make a phone call to a travel agent. She needed a ticket to Denver.