The Madness of Garth of Izar

The Madness of Garth of Izar
By Gale Force
Introduction – The Prime Directive
Today, it is axiomatic that no member of the Federation can interfere in any way with the indigenous inhabitants of a planet. Indeed, the inhabitants are never even to know that the Federation exists, unless and until they develop spaceflight capability of their own.

It was not always this way.

It was the events that happened on the planet of Axanar, some thirty years ago at the time of this writing, and its aftermath, that caused the development of the Prime Directive.

Here is that story.

Part 1 – The Discovery
Axanar was-and in a sense still is-a Class-M planet in a small, out-of-the-way solar system, a little closer to the unexplored territory of the ever-expanding Federation than the unexplored territory of the ever-expanding Klingons.

Axanar had, quite independently of Earth, evolved from its own Stone Age to Bronze Age to Iron Age, to the Medieval Age. As with most planets on which humanoid forms resided, the history of their interaction was warlike. For decades various nobles – in the southern hemisphere - had fought each other over land, and religion, and so on, until one man had achieved the power to establish hegemony over the rest. The kingdom was called Izar, the man who ruled it, King Gaveston. At his side throughout his battles had been his efficient General, Simov, who was really responsible for most of Gaveston's victories – his command of strategy and more, implementing that strategy, was masterful.

When peace broke out, Simov retired and was given estates near the village of Chaels by the grateful king. Being a literary man, with lots of time on his hands now, despite an ever-growing family, he wrote histories of the battles, and books explaining tactics. The southern hemisphere was united under Gaveston's rule, but the peoples of the northern hemisphere were not to be trusted…therefore the martial arts had still to be practiced.

Young Garth was a peasant lad, who lived with his family in the village of Chaels. The village was adjacent to the King's Forest, and in the distance, from Sunrise Hill – as Garth called one of the nameless hills that surrounded his village – he could see the spires of the Castle that was the residence of Baron Simov.

Every morning, Garth got up in darkness to do his first chores of the day, quickly and efficiently, and when they were done he would set out on a race, a race to beat the sun to the top of Sunrise Hill. And he always won.

From that hill he stared at that castle so far away, for as many minutes as he could before his duties called him again. He had no dream of becoming a lord and sitting in idleness on a velvet throne…it was people he longed to see – people he didn't know, the travel away from his village, to places he didn't know like the back of his hand, and events that he wanted to have happen, different, something different, something unexpected... instead of the same old routine that was life in small Chaels. He loved his family, and his friends, but one day he would journey away from his village. One day he would set out to explore all of Izar..and then, all of the world!

One night, when Garth was eight years old; and when all were asleep in their homes, a fireball might have been seen streaking through the sky, and hitting quite near the village of Izar.

Of course, hitting is not the right description, but that is perhaps what an untutored eye would have made of it. The shuttlecraft, disguised now, had made a pinpoint landing. Within, three members of the Merchant Marine arm of the Federation, in their grey jumpsuits, fixed themselves coffee. The leader of the expedition sighed.

"I hate landing at night. All the sensors in the world don't mean squat. We could still hit something."

The second man shrugged. "Orders. We stay incognito until we find out if there's anything worth having here."

"Anything worth having?" rapped the third man, drinking his coffee with fingers that trembled. "I never saw such readings. This planet is a miner's paradise. We're going to be rich."

"We still have to check the readings. Our technology isn't perfect. We've been wrong before."

"Technology," scoffed the leader. "How long have they been promising us some kind of beam…some kind of matter transporter, so we don't have to take a shuttle down to planets like this, but can just, you know, find out what we need to know..."…he snapped his fingers…"like that."

"Never going to happen," said the second man. "It's just not possible. Someone's writing science fiction."

After a good night's sleep, for at least two of the men, the Federation explorers donned rough garb and exited the shuttle craft. Taking what to today's eyes would be a primitive tricorder, they made their way carefully through the deserted landscape, just south of the village of Izar, until they came to a series of gorges which looked as if they'd d been gouged out of the land by a giant, running his finger through it. Each man held a tricorder. Each tricorder went crazy.

The three men slapped each other on the back and laughed exultantly.

"Gentlemen, we're going to be rich," said the third man. "Let's get back to the ship and send in our claim right now. In another few years…"

The three men cast their eyes over the peaceful scenery. "In another few years, this will be home to the sweetest mining equipment you ever saw. We'll bring technology here so fast, the 'digs' (short for indigenous peopled) won't know what hit 'em."

"We can't take off until tonight." Cautioned the second man. "No need to panic these people until we're ready to take over."

The three men returned to the shuttlecraft. The leader and the second man passed the time away watching videos or reading…the third man simply lay in his bunk, eyes on the ceiling above him, dreaming of what he'd do with his riches.

It was going to take a few years, of course. Travel those many years ago did not take place at the greater warp speeds of today. It was a six-month's journey back to the nearest Federation outpost, and from there they'd have to go through all the red tape of laying claim to the mining rights of the planet, and establishing their business plan to ensure the digs were well-compensated for the mines that would completely alter their way of life… but soon…very soon… he'd be rich.

Part II – The Castle
The King of Izar was come!

Every year, the King made a procession to one or more of the castles he had gifted to the nobles who had helped him establish his kingdom in the War. While the king was in residence, the entire village was allowed to come into the castle, and watch various events – now that soldiers were no longer needed to fight wars, they fought in joust and duels for the entertainment of the populace. There would be much food, much dancing, much entertainment.

Garth was so excited he felt as if he would burst.

He and his family were in the last cart heading up the road to the castle, through the King's Forest. Garth had started out by running alongside the cart…he'd been too impatient to ride and thought he could run all the way to the castle. After all, he could run all the way up Sunrise Hill! But after an hour he'd been exhausted and climbed into the cart to rest, and marked in his mind a few lessons he would always remember – don't be impatient, and don't overestimate your abilities. He rested his head on his mother's shoulder and tried to ignore his sore feet.

There was not room enough within the castle for all the villagers, of course, so pavilions had been set out on the lower greens, for the peasants to congregate and sleep. There was free food and free entertainment there as well.

Garth spent the day between his mother and father, holding on to the hand of his sister, as they watched all this glorious pageantry unfold. He did this because his feet felt too sore for him to go anywhere!

But the next day, he received permission to wander around on his own. There were no worries – the whole village was there and they knew Garth and he knew them. And he knew better than to go inside the castle buildings, his parents knew. He would wander in the vast grounds, and be perfectly safe.

In one section of the castle grounds, a barrier had been set up, so that two knights on mounts (the equivalent to Earth horses) could ride along and tilt at each other. (It was similar to the way it had been done on Earth, and indeed on all M-class planets where human spores had come to rest.)

Garth gazed up in awe at the huge beasts, so easily controlled by the tiny men who sat upon them. He was going to have one of those beasts someday, he promised himself.

Garth gazed around, trying to find a better vantage point from which to see the jousting. As he looked, he saw a group of boys wander into an inner courtyard, laughing. They must be the sons of nobles, he deduced, dressed as they were in silk finery. And there..there was a column with a flat top on which he could sit. Garth strode toward it quickly.

As he stood balancing on top of the column, he only vaguely listened to what was occurring in the inner courtyard. It seemed the boys had tired of watching the joust and wanted to hold one of their own. They were persuading the groom of the stables to let them ride two… Garth didn't understand the word, but presumably they would be younger and smaller versions of the great mounts that the knights were riding.

There was much laughter, one of them pitched higher than the others. Garth turned to look behind him. A young boy, about four or five, he guessed, was on one of the mounts, holding on for dear life as his friends held him upright in the saddle.

Suddenly, for no reason Garth could see, the beast reared up on its hind legs, and the boys holding onto it fell away. The boy on top of the beast screamed and held on tighter. The scream seemed to frighten the animal, it reared again and then started running toward the open space, out into the outer court where the jousting was going on. In its madness, thought Garth, the beast would run straight into the joust, and the boy could be killed, if he didn't fall off first and be trampled.

Garth had only a few seconds to think. Should he jump on the beast's neck, try to drag it down? Should he jump for the boy, knock him off the beast, and cushion the fall with his own body? The beast ran by, the child screaming in fear, though he still held the reins. Garth launched himself into space, landed behind the boy on the saddle, and reached around him for the reins. He hauled on the reins with his right hand, instinctively knowing that this would cause the beast to turn right. As indeed it did, avoiding the two great beasts and the mass of people in the center of the courtyard.

Now, how to stop it? Oblivious of the screaming around him, from the spectators, from the knights whirling their mounts around to see what was happening, from the child in front of him, Garth pulled backwards on the reins with his left hand. His right was useless, he was using it to hold the child in front of him so he should not fall off at this great speed, even as his knees gripped the great beast's flanks in desperation.

If only he could use both hands…

But the creature was driven by fright and continued its flight. It swerved past the spectators and out of the gates of the castle ground itself.

What could he do, Garth wondered desperately. Perhaps just keep the beast going in a circle around the castle until it tired itself out? Desperately, he hauled left on the reins again, and indeed the beast turned to the left, even as it seemed to speed up.

Then, incredibly, Garth heard hoofbeats. On his left, and on his right, two other mounts, ridden by the knights who had been jousting, appeared. They each grabbed at the reins, and in a few short seconds the mount had come to a halt.

The knights dismounted. One of them grabbed down the child, the other roughly caught Garth by the arm and flung him to the ground from that great height. "Villain!" cried the knight. "You attempt to kidnap the son of Baron Simov?"

"I didn't," yelled Garth, getting to his feet, only to be knocked down again. He took the momentum of the shove and rolled a few feet before rising again, balancing on the balls of his feet. "The beast was trying to run away! I was trying to stop it!"

"Yes, leave him alone," piped up the child, running to Garth's side and grabbing his hand. "He saved me!"

The knight took a deep breath. "I beg your pardon, boy."

At this point, the rest of the spectators arrived….as did Baron Simov, his wife and the boys who had been in the inner courtyard. They all explained what they had seen, even as Garth's parents came to stand at his side.

Finally, Baron Simov approached them.

"Your son did a brave thing, and he very likely saved the life of my son. I would like to reward him by taking him into my household. He will be my son's squire."

The eyes of Garth's parents widened at this signal honor, and Garth himself could hardly contain his joy.

Part III – The Friendship
Great changes had come to Axanar in the last ten years since Garth had entered the household of Baron Simov.

It had started out slowly enough. First, Garth became not only Simony's squire, but also his friend, as close as a brother. This was because Garth displayed such physical ability, and such quick intelligence, that Simov himself took the boy under his wing, teaching him all he knew about tactics, and warfare, and the knowledge of the enemy. Garth became a knight himself, embracing the arts of war and mastering them – both the physical and the tactical.

But that was not all. Garth, born to charm easily and without effort, got along with everyone, peasant and noble alike. Though there might have been ill-feeling among the other children of the nobility in the household, it vanished within minutes of meeting Garth. He was too big for anyone to try to bully, and too intelligent for anyone to try to verbally abuse him, and once they got to know him they were friends for life. Garth in particular found favor with the girls in the household as well..which might have caused some unpleasantness except he found himself falling in love so quickly with Issobel, daughter of Simov's brother, and she returned his regard. The other girls sighed and turned their attention elsewhere.

So charming was Garth that Simony even made a joke about it, one day. "I swear, Garth, you could charm the whole world into deposing my father and making you King. Heh! You could be Lord of the Universe, if you wanted."

Garth had laughed, and said, "I like that idea," and indeed, for the next several weeks the children of the castle played that game – Garth as lord of the universe, Issobel as his queen, and the other children as his subjects.

And as the children grew, the technology on Axanar grew as well, for the Federation arrived. Shuttlecraft landed behind Gaveston's castle, and ambassadors from the Federation explained who they were and what they wanted. They showed all their technology, and how it worked, and they promised to bring Axanar into the twentieth century.

Two hundred years of cultural education and evolution were introduced to Axanar in a timespan of ten years…

The kingdom of Izar embraced the newcomers, and the technology. The nobles benefitted the most, of course, as they were well compensated for the loss of their land, and the peasants quickly learned to use the mining machinery, and the interiors of their homes were soon filled with electricity, and refrigerators, and television sets. The video, the motor-car…the Federation brought the people of Axanar along gradually, believing that the technology level of the 20th century (rather than the 23rd) would be sufficient for their needs. Nothing was done for the people of the north, who had no minerals of interest to the Federation, so they remained where they had been, and whispered about witchcraft and devils when they saw the aircraft in the sky over Izar.

One day, Garth and Simony took their motorcycles out to ride along Simov Gorge. What there was of it still open to be ridden. Much of the gorge was covered by mining machines. Indeed, only the mining machinery was 23rd century, and the peasant/miners knew that technology was being kept from them, but at this point they little cared.

Garth, at age eighteen, had hit his height, just a little over six feet. He was broad shouldered and muscular, with sandy-brown hair and grey eyes that could glow like ice. His nose was long and straight, his lips well-formed, his chin had the shape that showed he was determined. He had worked, with the aid of various of Simov's courtiers, to acquire the knowledge of etiquette that a man of the court would require, and many was the maiden whose heart had been torn asunder, by his absolute, almost savage martial prowess on the tournament field, and his courtly manners and gentleness in the banquet hall and at the theater.

And Garth had embraced the new technology as it was offered. He particularly enjoyed the videos, the plays of great authors such as Shakespeare of Earth, Tebbroc of Altair IV and Metaxa of Orion.

"If I were not a knight, I would be an actor," he had told Simony once. "Imagine…as an actor you can be …well, anyone you imagine! Ruler of the world! Of the universe!"

Garth looked at Simony now. The little boy whose life he had saved those many years ago was now a mature fifteen. He bestsrode his motorcycle and looked out over the gorge at the beautiful mining facility with a savage look on his face.

Garth knew exactly what the boy was thinking, and it weighed heavy on his heart.

"Have you heard the latest news, Garth?" Simony said angrily. "The Federation is to send a fleet here to guard us! The Klingons are making noises that Axanar belongs to them. My planet belongs to them?"

"No, it doesn't belong to the Klingons, Simony," Garth said calmly. "It belongs to us. But we need the protection of the Federation. Surely you see that. Otherwise the Klingons will just…come in…"

"Just like the Federation did," Simony said bitterly. "We had no choice then, either. And now the Federation is coming in force…to protect us, so they say. If they had not come here to mine our ore, none of this would have ever happened. We would continue to live in peace. Now we must live in fear."

"Don't be silly, Simony," Garth said bracingly. "The Federation will never let anything happen to Axanar. We are too important to them."

Simony grimaced. "So you say, Garth. And so they say. But look what they have done to Izar. All this technology…in so short a time. There are three prisons here now. Three! Where once we had no crime, now not a day goes by that someone doesn't try to steal something. That is what their civilization has done to us. I don't like to look at my people anymore. They have such…such a look in their eyes. This technology has come too fast…they…there's something wrong with them…their minds are touched."

"Simony…you must not distress yourself so. Such would have happened anyway. With the peace of Izar, we were beginning to develop our own technology, weren't we? All this would have happened eventually, and these changes …they still would have happened."

"It's happened too fast," Simony said obstinately. "My people don't know who they are anymore. Or where they are. And the Federation. These people from the Federation…telling King Gaveston what to do, ordering the nobles around, as if they were not of noble blood…and who are they - they are just peasants!"

"Nothing wrong with being a peasant, Simony," Garth said with a grin.

Simony punched his best friend in the shoulder. "Yes – those with merit should be raised to the highest ranks. But these Federation people…they wish no ranking at all. They have a democracy." He almost spat the word. "The next thing you know, they'll demand that Gaveston abdicate and declare Izar a democracy too. All the castles will be razed to the ground and office buildings built in their place."

"They would not do that," Garth said, confidently. "They have the mining rights, that's all. They can not alter the way we live."

"They've already altered it," Simony shouted. "All this technology, these luxuries, dropped in our lap! We didn't earn any of it, it just appeared. And if you don't earn what you have, you don't appreciate it, do you? Or understand it. You know that, Garth. You spent ten years in my father's court, learning how to be a nobleman."

Garth shrugged. "You under-estimate our people, Simony. They can learn, too."

Simony just grimaced and kicked a stone away from his boot.

Garth took a deep breath. Now was perhaps not the time… but…

"Simony... You remember how we used to talk of travelling all over Izar? Now, now, because of the Federation…we can travel throughout the entire universe."

Simony froze suddenly. He knew his best friend very well. "Garth…what are you saying?"

Garth tossed out his hands. "I am going to ask your father to recommend me to the Space Academy."

"You mean…you mean…you're going to leave Izar?"

"I will never leave Izar, Simony, you know that. I will carry it always in my heart. But…I want to see the galaxy. I want to see…everything…"

"You're going to leave Izar?" Simony repeated… "You're going to leave me, my father? You'll even leave Issobel?"

Garth flushed. "I will leave Issobel only for a time. Once I have graduated from the Academy, I will send for her. I have talked to her about this."

"So I am the last to find out?"

"I knew you would take it like this, Simony. But consider. As the son of Simov, you are assured a place in the Academy too. In just another three years, you'll be able to join me!"

"I will never leave Izar," Simony said, very quietly.

"You say that now," Garth said, also quietly, "but in three years you will change your mind. The whole galaxy is before us, Simony. People we've never met, places we've never been to. We can go anywhere."

"To find yet more planets full of mineral wealth? To take over those planets, and destroy the people and their customs, with no regard for them at all?"

"No," said Garth. "To keep them safe from the Klingons. Just as I will keep Axanar safe."

"You can't be keeping Axanar safe if you're off exploring the galaxy, Garth."

Garth grinned. "Once I prove my mettle, I can and will request an assignment to the Axanar fleet."

"And so you'll fly in your little tin can around the planet, day after day after day, keeping us safe from the Klingons?"

Garth shrugged. "I do not believe in defensive action. If the Klingons say they are going to take Axanar, we should bring the battle to them, not wait for them to attack us. That would be foolish."

"You speak as if you are already a captain! You'll be a space cadet on board a ship, with no authority at all."

Garth's chin went up just a little bit. "I will be a captain, Simony. Quicker than any cadet has ever made it. See if I don't."

Simony actually managed to laugh. "You'll be the best starship Captain the Federation has ever had, Garth. I don't doubt that."

"And you'll join the Academy too."

Simony's smile faded. "I'll never leave Axanar," he repeated. "You keep us safe from the Klingons, Garth. I'll keep us safe from the Federation."

Part IV – The Destruction of Axanar
Garth of Izar attended Space Academy. The vast majority of cadets graduated at the end of four years, Garth did it in three. His skills and abilities were that impressive.

Although he requested an assignment to the squadron of ships guarding the quadrant in which revolved little Axanar, this was not granted. The Federation had bigger plans for him.

The Klingons were massing all along their borders with the Federation. And when the war began, Garth's ship was in the thick of it, and he quickly proved his mettle as a tactician.

Still, he had only just been promoted to captain, and could not be everywhere.

The war was going badly…and then someone blundered. The Klingons made a show of weakness near the Axanar quadrant, and the commanding officer of the squadron decided to risk half that squadron in removing the Klingon menace. It turned out to be a trap.

With half the squadron destroyed, the half that had remained in station about Axanar were no match for a full Klingon squadron that swooped in and decimated them…and Axanar itself.

Garth was in frequent contact with his family there – his parents, Simov and Simony, and his beloved Issobel. It was not instantaneous transmission, however. The messages took several weeks to travel between the planet and the starship. The messages were delivered to him by one of the communications officers on a little chip.

The first Garth heard of the loss of Axanar was when he received a message from Star Fleet command, ordering him to take his ship to Axanar at all speed. It was a generic message – sent out to all star fleet captains that were anywhere near the area. Years afterward, his first officer could still remember the shocked and horrified look that passed over Garth's face when they received the order. That look had vanished within a second to be replaced by his normal "Captain's face," but the first officer knew right then and there…or so he claimed later… that that was when Garth first looked over the abyss and into hell.

A couple of days later, Garth received two messages on chip from Axanar. One was from Simony, and one was from Issobel. They had been several weeks in the transition.

He took the chips to his quarters, and played the one from Simony first.

The transmission was snowy and crackly…the Klingons were trying to jam all signals emanating from the planet. But the wealthy could buy the most powerful equipment in the universe, and Simony was wealthy. Simony's face looked into his.

"They attacked three hours ago, Garth," he began without preamble. "The Klingons. They landed on Axanar and started massacring us! You want to know where your damn Federation is?" He held out his hand to reveal a pulse rifle. "No where! That's where they are. These are all we have to stand against those Klingons you were supposed to protect us against!"

Simony's voice had risen to a shout, now he stopped, swallowed, wiped his eyes, gave that little boy smile that he had first given Garth all those years ago, "You're my new brother," he'd said then…tears ran unchecked down Garth's face.

"Sorry," whispered Simony. "Sorry. It's not your fault. It's the damn Federation's fault. Well, we shall fight them as long as we can. But I'm sending you this message, Garth. Avenge us. Avenge Izar."

A loud noise caused Garth to jerk back…the sound of a door being kicked inward. Simony looked once more into the camera screen. "They're here," he said quietly. Then Simony's back was to the camera, and he raised his arms as if to fire his rifle, and then his back hit the camera as if a projectile had struck him with great force, and the screen went black.

Without wiping away the tears; with trembling fingers, Garth inserted Issobel's chip. He braced himself for her words…a reproachful look, a wish that he was there to save her…but she said none of that. Her face, too, stared at him out of snow. She was so beautiful, and her face was proud and without fear. Her voice was steady. "The Klingons are here, Garth, they're killing everybody. I'm going to try to take mother and the children (Issobel was a school teacher) to the caves. Perhaps we'll be safe there. We'll wait until…" she paused here. Was she about to say, "Until you come to rescue us."? She didn't say it. Instead she said, "We're going now. I love you, Garth. I'll love you forever."

And the screen went blank.

Garth had sat staring at it for a long time.

Part V – The Battle of Axanar
As the fleet swept toward Axanar, Captain Garth put together a plan of attack. He then beamed over to the fleet captain's ship (for by this time the new transporter had been perfected), handed that captain the plan, and told him that that was how they would recover Axanar and drive back the Klingons.

The fleet captain, who knew very well that Garth was from Axanar, took the plan and looked at it, and saw that it was innovative, and bold, and daring, and would require split-second timing among the entire fleet to work. But he also knew that it would work.

And so it did. As you know the Battle of Axanar has gone down in the history books as one of the famous starship battles of all time, and is required reading at the Academy. The ground battle on Axanar equally well known…the battle that Garth himself led, from the front, wielding a pulse rifle and phasers slung across his chest on a bandolier.

After the battle, Garth went alone to the caves in the gorge of Marimba. His heart was in his mouth every step of the way. But he found no one in the caves, and no evidence that there ever had been anyone there. Issobel, her mother, and the children had never made it there. Their bodies were never found.

Part VI – The Madness of Garth of Izar
After the Battle of Axanar, the Klingons retreated back to their own space and a truce was called for some years. Garth's exploits at the Battle were detailed, and as well all know, became required reading at the academy. Because the planet was called Axanar and Garth styled himself as from Izar, few cadets realized the tragedy that the Battlee of Axanar had been for Garth of Izar. Indeed, he requested that Star Fleet command remove from his biography that he had been born on Axanar, and state rather that he had been born on a planet in the Epsilon Boötis system.

At this time, with the threat of the Klingons out of the way, the Federation should have retired Garth, perhaps sent him to teach at the Academy, but he would have none of it. Garth led the way for the Federation's exploration of more and more parts of the galaxy. His fame as an explorer became legendary…he was the prototype starship captain…and the rulers of the Federation believed that he had been able to accept the tragedy of Axanar as just…one of those things that happens in war.

Garth did find out the name of the man who had been in command of the Axanar squadron, and if he'd felt any rage when he discovered the man had not been brought up on charges, but rather had simply been relieved of his command and sent to an obscure outpost far, far away, he did reveal it.

But his explorations over the course of the next several years drew him closer, ever closer, to that outpost.

Then his ship received an SOS from a colony on Algol 3. Miners had dug too deep, and set off earthquakes within the unstable planet. It was disintegrating around them. In addition to the inhabitants of the colony, thirty miners were trapped below ground. The metal ore in the planet was of a kind that made it impossible to beam the miners up through it – Garth sent shuttlecraft down to the planet, and because of the extreme danger of the mission he himself took command and took only volunteers with him.

Three shuttle crafts filled with rescued miners managed to leave the planet. Garth himself was chivvying the last few trapped miners ahead of him when the tunnel walls collapsed on top of him. Garth had been invincible for almost 50 years…he had never questioned his belief in his invincibility, but when he looked up and saw tons of rock bearing down on him…when he looked around and saw the miners running away without regard for him…that belief shattered, and was not to be remade even when he later learned that his own crewmembers from the shuttle had come once more into the mine to rescue him, and bring his maimed and shattered body to Antos IV, where he was healed in body…but not in mind.

His body was so badly mangled, his face so badly scarred, that they'd taught him how to manipulate the atoms and molecules of his body...to restore his body to what it once had been..but not his mind.

The madness took hold when he returned to his starship, the USS Thunder Child, and sat in the command chair. An all-consuming desire to "take over the universe" manifested itself, a megalomania, and for some reason he decided to turn his rage on Antos IV to start with. At first his crew went along with his orders, for they were devoted to him and could not believe that he could not have good reason for what he was doing, but it was like a switch had been turned on, as if his agony in the mines of Algol had caused his mind to take refuge in some world of his own making, in which he had the power of life and death over everyone in the universe. He was quite unable to control himself or even act as if he were in control of himself, and his executive officers took the steps to arrest him and lock him in his quarters, from which he was not removed until they arrived at the first insane asylum in which he was placed.

Finally determined to be incurably insane, he was sent to Elba II (so named after the island where the Earthman Napolean Bonaparte had been sent after his defeat at the battle of Waterloo), and there he was to stay.

But Garth had been taught by the Antosians not only how to manipulate the molecules of his own body, but also how to manipulate men's minds, and he would use that power in an attempt to escape from Elba.

His subsequent defeat, ironically but perhaps appropriately at the hands of Captain James T. Kirk, the new "fair-haired Captain" of the Federation, who was starting to be talked about in the same breath with Garth, are chronicled in the starlogs as "Whom Gods Destroy."

Star Trek: Who Goes There? Part 1

I'm ready to get back to writing on this story, but I need to refresh myself with the characters. That'll take another week or so. So I'm sharing a Star Trek fan fiction story I wrote a few years ago.

"Whom Gods Destroy" was a third season episode of Star Trek. A favorite actor of mine, Steve Ihnat, played Garth of Izar, a Federation captain who is severely injured and goes insane.

Who Goes There? Or The Mind of Garth of Izar
A re-envisioning of Whom Gods Destroy?
By Gale Force

CHAPTER ONE
Part One

Dr. Donald Cory, governor of the colony and mental institution located on the inhospitable planet of Elba II, walked down hallways toward the command center. His boots made no sound on the tile floor…there were no clicking echoes from the walls. He moved in complete silence, like a cat.

There was no one to hear those echoes, even if there had been any. Elba was run by a skeleton staff of ten individuals, with Cory at their head. New staff were rotated into and out of the colony every year…lest they succumb to the various ills that working in such a remote location could engender. Donald Cory was not one of those who needed such coddling, however. He was dedicated to his profession, and enjoyed the solitude. He left the colony only at rare intervals.

A new staff had arrived just a month ago…and even now they were busy reviewing patient histories, or conducting their own medical experiments, or having a social hour in the dining room or lounge.

Except for one staff member, who had been suitably impressed to meet one particular inmate of the mental institution -- its newest one…. She had her instructions and would be following them.

Cory's right cheek puckered, briefly, in the very slightest of grins, then all expression was wiped from his face.

He entered the command center and the door slid shut behind him. He gazed around the room thoughtfully. Black panels with flickering lights lined the walls. In one corner was a large desk with a computer screen in front of it. There was one large window, and on the other side of six inches of plate glass the poisonous green atmosphere of Elba II seethed and pressed.

Cory stopped and looked into one of those black panels, and saw a face reflected there. A lined, sixty-ish looking face, yellow skinned, dark almond eyes. His face? No…for a few seconds grey eyes gazed back at him….cold as ice…that was his face…don't forget!

Cory glanced at the chronometer on the wall…if Evangeline was correct, and of course she would be…the starship was due within the hour.

Cory sat down at the desk, and punched a few buttons on the keyboard. He knew all the passwords – Evangeline had told him.

Ah…here were the records. The starship was the U.S.S. Enterprise, commanded by Captain James T. Kirk. The Enterprise…. Cory mused. He had heard of it. Kirk was one of the most renowned of the new generation of Star Fleet Officers, and he had a First Officer…a Vulcan… the first Vulcan to ever serve with a human crew. At one point….Cory blinked a couple of times as the wheels of his minds meshed for a second…at one point, he had wanted to meet this Kirk….who had often been talked about as inheriting the mantle….his mantle…..Cory blinked again and the thought skittered away back into the recesses of his mind.

He flicked over to the regulations governing contact between a starship and a penal or mental colony, and read quickly. His gaze stopped on one line. "Special procedures when dealing with such colonies include the use of a sign/countersign before beaming up, to ensure that no unauthorized personnel can leave the colony."

Cory's lips twitched again, very briefly. He had suspected as much.

He would be prepared.

Part Two
The U.S.S. Enterprise entered orbit around Elba II.

"Captain's log, stardate 5718.3. The Enterprise is orbiting Elba II, a planet with a poisonous atmosphere where the Federation maintains an asylum for the few remaining incorrigible criminally insane in the galaxy. We are bringing a revolutionary new medicine to them. A medicine with which the Federation hopes to eliminate mental illness for all time. I am transporting down with Mr. Spock, and we are delivering the medicine to Dr. Donald Cory, the governor of the colony."

Kirk punched the button to turn off his log, then glanced at Lt. Uhuru. "Open hailing frequencies."

"Hailing frequencies open, Captain."

"Elba II, this is James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. We have just entered orbit."

The face of Dr. Donald Cory appeared on screen. He was smiling.

"Captain Kirk."

Kirk grinned. "Donald. It's great to see you. We're ready to beam down."

Cory didn't miss a beat. "Jim. Excellent. I'll lower the force field."

"Looking forward to seeing you, Donald. Kirk out."

It was one of the yearly duties of the Enterprise to deliver stores to Elba II, as well as medicines, and Kirk and Cory had become friends. On this occasion, only medicine was being delivered.

Kirk and Spock entered Sickbay. Doctor McCoy looked up tiredly from his desk.

"Bones. How are things?" asked Kirk.

An epidemic of Variaega Flu had broken out on planet Debulon V, and doctors in starships and planet-side throughout the systems had been working on devising medicine for it. Doctor McCoy had been spending the last week doing so.

"I sent off my formula by subspace radio just an hour ago," said McCoy. "They'll be able to synthesize it on Debulon and start inoculations within the next six hours. I'm still waiting to hear that it works."

"Of course it will work, Bones," said Kirk, bracingly.

McCoy smiled tiredly. "Nevertheless, I want to remain here until I hear. Give my regrets to Dr. Cory, will you?"

"Oh, we won't be leaving here for a couple of days, Bones. You and Cory will have plenty of time to discuss these new procedures."

"It could be a great day in medical history," Bones mused. "Medication found that will cure Variaega Flu…and medication found that can relieve criminal insanity, each tested on the same day."

Spock's eyebrow rose and he seemed about to speak. But he decided to leave his comments on the possibility of curing criminal insanity unsaid. Now was not the moment.

Kirk picked up the vials that Bones had waiting for him, and then he and Spock continued toward the transporter room. Ensign O'Dell was at the controls.

Kirk punched a button.

"Scott here, sir."

"We're beaming down now, Scotty. Recognition code Chess Problem."

"Chess Problem, aye."

Kirk and Spock assumed their positions on the transporter pads, and Kirk nodded at O'Dell. O'Dell worked the controls expertly.

The two shimmering columns of light solidified into Kirk and Spock, in Cory's command center. Kirk blinked as it took, as usual, a couple of seconds for everything to snap back into place. Then he reached out and shook hands with Donald Cory.

"Donald."

"Jim. Mr. Spock. I'm glad to see you. I've a new staff since the last time you were here. I'd like to introduce Dr. Evangeline, one of my aides."

Kirk turned and extended his hand to the rather lovely, middle-aged woman who stood there, clad in a light-blue medical uniform.

Cory handed her the case. "Evangeline, my dear, please take this to the laboratory."

Evangeline inclined her head, took the case, and left the room.

Cory turned back to Kirk and Spock. He punched a couple of buttons.

"The force field is back in place now." He said cheerfully. "That means you two are trapped here. And I'm not accepting any excuses for you not dining with me."

"We'd be delighted." replied Kirk with a smile.

"You indicated one additional inmate since our last visit," interpolated Spock, "making a total of 15. Is that correct?"

"It is. The rehabilitation program isn't progressing too well. And I have my doubts about the effectiveness of this medicine too."

"Why, Donald," said Kirk. "Are you becoming a pessimist?"

Cory grinned. "I'm afraid I have."

"Who is the new inmate?" asked Spock.

"Garth," said Cory. "Garth of Izar, a former Starship fleet captain."

Kirk froze for a moment. He had known that the famous Garth of Izar had now become criminally insane, but for some reason it hadn't occurred to him he was so far gone that he'd been transferred to Elba.

Very softly he said, "When I was a cadet at the Academy, his exploits were required reading. He was one of my heroes."

Cory stared at Kirk with narrowed eyes. He then punched a couple of buttons, and the photo of an aged, bald, pot-bellied man appeared on the screen. Kirk and Spock looked at the photo blankly.

"I have seen photos of Captain Garth," commented Spock, "and…"

"And you don't see the resemblance?" Cory said with a grin. "You must remember that after the accident which Garth suffered, he had to undergo several operations. His face was completely changed. And when those medical procedures were failing, he was brought to Antos IV, with the results you know. That is what he looks like now."

Kirk was gazing at the photo, but his thoughts were on the Garth of Izar that he'd admired as a cadet. "I'd like to see him, Donald."

"Of course," said Cory, making a movement toward the door. Then, he stopped, and glanced up at the chronometer.

"No, Jim. Not now. Why see him now? If you will wait 24 hours, when we will be ready to utilize the medicine you have brought us… you will be able to see him as he once was. As he really is."

Jim Kirk nodded. "You're right, Donald, of course. I…. I'd rather see him then."

Cory smiled. "I'm glad."

Cory tapped his fingers on the command console. "I wonder…if I may be permitted to change my mind…I was thinking…rather than you dining with me, may I not dine with you? Aboard the Enterprise?"

Kirk grinned. "Don't tell me you actually want to leave this place, Donald?"

Cory grinned. "Only briefly, Jim. Only briefly. What do you say?"

"Certainly. But…" Kirk looked around the command center.

"Of course," said Cory. He punched a button. "Evangeline?"

"Yes, Governor Cory?"

"Will you return to the command center, please. I am going up to the Enterprise with our guests, and you will take over in the command center until I return."

"Of course, Governor."

Cory then gestured for Kirk, who went over to the command console and made contact with Scotty. "Slight change in plan, Scotty. We're going to beam up with Governor Cory for a few hours."

"Very good, sir. Queen to queen's level three."

"Queen to king's level one, " replied Kirk.

Cory bent his head, and brushed his finger against his nose a couple of times, as his lips quirked.

"Standing by to beam up," said Scotty.

At this point Dr. Evangeline entered.

"Evangeline," said Cory. "I leave you in charge. You know what to do."

"Yes, Dr. Cory."

Cory went to stand beside Kirk and Spock.

"Three to beam up, Scotty," Kirk called.

The three figures dissolved into glittering columns of energy.

Ensign O'Dell slowly brought the levers up to the off position, and watched as the three columns of energy solidified into three human beings.

There was Captain Kirk, there was Mr. Spock, and there was a third man, wearing a simple dark blue tunic. Tall, muscular, with graying hair parted in the middle so that it looked like angel's wings on either side of his head, grey eyes… and below that…a horribly, horribly scarred face.

O'Dell couldn't help it. He fell to his knees and began to vomit.

Kirk and Spock stared at what should have been Dr. Cory in shock. They knew enough about the transporter beam to know that it hadn't somehow destroyed Cory's face… this wasn't Cory.

Alerted by their expressions, Garth of Izar wasted no time. Even as it occurred to him that the transporter must have reassembled his molecules as himself, rather than as Cory, his hand was snaking down to the phaser with which he had equipped himself, hidden under his tunic. Garth was fast, as fast as a gunslinger from Earth's wild west, but he was only a second or so faster than Kirk and Spock. Had they been ten feet away, it would have been no problem. But they were only a foot away from him. Spock managed to knock the phaser from his hand just as Kirk lunged for him.

Garth, fast as a cat, grabbed Kirk's arm and spun him into Spock with all the strength of which an Izarian was capable. Both men went down. But the phaser had skittered away toward the oaf manning the transporter. He appeared absorbed in losing his lunch, but who knew how long that weakness would last? And strong as he was, he could not fight off both Kirk and Spock.

All this went through Garth's mind in a split second, then he was racing for the door. Once in the corridor he started sprinting, and if insanity gave a man superhuman strength, it also gave him superhuman speed. By the time Kirk and Spock had made it into the corridor, Garth had disappeared into the Enterprise.

Who Goes There? Or The Mind of Garth of Izar
A re-envisioning of Whom Gods Destroy?
By Gale Force
CHAPTER Two
Part One

Kirk and Spock had sprinted into the corridor, but knew it would be too late to catch the escapee. Garth of Izar. With that ruined face…they knew that's who it must be. And they knew what he wanted.

As one, without the necessity for words, they returned to the transporter room. Kirk punched the communication button on the console while Spock fetched various cleaning materials from the first aid room.

"Kirk to bridge. Come in Scotty," barked Kirk.

"Scott here, sir," came back the Lt. Commander's voice.

"This is an emergency, Scotty. Under no circumstances is anyone to enter or leave the bridge until Mr. Spock and I arrive there."

"Very good, sir," said Scotty calmly.

Spock was wielding a mop. He glanced up at his Captain, but knew that Kirk had probably just stopped for breath. And indeed it was so. "And when I say Mr. Spock and I, I mean just that. If either of us enters the bridge alone, clap him in irons. Understood?"

"Um…yes, sir," said Scotty.

"I'm going to repeat that, Scotty. Both Mr. Spock and I will be heading for the bridge shortly. Both of us have to arrive there. If either of us arrives without the other, clap him in irons."

"Yes, sir. Understood, Captin."

"All right, Scotty. I'll explain when we get there. Kirk out."

Ensign O'Dell had regained his feet and was wiping his face with a cloth which Spock had given him.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said shakily. "I just..I never saw anything like it…"

"Don't worry about it, O'Dell. Take over cleanup from Mr. Spock, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

Kirk punched another button. "Kirk to Security. I want a security detail to the transporter room. On the double."

"Yes, sir," came a voice.

Within five minutes, seven red-shirted security guards entered the transporter room. Their commander, Lieutenant Agatha Parker, saluted. "Security detail as requested, sir."

While he waited, Kirk had punched up a photo of Governor Donald Cory on the computer screen, and printed out a map of the Elba II facility.

"Lieutenant," said Kirk, handing her the map, "an inmate has escaped from Elba II and is currently aboard this ship. Somewhere down there is the governor of the colony, Donald Cory. I want you to find him. I also want you to assume that the rest of the inmates of the asylum are running loose, and you are to capture them. Remember that you're dealing with the criminally insane. I don't want any casualties, either from your detail or among the inmates."

"Understood, sir," said Parker.

Kirk paused, and glanced at Spock. "Anything to add, Spock?" he said.

"I suggest that a guard be left here, with Ensign O'Dell. I also suggest, Lieutenant Parker, that your security detail stick together. If you must separate, at the very least always stay in twos."

Parker nodded again. "Understood." She glanced at her detail – five men, one woman. "Dutch," she said. "You'll remain here with Ensign O'Dell."

Dutch was big and burly, and he didn't look happy to be chosen to babysit the transporter crewman, but he merely said, "Yes, ma'am."

"When you find Governor Cory, Lieutenant, you will bring him aboard the Enterprise immediately, and inform me of that fact. He is your first priority. Also…also, secure a woman named Dr. Evangeline. I'll want to talk with her shortly."

"Yes, sir," said Parker again.

"All right, Mr. Spock, let's get to the bridge."

Part Two
Garth of Izar was incandescent with rage. It was a mindless rage, burning white hot within him, as he strode along the corridors of the Enterprise. He had no destination in mind…he knew only that he must control this rage before he could do anything and he had not yet reached the point where he could control it. He wanted to find a private spot somewhere and just destroy whatever came into his hands.

Of course, he was not so angry that he had neglected to shape-shift his face back to his favorite appearance of it. Clear grey eyes, long, straight nose, full lower lip, high cheekbones. A rather handsome face. It wasn't his original face…for some reason he couldn't stand to look at himself with his original face, but this one was a nice substitute.

The concentration needed to maintain that face was very slight…nevertheless he had to be conscious to do so. He dreaded going to sleep at night, knowing that in his sleep his face would revert to its real condition. But when he awakened, at the first snatch of consciousness he returned it to what he wanted it to be.

Occasionally he passed by a crewperson, either walking in his direction or approaching opposite him, but they paid him no mind as that burning rage was kept behind an impassive façade. He paid only the barest attention to them. Just enough to make them see, should their eyes land on him, that he was indeed wearing a Federation uniform, rather than that simple blue tunic that had been his wear on Elba II.

For while Garth had the ability to control his cellular form, he had no power over his clothing. What he did have power over, however, was other people's minds. Oh, not a very great power. He had only the power to make them see what he wanted them to see…in this case…the fact that he was wearing a gold shirt and black slacks. And he could not control more than six people at once…he'd have to be careful of that…it would be best if he found a uniform as quickly as possible and changed into it.

Garth's fists clenched. Captain Kirk's uniform, for choice.

Blisteringly sexy, she killed Nazis with her bare hands and had a 5 million-franc bounty on her head. As she dies at 98, the extraordinary story of th

Should have a new chapter up here in a couple of days. Meantime, thought this was a pretty interesting story.

Blisteringly sexy, she killed Nazis with her bare hands and had a 5 million-franc bounty on her head. As she dies at 98, the extraordinary story of the real Charlotte Gray

She stares into the camera with a coquettish half-smile and an unflinching come-hither look. The eyebrows are plucked, the lips full, the long auburn hair a classic 1940s style, falling onto the shoulders of her khaki uniform.

She could easily have been one of the sassy songbirds who brightened up World War II. But this was the face of Nancy Wake, one of that conflict’s bravest underground fighters against the Germans in France — and certainly the most stylish.

A male comrade-in-arms in the French Resistance summed her up as: ‘The most feminine woman I know, until the fighting starts. And then she is like five men.’ She lived up to both parts of that compliment.

So feminine was she that when escaping from pursuers on one notable occasion, she dressed in a smart frock, silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and a camel-hair coat, arguing that she didn’t want to look like a hunted woman.

In that same outfit, she jumped from a moving train into a vineyard to avoid capture at a Nazi checkpoint

And so aggressive was she that, after being parachuted into France as a Special Operations Executive agent, she disposed of a German guard with her bare hands and liked nothing better than bowling along in the front seat of a fast car through the countryside, a Sten gun on her lap and a cigar between her teeth, in search of Germans to kill.

Passionate and impulsive, with a tendency to draw attention to herself, she was not the ideal undercover agent. Her superiors didn’t think she would last long behind enemy lines.
But Wake proved them wrong and died this week, aged 98, in a nursing home for retired veterans in London. Her death brought to an end a life of such daring, courage and glamour that she was the inspiration for the Sebastian Faulks novel Charlotte Gray, which was made into a film starring Cate Blanchett.
Much of Wake’s extraordinary life was lived under assumed identities. She carried papers as Nancy Fiocca (her married name) and Lucienne Cartier. Her official SOE identity was Andree, though a gay friend in the service called her ‘Gertie’. On one operation she was tagged ‘Witch’.
But the best-known name was the one the Gestapo gave her when they put her on their ‘most wanted’ list, with a five million franc price on her head — that of ‘the White Mouse’, because she always managed to wriggle out of their traps.

Nancy Wake was born in New Zealand and brought up in Australia, a difficult child who took the first opportunity to leave the Antipodes for Europe.

There, she partied between assignments as a journalist, before marrying a rich businessman from Marseille who could indulge her taste for champagne, caviar and the good life.

Nancy was visiting London, for, of all things, a slimming course, when war was declared in September 1939. When she tried to join up to fight she was pointed, to her disgust, in the direction of a Naafi (Navy, Army and Air Force) canteen.
So she went back to France and, when that country fell to the invading Germans, she proved herself as brave and as aggressive as any man — and more than most.

In 1940, in the half of France unoccupied by the Nazis, Marseille was a magnet for downed RAF crew and British soldiers left behind after the Dunkirk evacuation, all hoping to make their way home via Spain.
An escape route over the Pyrenees was organised underneath the noses of the pro-German French authorities. Nancy’s wealthy husband, Henri, financed operations, while Nancy herself, dressed up to the nines, carried messages between members of the group.

Then she progressed to escorting the ‘packages’ — escaped Allied soldiers and airmen — along the coast to the border.
It was dangerous work, with constant fear of discovery or betrayal. At one stage, she was arrested by French police and interrogated in prison for four days. The leader of the escape line bluffed his way in and secured her release. After that, it was clear her days were numbered and she went to ground.

As the net closed around her, she headed for the mountains, leaving Henri behind, and made the punishing two-day trek over the Pyrenees to neutral Spain and from there, via Gibraltar, to Britain by mid-1943.
Nobody could have objected if, by then, she had decided she had done her bit. Instead, in London she volunteered for SOE’s French section and, despite reservations that she was too much of a party-girl, she was taken on and trained in survival skills, armed combat, Morse code and surveillance.

Six weeks before D-Day, she was parachuted into the heavily-forested and mountainous Auvergne region of central France to prepare local Resistance groups, the Maquis, for the job of harrying the Germans and delaying their reinforcements once the invasion began.
The 7,000 partisans were disorderly, disorganised and riven by personal rivalries, more of a rabble than an underground army that would do damage to the Germans. They had little interest in newcomers from across the Channel sorting them out, particularly a woman.
Nancy proved her mettle, arranging air drops and hiding supplies of weapons, travelling between the groups, paying out money, urging them to co-operate, knocking them, as best she could, into shape. She was as tough as the old army boots she eschewed for heels. With an escort of Maquisards, she shot her way through enemy patrols and roadblocks.

She led attacks on German convoys and even took on armoured cars. When asked why she insisted on travelling in the lead vehicle, she said it was because she couldn’t bear dust being thrown up in her face by cars in front.
In one mini-battle, her car was strafed by German fighter planes but she crawled out of the wreck, hanging onto her prized possessions — a jar of face cream, a packet of tea and a satin cushion.
When the roads were too dangerous to travel by car, she cycled more than 300 miles in three days to find a working radio set to contact London.
Nancy never lost her softer side, for all the horrors of war. Two American weapons instructors dropped into her forest hideout found a jar of flowers beside their makeshift beds.

But for all the feminine wiles she employed to get what she wanted, she knew where to draw the line. She was loyal to Henri, the husband she loved.
Any Maquis who fancied his chances was rebuffed. ‘If I had accommodated one, the word would have spread and they’d have been coming over the mountains for more,’ she once explained. ‘So, no love affairs, and that was that.’
This was made clear from the start. When she dropped into the Auvergne, her parachute snagged on a tree. The agent who met her simpered that he hoped all trees could bear such beautiful fruit. ‘Don’t give me that French s**t,’ she snapped back.
The sadness was that after the liberation she returned to Marseille to discover that Henri was dead. Shortly after her flight from the city, he had been caught, imprisoned and tortured. The Gestapo shot him.

She blamed herself for his death. If he’d told them where she was, he might have lived. But he refused.
She was festooned with honours — a British George Medal, the French Legion d’Honneur and three Croix de Guerre. She remarried, returned to Australia to live, took up politics for a while, then came back to Britain to retire in 2001.
Her body is to be cremated, but at her request the ashes will be scattered in the Auvergne.

Berlin, Not Long Ago

Berlin, Not Long Ago or Every Knight Needs a Steed
C

Chapter I
The Templehof Airport in Gatow, British Sector, Berlin, was extremely small and crowded, and getting through it was time-consuming at the best of times, but Emma Peel liked airports and had worn comfortable shoes. As she waited in queues, first for her luggage and then for officials to check her passport, she quite frankly people-watched.

''And why have you come to Berlin, Mrs. Peel?'' asked the official thumbing through her passport.

''I want to see Duke Ellington,'' she informed him cheerfully.

''I beg your pardon?''

'The American jazz musician and his orchestra is having a series of concerts here. In Berlin, that is to say. American sector. It will be a historic performance.''

The official nodded. ''I see,'' he said, though Emma was willing to wager that he didn't. He gestured at her suitcase and she opened it for him. Prominent on top was a large black metallic item in the shape of an upside down heart. He looked at this with one raised eyebrow. But there was no one so used to British eccentricity as British officials. He merely gestured her to close her suitcase, stamped her passport with a flourish and handed it back to her. ''Enjoy your stay.''

''Thank you. I'm sure I shall.''

Templehof Airport had a small cafe, and although Emma wasn't particularly hungry one must always sample the cuisine at airports. It was part of the travel experience. She ordered a wiener schnitzel and it was surprisingly good.

Outside the airport, Emma flagged down a taxi. ''Hotel Britannia, please.'' she told the driver. He nodded cheerily, popped out of his cab to stow her suitcase away in the boot, and then drove her there with efficiency. This was Emma's first time in Berlin but she had studied a map of the various places she wanted to go, and she knew he was taking the most efficient route. She tipped him properly, then followed the doorman who carried her suitcase into the Hotel Britannia.

As she walked up to reception, Emma passed a placard prominently displayed: International Bridge Tournament Weekend.

This was yet another reason why Emma had come to Berlin - to play in the bridge tournament.

''Mrs. Peel!'' the hotel clerk beamed at her. ''Welcome to the Hotel Britannia! I trust you had a good flight. Your suite is ready for you - Aachen here will show you up. (Aachen was a short, smiling bellboy who appeared like a genie out of the lamp when the clerk touched a bell). There will be a reception tonight for our bridge players, 1800 hours. It is to be a costumed reception.''

Emma smiled at him. ''Thank you.''

Once in her hotel room, Emma took a long, refreshing shower. Much as she liked planes and airports, she didn't care for the way the distinctive aroma of them permeated her clothing. She changed into yet another comfortable outfit, and laid out her costume for that evening. All of the bridge players were supposed to come as their favorite playing card. Emma's costume was that of the Queen of Spades.

Without any further delay, Emma went out into the city. She did not hail a cab, but began to walk down the streets.

Her third reason for coming to Berlin was something of a pilgrimage. Her husband, Peter Peel, had been just too young to serve during World War II, but had joined the RAF and flown cargo into West Berlin during the Berlin Airlift of 1949. He had loved the city, and spent several years there, before returning to London to become a test pilot, and where the two of them had met.

He'd talked often of his days in Berlin, and promised that he would take her to see the city, with its four sectors - Russian, English, American and French, and all the complications and red tape that that entailed.

''I've always been fascinated by the city,'' she had told him. ''One city, an island of Western ideals in the midst of communism, surrounded by a high wall erected by a government to keep its people imprisoned. If that's not a damning portrait of communism I don't know what is!''

She smiled now, as she thought of that long ago conversation. A wave of melancholia rushed over her, very briefly, and receded. She had done her grieving. Anyone married to a test-pilot knows that the end may come at anytime. They had lived their lives together to the fullest, and while she would still get a pang, when she saw something or felt something that she'd like to share with him and would never be able to, the sadness welled up.

Chapter II
That evening, Emma was at her radiant best, wearing a clinging outfit in blue which showed off her curves and her tan. The Britannia's ballroom was full of people dressed as playing cards. They were all bridge experts, and Emma knew most of them.

The costumes were many and varied. Some wore costumes almost like sandwich board, with cards painted on either side. Must be incredibly uncomfortable to dance in costumes like that, Emma mused. Others wore skin tight outfits representing the characters on the playing cards. Emma's costume was one of these. She wore a gown of black and white, and carried a long spear, the top of which was in the shape of a spade.

As Emma circled about the room, meeting old friends and having a brief chat with each, she noticed that there were several people gathered in one corner of the room. Curious, she drifted over. They were all spectators, in a semi-circle around a man seated on a chair. In his left hand he held a pair of scissor, in his right a piece of heavy black construction paper. In front of him was a young woman, standing self-consciously still. As Emma watched the man in the chair, dressed in a black tuxedo, but with a crown on his head, worked his long, sharp scissors around the paper quickly and expertly and soon had produced an expert silhouette of her features. He handed it to her with a flourish. The crowd applauded politely.

The man looked up, and his brilliant blue eyes caught Emma's. He was not handsome, in the conventional sense, his nose being rather too large, but he exuded vitality and charm.

''You, he said, in a German accent, pointing the scissors at Mrs. Peel. ''Please, you must allow me to do a silhouette of you.''

Emma smiled, flattered, and moved into the forefront of the circle of admirers. The silhouette artist stared at her face very intently for a few seconds, then quickly went to work on the paper in his hand, and there was silent but for the snick, snick, snick of the scissors cutting through paper. At last he held out the silhouette. He had caught her hairstyle, the tilt of her nose, one could even imagine he'd caught the curve of a smile in her cheek.

''It's lovely,'' she told him, applauding him. He rose and deposited scissors and paper on his chair. ''My name is Prendergast,'' he told her. ''Max Prendergast.''

''My name is Emma Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Emma. What a beautiful name.'' He took her arm with easy European familiarity - the arm that wasn't carrying her sceptre, and they walked around the room.

''Have you ever been to Berlin before, Emma?'' he asked. ''If not you must allow me to escort you. I know all the best sights. All the best sounds.''

''That's very kind of you, Mr. Prendergast. I wouldn't wish to take you away from any pressing business.''

''Don't be silly, Emma. Nothing could be more pressing than escorting a beautiful woman around the most beautiful city in the world.''

''You regard Berlin as beautiful?'' said Emma thoughtfully.

''Well, I am prejudiced, perhaps. It is my home city, after all. Much progress has been made since the war...''

''Oh, I didn't mean that,'' Emma said quickly. ''I meant only, to me, for one reason or another Berlin has become the most exciting city in Europe. Certainly the most dangerous.''

''Dangerous?'' Max Prendergast smiled. ''You are right, there. I could tell you stories...''

Before he could say another word however, there was a commotion in front of them, as a man burst into the room. He was not dressed in costume but instead wore shabby clothing...and carried a gun.''

''Prendergast!'' He yelled, and then continued in German, ''I know you're here, you pig, you Judas! Show yourself!''

His eyes lit upon the man at Emma's side, but before he had a chance to bring his pistol around, Emma picked up her sceptre and hurled it like a javelin. The weight of the metal was not such that it could penetrate him, but it caused him to lose his grip on his gun. Emma took three long strides forward, and gave him a kick in the jaw. He settled into a heap onto the polished marble floor.

''My dear,'' said Prendergast, ''how marvelous of you! The poor man was deranged. Waving a gun around at people like that! Could you understand what he said?''

Emma smiled at him. ''I don't speak German,'' she told him. Prendergast's face relaxed slightly. It was a half-truth. Emma understood several languages, but she rarely spoke in any of them. In her business at Knight Industries it was important to know what people were thinking, and they were so much more revealing when they were speaking in their own language.

The unconscious man was dragged away without any ceremony by a couple of bellhops, and the party resumed its festive nature. Not another word was said about it, although Mrs. Peel received a few 'good shows' as people in the crowd passed by.

Emma was thoughtful. ''Judas,'' she thought to herself. Somehow the charming Mr. Prendergast had acquired that sobriquet. She wondered how.

Chapter III
The next morning Emma Peel met with a couple of RAF officials, who knew her because of her husband, Peter Peel. She received tours of various facilities, and had tea with the commander of the airbase.

One of the officers walked her out the gate and flagged down a taxi. ''Back to your hotel?'' he asked Mrs. Peel.

''Yes, please.''

Emma got into the taxi and the driver started up and pulled away. It was only then that she noticed the driver wore a bowler hat. There was no question of it being Peter Peel - for some reason Emma knew immediately that it was John Steed.

''Steed,'' she said coldly.

''Mrs. Peel.''

''I must learn to select my taxi drivers more carefully.''

''That would certainly be the case in Berlin,'' Steed agreed. ''However, you must listen to me. I learned of what happened last night.''

''Many things happened last night.''

''At the costume party,'' Steed said, impatient of her whimsicalness. ''A man tried to kill Max Prendergast. You stopped him. That was a mistake.''

''You expected me to just stand by and watch a defenseless man get shot?''

Steed pulled the taxi over to the side of the road and turned to face her. ''Mrs. Peel, have you ever seen a movie called The Third Man?''

''1949. Orson Welles as Harry Lime. Joseph Cotten. Post-war Vienna. Yes, what about it?''

''Well, substitute a snake for Orson Welles, and Berlin for Vienna, and you've got Max Prendergast.''

A sense of foreboding rose up in Emma's breast. But she said, ''Are you sure? You were wrong about me, remember, not so long ago.''

''I can't give you a sheaf of documentary proof, because Prendergast has covered his tracks too well for that. But that man you knocked unconscious - we have him now, and he's being interrogated. If he can give us the proof we need...''

''This is Berlin, 1965!'' Emma said. ''Surely you can pick up Prendergast on suspicion?''

''It may be Berlin, but this is the British sector,'' Steed said reprovingly. ''Besides, Prendergast has friends in many places. But we're getting close to him now.''

''Why are you telling me all this?''

''From all reports, Prendergast was quite smitten with you, Mrs. Peel. And you didn't seem to be...unattracted.''

'So?'' said Emma Peel very coldly. Her eyebrows raised at him dangerously.

Steed gestured. ''I just wanted you to know what he was, that's all.''

''Well, thank you for telling me, Steed. But it was a needless precaution. I'm going to a Duke Ellington concert tonight. Alone.''

''Wouldn't you like to help put Prendergast behind bars?

She stared at him curiously. ''Are you seconding me for police action?''

''Not police action. Not even action for king and country. But action for...the right. God save the right, as the knights of old used to say.''

Chapter IV
Emma sat sipping tea in her hotel room, and munching on shortbread. She had turned on the tv and was listening to programs in German, but her mind was far away.

Although her step-mother had taught her martial arts, Emma had never actually used her skills until just recently. And the feeling of exhilaration she had felt, in using those skills to successfully subdue a villain - she had never felt anything quite like it. Well...had she? Her first solo in her own small plane. Her first hang-gliding off the Cotswolds. All those events had made her feel very alive and so did these small triumphs. Adventurer, Mrs. Peel thought. The love of adventure. The same love that had got her husband killed while in the prime of his life. Mrs. Peel smiled. The same love that had caused him to live every minute to the full.

The phone rang, disturbing her reverie. She picked up the phone to hear Steed's voice. ''Mrs. Peel, this is urgent. I'm having a delay getting the appropriate warrants. Prendergast has a reservation on a plane that leaves in an hour. You've got to delay him for me. If he gets on that plane, we'll lose him.''

Emma, conscious of the tone of urgent desperation in Steed's voice, didn't argue. Just, ''Delay him? How?''

''Use your feminine wiles or something. Please!''

''Alright, Steed. He'll be in my room when you're ready to get him.''

''Good. Thank you.'' said Steed, and he hung up the receiver.

Emma took one glance around her suite. The bed looked very inviting. She grabbed up a handful of magazines and a couple of plush toys she had purchased and strewed them on the bed to make it less so. As she strode out of her room she picked up a bottle of champagne.

She rapped on Max Prendergast's door. A cheerful little rap.

He opened it with a jerk. He wore a tuxedo, but his tie was undone and his normally impeccably coiffed hair was the tiniest bit mussed. ''Emma,'' he said in delight. ''''How nice to see you! Please come in. I am busy packing, as you see.''

She entered his room. ''Leaving so soon?'' she said, striving hard to act natural, casual. ''The tournament isn't over yet.''

''Yes. Unfortunately business calls me away. Unexpected business. I must catch a plane tonight.''

''Why, that's too bad,'' Emma commiserated. ''And here I am with a full bottle of champagne and no one to share it with.'' She displayed it to him.

Prendergast froze as if electrified. His eyes looked at her face avidly. ''My dear Emma, what an unexpected invitation.''

''But a pleasant one, I hope.''

Prendergast closed the lid of his suitcase. ''Oh, yes.''

''Well, then. You've such a clutter here. Why not come to my room? We can enjoy a glass or two before you leave.''

Prendergast looked at his watch, and teetered on his feet like a man on the edge of an abyss. ''Very well, my dear. Just a glass. A quick glass.'' He glanced at his suitcase. ''I will just take my suitcase with me, if you don't mind, and leave directly from your room.''

''Lovely.''

They walked back to Emma's suite. Emma gave him the bottle. ''If you will do the honors?''

Prendergast hurried to the sideboard on which stood the glasses, while Emma turned on the little radio that came with the hotel. The song, ''Meine liebling, meine rose'' started to play.

''A love song,'' Prendergast commented.

''Really? So difficult to tell, in German. It's such a ...brutal language.''

''Oh, surely not,'' Prendergast said, handing her a glass of champagne and looking at her intensely. ''The language of Goethe, of Mozart...and this song they are playing...it's a very popular one right now. All the little German boys are singing it to their sweethearts.''

He looked at Emma with such an expression of love on his face that she simply couldn't stand it any longer. ''Feminine wiles, indeed,'' she said below her breath, and without warning, without hesitation, she punched him on the precise point of his jaw, a blow calculated to leave him unconscious for at least thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes was just long enough. Prendergast stirred feebly as a knocking came. Emma opened the door to Steed and two police officers. Emma was not sure if she was amused or angered by the shock on Steed's face. Had he really thought that she'd occupy Predergast in her bed until he got around to showing up?

Without ceremony one of the police officers lugged Prendergast to his feet, brought his hands behind his back and snapped on cold steel handcuffs. Prendergast gazed around wildly, at the police officers, at Steed, lastly at her. She saw the naked look of shock and anguish on Prendergast's face as he realized what she'd done, but his emotion bothered her not all. So must all of his victims looked and felt, when they took that much anticipated step into what they thought would be freedom, only to find that the man they had trusted had betrayed them.

The police officers led Prendergast to the door. He passed quite close to Steed and Emma and came to a stop. ''Look behind you,'' he purred, his eyes on Steed. They shifted to Emma. ''Often. One day I will be there.''

The police officer tightened his grip and Prendergast was led away.

''What a thoroughly unpleasant character,'' Steed commented.

''Thoroughly,'' said Emma. She glanced at her watch. ''He's made me late for that Duke Ellington concert.''

''I have a car waiting downstairs.''

As they were driven by chauffer to the American sector Steed said, ''You've done the free world a service, Mrs. Peel. Prendergast will be going away for a long time. In fact I doubt if they will ever let him out.''

''Too bad he couldn't have been caught years ago, before he had time to do so much damage, hurt so many people.''

''Yes, but the important thing is he was caught in the end. Thanks to you,'' said Steed. He glanced at her. ''You enjoyed it, didn't you?''

Emma looked at him, and didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. But she asked a question that may have appeared as a non sequitur. ''When you arrived with the police, you seemed a little surprised to see Prendergast out on the floor, and not ...elsewhere.''

''Not at all!'' Steed said indignantly. ''It was simply that that was such a straightforward thing for you to have done. It reminded me of a friend of mine. I had expected you to take a rather more subtle approach - I thought I'd find the two of you playing a game of chess or gin rummy or something.''

''I see,'' said Emma. She looked out thoughtfully into the darkness. ''If he had just been...lusting after me...I suppose I would have played it out that way. Teased him. Toyed with him. But ...I think he truly loved me. I couldn't stand it. I had to knock him out.''

''I see,'' said John Steed. ''I shall bear that in mind for future reference, Mrs. Peel.''

''You would do well to do so,'' commented Emma with a grin.

''But that of course means there will be a future,'' said Steed. ''And actually, I got word tonight...''

Emma Peel held up her hand. ''Not tonight, thank you, Steed. I have a date with a Duke.''

Every Steed Needs a Knight

This is an Avengers fan fiction story that I wrote a long time ago.

Chapter I
Mrs. Emma Peel stood pressed against the huge plate glass window in her office on the top floor of the Knight Industries. Skyscrapers lined the rest of the street, towering over the miniature cars and people far below. The glass was cool and soothing against her forehead. She remembered the last time she had stood this close to the window. It had been five years ago, just a couple of days before her wedding to Peter Peel. They had stood against the window gazing out and Peter had said, ''Look at that view, Emma. Doesn't it call to you? We could do it, you know. That new invention - the hang glider.''

Emma had smiled at him, knowing he was completely serious. ''Open the window and jump out? Swoop down on the unsuspecting populace below like gigantic pterodactyls?''

He'd laughed heartily. ''Yes! Yes!''

She'd drawn him away from the window with a hand around his waist. ''I'd love to do it, darling. But if I opened one of these windows it would void my lease. Even with as much money as we pay for this suite of offices. We'll have to wait til our honeymoon.''

Now, though, all she could see was the long...long...fall to the unyielding earth.

It had been two weeks since she'd gotten the news. Peter was dead, killed in an accident while testing a new plane. Worse than dead. The plane had exploded and burned on impact, incinerating him. She would, literally, never see him again.

It was a long way down, Emma thought. How horrible it must be, to fall thousands of meters to be smashed into the ground, watching the ground coming up to meet you meter by meter. The seconds must seem very long. But Peter wouldn't have been thinking of that. He'd have been desperately trying to save the plane - he'd never have thought he couldn't bring it back in one piece. He would never have seen the end coming...would only have felt anger at the end if he had seen...

Emma turned away from the window and walked back to her desk. She picked up the framed photograph - the only personal photograph she had of him in the office. It was her favorite picture of him. Peter with his arm around her, but both of them looking out and smiling for the camera. He had accompanied her to a business function dressed as the traditional British businessman with bowler hat and sober black business suit. She'd enjoyed the contrast so much - his devil-may-care attitude concealed behind that sober 9-5 outfit...that he'd decided to adopt the costume permanently. She looked at his face, the whisps of corn-blond hair escaping from beneath the bowler, his intense blue eyes, the lantern jaw. The mobile lips stretched into a broad smile.

Emma picked up the photograph and placed it in her briefcase. There was no hope for it. She wasn't going to be able to do any work today. She had thought she could - until she'd arrived at the office that morning and been ambushed by a phalanx of reporters who'd wanted to know how she felt to suddenly be a widow. Hadn't it been enough that they'd done the same thing at the Memorial Service that had been held for him? Did they have to come to her business? And would they be lurking around her apartment as well? Damned vultures. It had been with great difficulty that she'd passed through them without laying some of them out on the carpet, and her anger at their insensitivity had only faded with the sudden welling up of sadness when she'd gone into her office. She'd forgotten until this moment that Peter's presence would be felt even here.

She'd have to take another week off. ''Get her head together,'' as the in-saying was this year.

Emma punched a button on the intercom on her desk. ''Doris, would you ask Franklin to come in here, please. And you too.''

She had put Franklin, the Vice President of Knight Enterprises, in charge of running the company for the last two weeks. She told him now that he could do the job for another week, and he and Doris - her executive secretary, expressed their commiseration once more.

''Have Paul bring my car around to the West entrance, will you?'' Emma asked Doris finally. ''I'd like to avoid any reporters who still may be lurking down in the lobby.''

''Certainly, Emma,'' said Doris.

After they had gone, Emma changed her clothing from the dress she had worn to casual denim slacks and sweater, and tied a scarf over her head. No reporter looking at her would give her a second glance. She took her private elevator down to the first floor, then took the stairs to the Ground floor and out of the West Entrance of the building. She stepped out into the sunlight and took a deep breath of the fresh air. So early in the morning...there was little traffic on the roads, but lots of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. Her white Lotus Elan was waiting for her at the curb. The key was in the ignition, but it was a specially outfitted car that had secret buttons to push before one could drive off in it.

Suddenly Emma heard a shout behind her...cries of, ''Hey, watch it!'' and ''Stop that man!''

She turned to look and saw an individual racing down the sidewalk, bowling people over. There was an ugly expression on his face and an even uglier knife in his left hand. He was going to run right past her.

Emma timed it perfectly. The fool was not afraid of her, he was going to brush right past her. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, twisting it as she pivoted and straight-armed him into the side of the building. His face hit the brick with a sickening crunch. His knees were already buckling as she flipped him around and applied the coup d'grace, a knee between the legs.

Emma didn't even watch as he slid all the way down to the concrete and rolled over in a fetal position. Newspaper reporters could smell a story, if they saw her they'd be all over her. She'd stopped the man and if the crowd of people around him didn't have the gumption to keep him down, it was nothing to do with her.

Very quickly Emma strode over to her Elan, climbed in, pressed the button underneath the dash that unlocked the steering and sped off down the street. She didn't bother to look back.

She turned the corner onto Dickon Street and merged into traffic. She would head out of the city limits into the country, where she could put the Elan through its paces and leave the memory of this morning far behind her.

Once she reached the rolling hills of suburbia, Emma put her foot down on the gas pedal. Birds keened overhead and the hills were green and yellow with new growth. She sped past the occasional car with ease.

She slowed down as she came to the little village of Uppington, went into her favorite Chinese restaurant and had lunch. It was an unusual Chinese restaurant in that it gave out fortune cookies in the American style. With a little smile Emma broke open her cookie - 'You will meet a handsome stranger.' Emma crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it away. She didn't want to meet anyone.

When she came out of the restaurant she looked casually down the street and stopped dead. A car had just turned out from the curb and out into the road - a large green Bentley being driven by a man wearing a bowler hat at a rakish angle. The set of the shoulders seemed familiar. Emma felt a cold hand grasp her chest and squeeze. It couldn't possibly be Peter! He loved ancient planes, not cars, but those shoulders... and that hat! Who else would dress like that in the bucolic village of Uppington?

There was no way to describe the sensation that welled up within her, of incredible joy and happiness held in check by a nagging doubt that it was all impossible. Emma sprinted to her car, jumped in, revved the engine and set off with a squeal of tires. Normally a championship-caliber driver, Emma ignored all rules of safety and set off like a driver at the pole position at Le Mans.

The Bentley had driven past the final stop sign that led out of the village. The driver began to accelerate. Emma glanced both ways and saw no cars and sped on through. Suddenly, without warning, the car in front of her braked. With lightning quick reflexes Emma applied her own brakes, but she still hit the Bentley with a resounding thump.

The driver rocked forward, then raised up to vault over the side of the Bentley, and turned and came towards her.

Chapter II
John Steed, a British intelligence agent and member of the super secret Department S, was quite pleased with the success of his plan. He had engineered the accident and his target had been very obliging. He got out of the Bentley and headed towards the woman, his eyes sharp for any reaction from anger to embarrassment, hysteria to hatred. He was prepared for anything except the reaction that he received. There had been an expression of hope on her face, expectation, as she first caught a glimpse of his features, as if she knew who he was, but as suddenly as with the twist of a knife blade the look of recognition in her eyes faded, and all light and happiness went out of her face, to be replaced with utter sorrow. It was a look that impacted Steed more than he would have thought possible.

Immediately he changed his planned tactics. He doffed his bowler and smiled his most winning smile.

''I'm terribly sorry,'' he said. ''That was inexcusable of me. I thought of something I'd forgotten and my foot just automatically hit the brake. Terribly stupid. I do hope you're not hurt?''

The woman took off her scarf, revealing perfectly coifed auburn hair. That terrible expression of disappointment had been wiped off her face as if it had never been, and she smiled at him, revealing perfect white teeth and a sense of humor.

''It wasn't entirely your fault. I was following you a bit too closely.''

''You're too kind. My name's Steed by the way. John Steed.''

The woman took his extended hand. ''Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Oh.'' Steed felt a slight frisson of shock. ''I read about...your husband's crash a couple of weeks ago. I'm terribly sorry.''

''Thank you.''

''Well,'' said Steed, to cover the awkward moment, ''let's see what damage was done.''

He stepped back to the juncture point between the two cars, where Mrs. Peel joined him. She was tall, about five foot eight, he judged, with a slender figure, but a good posture and easy movements which hinted at physical fitness.

''Thank heaven for ten-kilometer-an-hour bumpers,'' Mrs. Peel said with a smile. ''No damage at all.''

''It certainly doesn't look like it,'' Steed said. ''Nevertheless we mustn't jump to conclusions. I'll give you my insurance information. And you must have your car seen to as quickly as possible.''

''Yes, of course. When I get back to town.''

''Are you on a long trip?''

''No, I was just out for a drive. I find it very relaxing, driving alone in the country.''

''Until you run into absent-minded buffoons like me,'' Steed said with a smile. ''Well, I won't keep you. Let me just write down my insurance information for you.''

There was no point in keeping the woman, Steed decided, beautiful though she was. He had found out what he needed to know. He quickly scribbled his name, address and insurance policy number on a card and handed it to her.

Steed waited for the woman to start up her car and drive off. She flashed him a wave and a smile. Steed turned his Bentley around and headed back for London.

Chapter III
Steed and Dankworth walked down the hallway towards Station B. ''The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'' Steed told Dankworth cheerfully. ''It had been a nice little set-up. O'Reilly got the microfilm, as planned. We let him escape, as planned. He was supposed to go to his Contact. Instead he ran down Gloucester Drive and had the misfortune to meet up with Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Emma Peel? That name sounds familiar.''

''Yes, widow of Peter Peel, the test pilot who crashed a few weeks ago. She is also the President of Knight Industries, and has made that a multi-million pound corporation. It's only natural that a woman with that much power learn to defend herself, both physically and mentally.''

''Well, she wasn't defending herself though, was she? Plucked O'Reilly right off his feet as he ran past her, that's the way I heard it. Slammed him into a wall and then put the boot in.''

Steed shrugged. ''Well, she thought she was apprehending a criminal of some kind. And she was, of course. Unfortunately it wasn't a criminal that we wanted apprehended at that particular place and time. Still, we've got the microfilm back, and we do have O'Reilly. We'll just have to get the information out of him another way.''

Steed opened the door to Department B and followed Dankworth into the room. Clemens looked up from his desk, his face grim. Clemens was their search expert. Dead or alive, when he went over a body he found what he was looking for.

''Well, Clemens, what's wrong?'' demanded Steed.

''O'Reilly didn't have the microfilm on him.''

''What do you mean? He must have done!''

''Steed, I searched that man. His clothes, his orifices, even x-rayed his stomach. The microfilm was originally in a small pack of cards, as you know. Those cards were gone. The microfilm is gone.''

''But that's not possible. He was on the run from the time he got his hands on that pack of cards. Arch and Powell were some hundred yards behind him most of the time, but they would have seen him throw those cards somewhere. And I was in front of him and I certainly didn't see him do anything with them. He didn't have time.''

''He must have come into contact with somebody while he was on the run. He gave that microfilm to somebody.''

''Or somebody took it from him,'' John Steed said, his eyes very cold. ''Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to go see a lady.''

Chapter IV
Steed looked up the address of Mrs. Emma Peel in the phone book. She lived in Hampstead. He pointed his Bentley in that direction. He was not in a good mood, cars around him had enough sense to get out of his way. He was seething. Not at Mrs. Emma Peel who had turned out to be a traitor to her country, but at himself.

He had always fancied himself a good judge of people, but of women especially. He'd witnessed her little take-out of O'Reilly. And he'd seen her run off immediately afterward, and this action had struck him as suspicious. So he'd followed her, and then arranged that little car accident at Uppington.

And she'd had him completely fooled. That expression of utter despair on her face, when she had looked at him at the very beginning. He had not thought that that had been the expression of a spy who thought she had been caught and was doomed to go to prison. He had ascribed a more personal motive to it. But he'd been wrong. Clearly he'd been wrong. She had nabbed that microfilm off O'Reilly as slick as you please, thought she'd gotten away with it, and then been nobbled, and it had terrified her. And he'd let her get away!

But why would a woman like Emma Peel get involved with the Russians? He thought back to what he knew of her. He remembered, of course, the article some seven or eight years ago. Her father had died and she, Emma Knight at that time, had succeeded to the business. Much had been made of the fact that she was very young, more had been made of the fact that she was a woman. This publicity had seemed to annoy her extremely and she'd kept a low profile after that.

Her marriage to Peter Peel had made news but focus was on Peel as a dare-devil test pilot rather than on Mrs. Peel as a millionaire in her own right. And two weeks ago the news report that Peel had been killed in a crashed had merely said that the widow had been prostrated with grief. And there'd only been a blurry photograph of her.

There could be no monetary reason why she'd go over to the other side, so it must be philosophical. Something about the Russian system appealed to her. Foolish woman. Let her go into Russia and see how the common people survived - that was it - survived rather than lived - and perhaps she'd realize what a mistake she was making.

But it was too late for such a salutary lesson. It would be the big gray box for her, now.

Steed rolled up in front of the Highpoint apartment block and circled around until he found a parking spot. He settled his bowler securely on his head, flourished his brolly and strode into the lobby of the building. A security guard looked up at him. ''Yes, sir.''

''I'm here to see Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Is she expecting you?''

''In a sense. I ran into her car today. I'd like to talk to her about it. My name's John Steed.''

''Oh, I see. Well, half a mo'''.

He picked up a phone and dialed a number. ''Mrs. Peel. Chap to see you. Says he ran into your car today.'' He listened for a few moments. Glanced at Steed as if comparing a description. Then, ''Right. I'll send him up.''

He replaced the receiver. ''Stop a bit,'' he said as Steed headed for the lifts on the left side of the guard's desk. The guard gestured toward the other side, where there was but a single set of doors. ''She's in the penthouse. That elevator there, sir. Doesn't stop at any other floors.''

''I see. Thank you.''

The elevator rose smoothly to the top floor and the doors slid open. Steed stepped out into the hallway. In front of him was a door. On the door, at head height, was a vast circle, and within it a large human eye, with fluttering eyelashes. It blinked at him, and before he had time to knock the door opened. She was wearing a shapeless gray sweater and shapeless gray plimsolls and managed to look charming in them. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

''Mr. Steed,'' she said, ''please come in.''

Steed walked into her apartment, doffing his bowler, and looked around curiously. The place was elegantly furnished, with sofas and chairs around a central, free standing fireplace. But...the apartment was circular...could it be possible that this was a revolving room? How much lolly did it take to live in a revolving penthouse apartment?

Mrs. Peel gestured him toward a chair. Her face was open and friendly. ''I didn't expect to see you. I dropped off my car at the garage this afternoon but I won't hear anything about it until tomorrow.''

''I cannot tell a lie, Mrs. Peel,'' Steed, who remained standing, said. ''I'm concerned about your car, of course, but the real reason I came up here was I was simply anxious to see you again.''

Mrs. Peel smiled, but it seemed a little forced. ''You flatter me, Mr. Steed. I appreciate your concern for my car, and I will call you if there's any news.'' And she headed toward the door.

Steed walked over to a table on which were decanter and glasses, and he poured himself a drink. Then he turned, and looked at Mrs. Peel. She was gazing at him with a raised eyebrow. She did not seem tense in any way, merely annoyed.

''It wasn't an accident, that you ran into me this morning,'' Steed said, sipping his whisky. His eyes closed in pleasure...it was very good whisky. ''I arranged it.''

''And why did you do that?''

''Well, I happened to be driving past your office building...at the time that that man was running past. You remember that man - the one you threw into the wall? I thought that was quite impressive.''

''Oh. Him. Why should you think that was impressive?''

''Well, most women - most men, too, would have let him just run on by. He was carrying a knife, after all. How on earth did you learn how to...well, to throw him into a wall like that?''

Emma Peel shrugged. ''My stepmother was Japanese, a descendant of samurais. You've heard of the Samurai?''

''Oh, yes.''

''Well, there weren't a lot of female samurais but her family was one of the ...well, top ones, to put it ungrammatically. Even after Japan's defeat in World War II she kept the martial tradition alive. She was proficient in many martial arts including karate and ju-jitsu, as well as weapons like the naginata. And she found in me a willing pupil. She was an excellent teacher and I was an excellent student.''

''I daresay. You certainly proved it this morning.''

''Yes, well that's all by the by. I haven't listened to the news since I got home, but I doubt if it was such an important incident that it got reported.''

''No,'' said Steed cheerfully, ''it wasn't reported.''

The woman was looking at him, curious and a little amused, and did not seem frightened at all. ''If you're going to drink my Scotch,'' she said, ''you might pour me a glass.''

Steed poured her a generous amount and handed her the glass. She took it and then went and sat down on the arm of the couch. Ready to spring into action like a tiger, Steed thought.

''All right, Mr. Steed. You witnessed my martial prowess this morning and it impressed you. Now, what is it you want?''

''Well, I wanted to talk to you about O'Reilly.''

''O'Reilly? Who's he?''

''The man whom you...threw into the wall.''

She raised an eyebrow. ''You know his name? What are you, the police?''

Again she didn't seem afraid at all, just curious and wary, not of him as the police but of him as an escaped lunatic or something. What a marvelous actress she was.

''No, I'm not from the police.''

She took a sip from her glass. ''Well, I'm waiting.'' she said.

''While Mr. O'Reilly was running down that sidewalk, he had in his possession something of value. Immense value. Then he ran into you. After that, he no longer had that item in his possession.''

''I see. But all I did was throw him into the wall. I left immediately after that, as you must have seen. But there were at least ten people running up to us at that time. What was to prevent anyone of them from having taken this...object of value?''

''No one got close to him, after you left him. A few people ran up to him, but they formed a circle and just stared at him until a couple of my men arrived. No, Mrs. Peel. Only you could have taken the object from Mr. O'Reilly.''

Emma Peel took another drink of whisky. ''Show me some identification.''

''I beg your pardon?''

''I think you're a confidence man, Mr. Steed. I'm a rich woman, and you've managed to get yourself up here in my apartment with me, alone. You fancy I'll protest my innocence and tell you to search the place for this mysterious object of yours. But that will give you your opportunity to mark out various items of value which you will purloin, either now or in the future.''

Emma Peel put her drink down, went to her door and held it open for him. ''I'd like you to leave now.''

Steed turned to pour himself another drink. ''Almost you convince me, Mrs. Peel. But if you didn't take the object, who did?''

''Be logical about it. Do you know he had it on him while he was running in my direction?''

''Yes. I know that for a fact. Witnesses behind him would have seen him get rid of it.''

''Alright. And do you know that there was no one who could have touched him while he was lying unconscious on the sidewalk?''

''My two men were there all the time.''

''And they searched his body at that time?''

''No, of course not. He was brought into headquarters, put into a private room, and searched at that time.

''So, who found out he did not have the object on him?''

''Clemens.''

''Clemens. Clemens and who else?''

Steed stared at her. ''Just Clemens...'' he said slowly.

''Well, Mr. Steed, I don't know your Clemens. But I know that I do not have the object you are looking for. I suggest you talk to Clemens about it.''

Steed stared at her. If his judgment of women was any good - and he knew it was, then he had made a horrible mistake.

''Mrs. Peel, may I use your telephone?''

She gestured toward it like an excellent hostess. ''Be my guest.''

Steed dialed his superior at Department S very quickly. ''One-Ten? Steed here. Urgent that you put Clemens in custody, right now.''

He looked at Mrs. Peel, looking at him with cool amusement, and gulped down the rest of his whisky. ''I'm on my way, sir. I'll explain when I get there.'' He hung up the receiver, doffed his hat to Mrs. Peel, ''been a pleasure,'' he murmured, and strode quite briskly out the door. She closed the door behind him, not gently.

Chapter V
''So he's gone?'' said Steed, standing in One-Ten's office.

''Yes.'' that worthy replied. ''He must have skipped out just after he told you that O'Reilly didn't have the microfilm. He knew that once you'd questioned that woman you'd find out, sooner or later, that she had no knowledge of it, and latch onto him as the only other logical choice.''

''But, what a terrible step for him to take! The microfilm O'Reilly had was important, of course, but surely not important enough for him to break cover over it! The Other Side has lost him for good, now. It wasn't worth it!''

One-Ten shrugged. ''Who knows what was in Clemens' mind? Maybe he'd gotten tired of the game and seized this opportunity as a chance to end it for himself.''

''Well, it's a bit of a facer, though, isn't it. Clemens being a traitor.''

''Yes. We're going to have to institute some better recruiting and security arrangements in future, Steed. Weed out people like Clemens.''

'I should hope so.''

''Having said, that, Steed, I've lined up a new partner for you, to replace Mrs. Gale.''

Steed held up a hand. ''One of the old guard, who went through the same screening as Clemens?''

''Maybe,'' said One-Ten sourly.

''Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to recruit my own partner. From outside the ranks.''

''What? Another one of your talented amateurs?''

''At least I know I can trust them, sir.''

One-Ten's face flushed. ''That's a terrible thing to say about the British security service, Steed!''

''Yes, sir. Indeed it is, sir.''

One-Ten glared at him, sensing that there was something ironic in Steed's comment. But he chose to let it lie.

''All right, Steed. Go get your talented amateur. God knows England needs her.''

Steed nodded and left, saying only under his breath, ''So do I, sir. So do I.''

Time goes by fast!

So sorry not to have updated this story since June 18!

After July 4, should be able to get my girdle in gear and continue with this story.