It was a sunny day in New York City.  Napoleon Solo, chief enforcement officer for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, put the top down on his red convertible before driving across town to pick up his partner and best friend on the way to work.  Solo was a handsome man.  Trim and fit, he was in his early thirties with dark hair worn in a conservative cut and brown eyes that had a tendency to sparkle.  An elegant man, he dressed in Madison Avenue suits and was gifted with charisma and an easy charm.  His apparently open nature belied his reputation, among those in the know, as one of the most skilful operatives in the world of espionage.

            Illya Kuryakin, waiting on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, was in many ways a contrast to his American partner.  Smaller than Solo and a few years younger, he had baby blue eyes and golden-blond hair that he wore somewhat long by the standards of the day.  Where Napoleon was cheerful and outgoing Illya was dour and reserved.   Solo was easily his closest friend and almost his only friend, a fact which did not concern Kuryakin much.  The Russian firmly believed that quality was far more important than quantity and he held Napoleon Solo in a higher esteem than anyone he had ever encountered

            Illya was scowling slightly.  There was nothing unusual about this and, in fact, all it probably meant was that his mind was elsewhere.  The junior agent often scowled absent-mindedly.  Once in a while he would grin faintly or with wry humor and he tended to smirk a good bit.  On the rare occasions when he smiled he smiled with his whole soul and the light of it was like sunshine.  A person could get addicted to a smile like that, which is probably why Napoleon Solo put up with the sulks and the grouches and the scowls that even a sunny day could not erase.

            Illya slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt pointedly, a silent comment on Napoleon’s penchant for driving fast.  The two men were in between missions and their upcoming morning offered nothing more exciting than finishing end of mission paperwork.  As Solo threaded his way skillfully through early-morning traffic they casually discussed some of the aspects of their last case.  Napoleon drove the familiar route almost automatically, his mind on his conversation with Illya as his hands made the well-known turns that would deposit them in front of Del Floria’s Tailor Shop, the innocent-looking fa�ade which led to U.N.C.L.E.’s New York headquarters.

            The well-known turns that should have deposited them in front of Del Floria’s. 

            Illya Kuryakin stopped short, finally looking around as the sidewalk before him stubbornly refused to give way to a short flight of steps leading down to the entrance to the tailor shop.  “Napoleon, I’ve seen you find your way out of a desert without a map.  How did you manage to get lost on the way to work?”

            “I didn’t,” Solo protested in bemusement.  “I made all the same turns I usually make.  I even noticed the adman’s new secretary checking the mail at the same time she did yesterday, just two blocks from here.”  Napoleon was never too wrapped up in anything to notice a redhead.

            “Well then,” the Russian demanded practically, “where’s U.N.C.L.E.?”

            “Hmm.  Good question,” his partner conceded, moving aside to let a small and oddly furry child go past on a skateboard.  “Uh, IK, does it seem to you that there are an awful lot of kids around today?”

            “Mmm.  Now that you mention it, yes.  And have you noticed that some of them are somewhat, ah, unusual colors?”

            “Now that you mention it, yes.”

            “So, Napoleon, since you assure me that, contrary to appearances, we are not, in fact, lost . . . where are we?”

            “Misplaced,” Solo answered dryly.  “Let’s go check the street sign.”

            They walked together down to the corner and looked up at the big sign there.  “There’s something very different about that sign,” Illya said.

            “You mean because it’s made of cardboard?”

            “Well, that and the fact that it has ‘somwer inna eest fotees’ scrawled on it in blue crayon.”

            As the two bemused agents stood talking furry blue fingers suddenly closed over Illya Kuryakin’s upper arm.  He found himself pushed into Napoleon’s face while a deep, gravelly voice said cheerfully, “This is Illya near!”

            The Russian, yanked off balance, was dragged backwards some fifty feet.  

            “This is Illya far!”

            The monster dragged him forward again.  “This is Illya near!”

            He tugged on Kuryakin’s bicep again but the blond agent had had time to brace himself and did not budge.  The monster gave a few more experimental tugs.  Illya leaned down and glared at him.

            “This is Illya annoyed!” he said.

           The monster’s eyes got very big.  “This is Grover here!” it quavered, freezing for a second.  Suddenly it zipped away.  As it disappeared its receding voice floated back behind it.  “This is Grover goooooooooooooonnnnnneeeeee . . .”

                    “Napoleon,” Illya said, “it seems to me there’s something very strange going on this morning.”

            “Ah,” said Solo, “you noticed that, did you?  I’ve always commented on how astute you are.”

            “Hmph,” the Russian snorted.  He took a silver pen from his pocket and transformed it into a state-of-the-art, miniature transceiver.  He started to put it up to his mouth but Napoleon put a hand out to stop him.

            “Wait!  What are you doing?”

            “I’m going to call headquarters and ask them where we are.”

            “You’re going to call headquarters and admit that we’re lost within blocks of home?  Don’t tell them I’m with you.”

            “Don’t be silly.  Of course I’m not going to tell them we’re lost.  I’m going to tell them I want to check the accuracy of my tracking devices.”

            “Oh.”

            “And that you’re lost.”

            Smirking lightly, Illya held up his transceiver.  “Open channel D.”

            They could hear the click as the device activated but, instead of the familiar voice of an U.N.C.L.E. operator what came out of the tiny speaker was a light, cheerful melody.  “Suuuuuunny daaaay . . .”

            The two agents stared at one another in bewilderment.  “Well,” Napoleon said, “any ideas?”

            Illya reached over and pinched him.  Hard.

            “Ouch!” the senior agent exclaimed.  “Well, that proves that I’M not dreaming.”

            Kuryakin quickly skipped back out of reach, allowing a small, shaggy elephant to snuffle between them.  “Don’t bother.  I’d never dream anything like this.”

            “I’ll tell you what,” Napoleon suggested, “why don’t we try splitting up?  I’ll go this way and you go that and we’ll see if one of us doesn’t stumble across something familiar soon, hmm?”

            This agreed to the two agents turned and went their separate ways.

            Illya Kuryakin was walking along in the sunshine, feeling the tension still in him from the last mission beginning to slowly drain away.  Suddenly he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to find a very small girl with light brown hair and hazel eyes.

            “Hello,” said the Russian, “and who might you be?”

            “My name is Diana,” she said.  “Mr. Kuryakin?”

            “Yes, Diana?”

            “What’s a spy?”

            “What’s a spy?” he considered.  “Well, a spy is a person with secrets untold, who sometimes gets scared and comes in from the cold, whose plans and whose plots keep the villains at bay and whose courage and daring will carry the day.”

            “Really?”

            “Mmmhmm.  You see, a spy is a person in your neighborhood.”

            “In my neighborhood?”

            “In your neighborhood.  Yes, a spy is a person in your neighborhood.  He’s a person that you meet when you’re walking down the street, a person that you meet each day.”

            Napoleon Solo stopped short when he heard the familiar “WHEEEEEEooooooo, WHEEEEEEoooooo!” of his communicator.  He took it out of his pocket and opened it but the channel was dead.  Looking at it in dismay and wondering if his partner was in trouble he was surprised to hear the summons again, coming not from the communicator but from somewhere close behind him.  He froze as large, gentle hands felt his shoulders.  Turning partially, he beheld three very alien monsters looking at him with curious expressions.  As one their eyes turned towards the communicator in his hand.

            “Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip uh-huh, uh-huh!”

            “Yip yip yip . . .”

            “Uh-huh, uh-huh”

            “ . . .yip yip yip”

            “WHEEEEoooooo!  WHEEEEEEEooooooo!”

            “Yip yip yi . . .”

            “Uh-huh, uh-“

            “FON!”

            “p yip yip yip yip”

            “Uh-huh!”

            “WHEEEEoooooo! WHEEEEEoooooo!”

            “BRRRRIIIIIIIINNNNNGGGG!”

            “FON!”

            “Yip yip yip, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

            “No, no, no,” Napoleon said.  “This, you see is a highly advanced radio communications device with which I contact my organization and my partner.  It is a ‘communicator’.  Com-mun-i-cat-or!”

            The aliens went into a huddle.  From their midst he could hear a cacophony of sound. 

            “Yip yip yip yip WHEEEEoooooo! WHEEEEEEoooooo! Yip yip yip, uh-huh, WHEEEoooooo! Yip yip yip BRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGG! Uh-huh, uh-huh! WHEEEEEEoooooo!  Yip yip yip.”

            Finally they turned to face him.  One of them moved forward to act as spokesalien.

            “FON!”

            “Phone,” Napoleon agreed with a sigh.

            Before putting his ‘phone’ back in his pocket he decided to try and raise Illya.  The channel opened but his partner was paying no attention to him.  He could hear the Russian’s stern voice in the background.

            “Put down the duckie!  Put down the duckie.  Leave.  The duck. Alone!”

            Illya Kuryakin had found a soul mate.  They were sitting facing one another across a small table.  In the center was a large plate piled high with crisp, round, sweet-smelling objects.  The Russian picked one up and offered it to his tablemate.

            “Chocolate Chip - Macadamia Nut Delight?”

            His companion took it in fuzzy blue fingers and held it up before wide, wondering eyes.

            “COOKIE!” he bellowed in delight and the cookie disappeared in a shower of crumbs.

            Count Von Count was in heaven.  “Forty-eight!” he sang out.  “Forty-eight Chocolate Chip – Macadamia Nut Delights that have been eaten by Cookie Monster and Illya Kuryakin!”  Thunder boomed obligingly from a clear blue sky and the count broke into a peal of laughter.  “Mwa-ha-ha-haaa!”

            Cookie Monster picked up a cookie and politely offered it to Illya.   The Russian declined with gentle regret.

            “Thank you, but no.  Tempting though it is, I had rather a large breakfast and I would not like to spoil my appetite for lunch.”

            Cookie Monster put the cookie back on the plate and looked down at it, sighed contentedly and gave a sage nod.

            “Cookie!” he agreed.

            The small park, on such a sunny day, was just too tempting a detour to resist.  Napoleon Solo was strolling through casually, hands in his pockets, and looking (not too enthusiastically) for some egress back to the familiar world of gray steel walls, of artificial lighting and after-mission reports waiting to be written.

            He was arrested by the sound of his name, spoken hesitantly in a small, polite voice.

            “Um, excuse me, Mr. Napoleon Solo, sir?”

            Solo turned completely around and saw no one.

            “Um, down here, sir.”

            The spy looked down and found himself being addressed by a small green frog wearing a zigzag collar.  He had never conversed with a frog before but, being a philosophical man, he figured there was a first time for everything.

            “Yes, can I help you?”

            “Uh, I was just wondering, you know how you and Mr. Kuryakin always beat up the bad guys, like ‘pow’ and ‘wham’ and ‘hi-ya!’?”  The frog punctuated his question by dancing around, punching the air.  “Do you think you could teach me to do that?” 

            Napoleon’s brow knitted in confusion.  “You want to learn how to fight?”

            “Oh, yes!  ‘Biff’ and ‘bam’ and ‘hi-ya!’!  I’d really like to learn ‘hi-ya!’” the frog said with feeling.

            “Well,” Napoleon said hesitantly, “I suppose I could.  I’m really more a ‘biff’ and ‘bam’ person myself.  It’s Mr. Kuryakin who specializes in “hi-ya!’  What you need to do is to balance yourself on the balls of your feet.”

            The frog looked down in dismay.  “I don’t,” he said, “I don’t have balls on my feet.”

            “No?”

            “No.  Webs.  I have webs.”

            “Ah.  Well, in that case, balance yourself on the webs of your feet.  Then draw back your fist – like that.  Now, when you strike out put your whole body behind the punch.”

            The frog struck out and lost his balance.  He spun in a complete circle twice and landed on his face in the grass.   Napoleon quickly picked him up and brushed him off.

            “Tell me,” he asked, “why does a frog need to learn how to fight?”

            The frog sighed dejectedly.  “Well, there’s this pig, you see . . .”

            “Ah, yes, I think I do.  And tell me, does this pig know ‘hi-ya!’?”

            “Oh, yes!” the frog nodded emphatically.  “And she wears these shoes with sharp, spiky heels . . .”

            “Indeed?” Napoleon Solo said.  He led the way to a park bench and sat down.  The frog hopped up to sit beside him.  “So,” Solo ventured, “this is a girl pig, is it?  Now that sounds like an entirely different sort of problem . . .”

            Diana was still trailing after Illya, who had shortened his pace to make it easier for the little girl to keep up.  She had managed to eat five Chocolate Chip – Macadamia Nut Delights and was a little more than a little hyper.

            There was a loud “clip-clop” from behind them and two more little girls galloped into view.  The one in the lead was riding on a stick horse.  She was fair skinned with red-blond hair and blue eyes and she was dressed as a bandit with a black mask across her face.

            The second, with short-cropped auburn hair and hazel eyes, was dressed as a cowgirl.  A shiny tin star was pinned to her western shirt and as she ran she bellowed out, “Mr. Kuryakin!   Help me!  That varmint’s a horse thief!  She stole my old nag!”

            Illya reached out to block the horse thief’s path.  His muscular arm went around her waist and he scooped her up, giggling wildly.  “In America,” the Russian observed, “I believe it’s traditional to hang horse thieves.”  Tipping her over, he took her by the ankles and dangled her upside down.

            The sheriff reclaimed her mount, patted its head reassuringly and then galloped in excited circles around Illya and his prisoner.

            “So,” Kuryakin said, “tell me, Sheriff, who are you and who is this dangerous villain we’ve managed to apprehend?”

            “I’m Sheriff Torey Lane, of Sesame Gulch,” she said, “and that varmint up there is Lee the Kid.”

            Lee the Kid was turning red in the face and laughing so hard she had gotten the hiccups.  Illya took pity on her and set her down, then watched carefully while she staggered around in dizzy circles.

            They were standing beside a wide set of steps.  Illya sat down to rest for a moment and Lee the Kid promptly collapsed beside him, her head leaning against his left arm.  Sheriff Torey galloped around and around, swinging a lasso that she took from her belt.  Dropping it over Illya’s head she tightened it over his shoulders and tied the end of it to a lamppost.    Diana knelt behind him, at the top of the steps, put her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his shoulder.  From nowhere a little red monster appeared, giggling so hard that its head was bobbing up and down.

            “We got you now, Illya Kuryakin,” it said in a high-pitched voice.   “You’re our prisoner!”

            “Your prisoner?” the Russian asked, biting back his amusement.  “Oh, my!   What are you going to do with me?”

            Diana sighed contentedly.  “Keep you,” she said, “forever and ever!”

            “ . . . so, you see, Kermit, under the circumstances I really don’t think ‘hi-ya!’ is your best alternative.”

            The little green frog nodded thoughtfully.  “So, Mr. Solo, what do you suggest?”

            “Well, I think, if it we’re me, I’d give her a ring.”

            The frog’s little face crumpled up in dismay.  “Mr. Solo, please!  That’s just exactly what I’m trying to avoid!”

            “Oh, no no no!  Not that kind of ring.  A friendship ring.”

            “A friendship ring?”

            “Mmmhmm, with a tracking device inside.”

            “Tracking device?”

            “Certainly.  If you always know just where she is, you can see to it that you’re somewhere else.”

            Kermit bobbed his head in understanding.  “Have you ever done anything like that?”

            Napoleon Solo’s mouth twisted with wry amusement.  “Not that I’d be willing to admit, no,” he said.

            Their discussion was interrupted by a giggle behind them and the soft sound of light footsteps.  A pair of tiny hands went over Napoleon’s eyes.

            “Guess who, Mr. Solo,” a little voice lisped.

            “Hmm . . . let’s see,” the agent considered theatrically.   “Is it . . . the most beautiful girl in the world?”

            He was answered by a peal of childish laughter.  Turning, he beheld three little girls.  The one just behind him had blue eyes and glasses.  She was wearing a cape made out of an old curtain and fastened with a safety pin.  A cardboard tiara covered with glitter sat on her short, curly, amber-brown hair.  Slightly behind her were a green-eyed redhead and blue-eyed girl with long blonde hair.

            “Ah,” Solo said gallantly, “I see I was mistaken.  It’s the three most beautiful girls in the world.”

            The little girls burst into laughter, eyes sparkling and hands over their mouths.

            By this time too much had happened for him to be surprised when numbers appeared in the air over the little girls heads and a voice from nowhere said, “one little girl, two little girls, three little girls in love with Napoleon Solo.”

            “And who are you charming young ladies?” Napoleon asked.

            “My name is M.E.,” the redhead said.

            The blonde giggled.  “I’m Alexia Nazarko,” she told him.  His eyebrows rose.

            “That’s a very impressive name, Alexia Nazarko,” he said.   Alexia blushed and giggled.

            “That’s Tess,” M.E. said, pointing at the girl in the tiara.

            Tess tossed her head.  “That’s Countess Tereskova, thank you!”

            “Countess?” Napoleon asked.  “Are you sure you aren’t a princess?  Or a queen?”

            Countess Tereskova wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head.   “No, that’s too much responsibility.”

            “Ah,” he nodded sagely, “You’re probably right.”

            “Napoleon,” M.E. said, “will you play make-believe with us?”

            “Well,” he said gravely, “I really would like to.  But Mr. Kuryakin and I have to find our way back to work soon.”

            “Where’s Mr. Kuryakin?” Alexia asked.

            “I don’t know,” Napoleon admitted.  “I have to go find him.”

            “We can help you,” the countess offered.  “We can go on an Illya quest!”

            Napoleon, accompanied by Kermit and the three little girls, set out on an Illya quest.  For some reason, before they finally came across Illya, they managed to find irises, ivy, India ink, icicles and Isaac, the invisible inchworm.

            When Solo finally spotted his partner he stopped just out of Illya’s line of sight to watch him.  The Russian was sitting on the steps of a brownstone building at the center of a crowd of small children and assorted monsters.  He had gotten a guitar somewhere, it rested on his lap and he was playing it as expertly as he normally wired explosives and fired sleep darts.  Illya Kuryakin, the hardened agent whose ice-blue gaze could unnerve an assassin, was singing very gently.

“Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
Is it something that I'm supposed to be?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
 
“Why are there so many songs about rainbows?
That's part of what rainbows do.
Rainbows are memories, sweet dream reminders --
What is it you'd like to do?
All of us watching and wishing we'd find it,
I know you're watching it, too.
Someday you'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and you!”

               He let the final chord almost die away and then stilled the strings with his fingers.  His retinue had increased by one.  Now four little girls and a little red monster all heaved a deep sigh.  They were crowded as close to the Russian as they could get and none of them showed any inclination to move anytime soon.

               Illya looked up as his partner applauded and came over.  Something about the atmosphere was having a positive effect on him.   For the first time in weeks the blond agent was at ease.  (Indeed, he was almost phenomenally at ease for a man who has put away his full share of four dozen Chocolate Chip – Macadamia Nut Delights.)

               Solo, as he approached, was expecting one of the Russian’s characteristic scowls.  Instead Illya smiled at him.  He smiled with his whole soul and the light of it was like sunshine.  A person could get addicted to a smile like that.

               “Ah, Napoleon,” Illya said, “I see that you have been captured as well!”

               “Um, yes.  Mr. Kuryakin, allow me to present M.E., Alexia, and the Countess Tereskova.”

               Illya nodded to the little girls; though he was smiling no longer the light of it lingered.

               “Napoleon,” he said in turn, “this is Torey, and Diana, and Elmo, and Lee the Kid.  And the young lady with the very long red hair and hazel eyes is Veronica.”

               Napoleon nodded politely to them and seated himself on the steps a little ways away.  Veronica gave him a horrified look and turned appealingly to his partner.

               “Oh, Illya!  He’s sitting on Fuzzy!”

               Illya looked over at him, tongue in cheek.  “Napoleon stand up.  You’re sitting on Fuzzy.”

               Obligingly, Solo rose.  “Who’s Fuzzy?”

               “I believe Fuzzy is a tiger,” Kuryakin told him with an almost straight face.

               Napoleon nodded and chose another step.  Veronica gasped and looked horrified again.

               “Now he’s sitting on Spotty, Illya!”

               Solo stood up again.  “Spotty?”

               “Leopard,” Illya said without meeting his eyes.

               Napoleon nodded.  He chose another place and pointed down.  “How about here?  Is it okay if I sit here?”

               Veronica nodded, her eyes wide and innocent.

               Napoleon sat down.

“Slinky doesn’t mind if you sit on him.”

               Solo froze.  Illya was trying hard to choke back laughter.

               “Slinky?”

               “Slinky’s a cobra.”

               In spite of himself Solo stood up once more.  He pointed to a low wall beside the steps.  “How about here?” he demanded in a dangerous tone.  “Is there anything already here?”

               “There’s a wall there,” Veronica said.

               “Is. There. Anything. On. The. Wall?”

               Veronica peered up at him with her big hazel eyes and shook her head.  Napoleon Solo sat down once more and his trio of little girls crowded around him.

               “So,” Illya asked, his head bent over the guitar as he tuned it, “have you figured out where we are yet or how we got here?”

               There was a sudden silence as the little girls froze and held their breaths.  The little red monster looked decidedly guilty.

               Illya glanced up at Napoleon.  Their eyes met and both understood that whatever was going on the children knew.

               “No,” Napoleon Solo said.  “I don’t have any idea.”  He looked at the quiet children.  “Do any of you know how Mr. Kuryakin and I got here?”

               Silence met his question.  He fastened his gaze on them, one at a time.

               “Torey?  M.E.?  Alexia? Lee?”

               None of them would look at him and none of them answered.

               “Elmo?”

               The little red monster cast its eyes on the ground.  It sighed deeply, then laid its head on Illya’s arm and looked up trustingly at the Russian.  It took another deep breath – a steadying-yourself, fessing-up sort of breath.

               “Maay-bee . . .” it suggested ingeniously, “Elmo changed the sign?”

               The agents’ eyes met again.

               “Now why,” Napoleon Solo kept his voice light, “why would Elmo do a thing like that?”

               Elmo shrugged profoundly, as small children often are wont to do.  “Elmo wanted the U.N.C.L.E. men to come and play with us today.”

               Seven little girls nodded in agreement.

               “Well, Elmo, as much as we would like to stay and play with you, Mr. Kuryakin and I need to go to work.  What if we have to save the world today?”

               “Oh!  Oh!”  The little monster had an inspiration. “ElmothinksMr.Kuryakinshould-saveElmoinstead!”

               The two spies grinned at one another.

               “But Elmo,” Illya pointed out gently, “when Napoleon and I save the world, we also save everyone in the world.  That includes all of you.  It includes Diana and Tereskova and Veronica . . .”

               “And Fuzzy and Spotty?” Veronica cut in.

               “  . . . and Fuzzy and Spotty and Torey and Alexia and M.E. and Lee . . .”

               “and Elmo?” Elmo asked.

               “and definitely Elmo,” Illya answered.

               “So,” Napoleon concluded, “can you tell us how to get. . .” he looked around, “how to get from Sesame Street?”

               Monster and children considered elaborately.  “Elmo might know,” Elmo offered.  “But . . . Elmo has to think about it.  Elmo doesn’t remember good.”  The monster’s manner betrayed the special brand of cunning that is the prerogative of preschoolers.

               “Gee,” Napoleon commented dryly, “can you think of anything that might make Elmo remember better?”
               “Maaay-beee . . .” Elmo suggested slyly, “maybe Elmo could remember better if the U.N.C.L.E. men sing to Elmo while Elmo thinks about it.”

               “Now, Elmo,” Illya was trying to be firm, “you know I already sang for you once.”

               Elmo turned pleading eyes up to the Russian’s face and Solo could not help but smile at the way that stern countenance softened.

               “Oh, go on, IK,” he said.  “Let’s sing for them – but just one song.  Do you know anything in my key?”

               “Everything flat?” Kuryakin asked with a trace of his old sarcasm.   Still, his sensitive fingers summoned the guitar to life once more.  The tune was unfamiliar to Napoleon and yet he found he knew the words and it seemed to him that it was profoundly appropriate for he and Illya to be singing this song, their voices raised together in harmony on such a peaceful, sunny day.

“Things that I remember
Times that never end
Favorite things inside my head
Special friend to friend

“Roads we've walked together
All the stops we've made
Jokes we've told and songs we've sung
And silly games we've played

“And there are chilly days in winter
Out laughing in the snow
And lazy days in summer
With no place much to go

“Each day has its memories
And when the day is through
Things that I remember
Are the things I did with you

“And there's an arm around the shoulder
And a friend I'll always keep
And nights so full of talking
We never fell asleep

“Each day has its memories
And when the day is through
Things that I remember
Are the things I did with you

“Things that I remember
Are the things I did with you”

               Illya stilled the guitar strings once more.  The music seemed to linger in the magic air for a long moment before it finally died away.  The partners grinned faintly at one another, the looks in their eyes saying more than words ever could.

               Seven little girls and one little monster sighed together in profound contentment.

               “All right, Elmo,” Illya said, “can you tell us how to get to work from here?”

               Elmo gazed up at him and sighed, then looked away and nodded energetically.  “Elmo knows where there’s a magic coathook.”

               “A magic coathook?” Napoleon asked.

               “Uh-huh!” Elmo nodded even more energetically this time.  Nodding seemed to be one of the little monster’s specialties.

               The two agents stood reluctantly.  A lovely Hispanic woman came out of the brownstone to take the guitar and then the two men said goodbye to their followers.  Each little girl got a hug and a kiss from her spy of choice.  Then they stood in a group on the step and waved goodbye as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin followed Elmo in search of a magic coathook to take them to headquarters.

               Elmo led them to a narrow alley.  Set up in the alley was a big cardboard box, the kind that refrigerators come in.  A door had been cut in the side facing the street and across the top someone had lettered: del floreas.

               Elmo went in and Solo and Kuryakin squeezed in after.  Stuck to one side of the box with silly putty was an old, bent and badly-rusted coathook.

               Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look in the dim, cramped space.   This was cute but it was getting them nowhere.

               “You gotta turn it!” Elmo said.

               Napoleon looked at Illya.  Illya shrugged and Napoleon shrugged and reached up to turn the coathook.  To his surprise it turned easily in his hand and the wall of cardboard opened before them to admit them to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

               Solo did a double-take.  The coathook he was holding now was the same one he had used to open this door for years.  The spies looked back the way they had come and could see only the familiar interior of the changing room of Del Floria’s.  Illya stepped back through the changing room and peered out through the shop window.  Napoleon’s red convertible, the only car in New York that could park in front of the tailor shop and not get towed, sat in its accustomed spot.

               They shared a look of profound bewilderment and passed on into headquarters.

               Mr. Waverly was down in reception, looking over some papers.   As they came in he glanced pointedly at the clock.

               “You gentlemen are a trifle late this morning,” he observed.  “I don’t suppose you have anything to report?”

               Napoleon was about to agree when Illya, taking his badge and Napoleon’s both from the receptionist, intervened.

               “Yes, Sir, as a matter of fact we do.”

               “We do?”

               “Mmhmm.”  He handed Solo his numbered badge and pinned his own to his jacket.  “Today’s affair was brought to you by the numbers eleven and two.”

               “And,” Napoleon picked up smoothly, “by the letters U-N-C-L-E!”

               They exchanged a satisfied nod, turned on their heels and strode away down the corridor towards their office and their overdue reports.

               Waverly watched them go with a bemused look on his face.  When they were out of sight he turned to the secretary.  “Miss, um, oh!  Whoever you are!  Remind me to see that those two men take some time off.”

THE END

(Author’s note:  Many thanks to everyone who attended my story! <g>  An extra thanks to the Countess Tereskova for the magic coathook idea and to Lee the Kid just because.  The song lyrics are from the Sesame Street Song Lyrics Archive, maintained by Tiny_Dancer.) : )

 Loretta Ross