"WARLORDS"   by Winfred S. Jones, Jr.   Steed has to fly Emma goes underground   Eddie Harrison knew for sure that the acid he'd just dropped was good stuff when he saw the dragon fly overhead. He had been sitting in the middle of the main campus quad, leaning back against the copper statue of the university's benefactor and waiting for the LSD to take effect. It was an early autumn night and soft, still warm breezes were blowing an occasional cloud across the face of the moon. Actually, Eddie saw the man before he saw the dragon. The man was twisting in midair, flailing his arms and legs frantically as he fell. His scream was punctuated with a noise reminiscent of a gunshot when he hit the concrete in front of the cathedral. Eddie looked up and the dragon floated silently overhead, motion¬less for a long moment. Its leathery wings crackled in the wind, then it turned to soar over the hardwoods before disappearing in the direction of the gardens. Damn, Eddie thought, that sure looked real! He turned and the crumpled form lay strangely silent in front of the cathedral. Slowly Eddie got to his feet and walked towards the body. Maybe it would turn into something; perhaps a witch who would seduce him. No way, he remembered suddenly. Witches rode brooms, not dragons.... A dark pool was slowly spreading from beneath the twisted form. Eddie was still standing there, studying the reflection of the moon in the congealing pool when the campus police arrived on the scene. As they were leading him away, he was trying very hard to remember the acid dealer’s name. No doubt about it, he thought, it was the best stuff he’d ever dropped.... Mrs. Peel was just finishing her morning run when she heard an odd yet somehow curiously familiar buzzing noise coming from behind the cottage. As she slowed to a stop in the driveway, the noise increased in volume until suddenly a small model aeroplane gracefully soared over the roof. From its elegant shape and the delicately inscribed circular markings on its wings and fuselage, she recognized it to be a model of a World War II British Spitfire. What most quickly caught her eye, however, was a small banner attached to the rear of the craft that fluttered brightly in the crisp, late autumn sunlight. “Mrs. Peel,” it read, “We're needed.” The miniature aircraft circled her once then came to a smooth landing on the asphalt drive. As it taxied up to stop at her feet, she crossed her arms, raised one eyebrow, and smiled delightfully in the direction of the immaculately dressed gentleman who was approaching her from behind the cottage. The ever-present umbrella swung jauntily in the crook of his arm. Steed moved the radio controls of the model to one hand, raised the other, and gracefully tipped his bowler in her direction. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The newspaper article Steed handed to her had to deal with an unfortunate if rather spectacular death out at the university. She sipped her morning orange juice and raised one eyebrow. “Dragon?” She said. The story mentioned a lone witness who claimed that a “dragon” had dropped the victim to his death. The young man had admitted being under the influence of drugs at the time of the incident and his testimony, while being given a big play up in the papers, was being disregarded by the police. The victim, one Mr. H. Promroy, had, in their most august and offi¬cial opinion, committed suicide by jumping from the top of the tower which was the main architectural feature of the gothic cathedral that graced the university's West campus. “Dragon.” Mrs. Peel repeated. “Fascinating what one can hallucinate, but why your interest?” Steed gave a deep sigh. “My dear Mrs. Peel,” he explained, “Mr. Promroy was wearing a World War II German uniform at the time of his demise... SS Storm trooper in fact”. “Aha,” exclaimed Mrs. Peel. “That explains your use of that lovely 'Spitfire'.” Steed smiled a somewhat sheepish smile. “I think I might drop by the funeral home and see what I can find out about the departed gentleman's tailor.” Emma smiled back and replied, “And I've not been by the University’s Chapel since we arrived here. I might manage to stop by on my way to the market.” “Excellent,” said Steed as he finished his tea and rose from the table. “I shall see you this afternoon then.” He had that gleam in his eye that she knew so well. He gathered his bowler and brolly and made his way out through the garage. As she leaned back against the closing door, Mrs. Peel thought that the day might prove to be interesting. She was humming as she made her way to the bath… most interesting indeed. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A few phone calls earlier had sufficed to determine that the services for Mr. Promroy were being held in a funeral home located on Broad Street. The drive to town was pleasant. Steed kept the top down on the vintage '49 MGTD that he’d shipped over for this extended trip to the States (the Bentley didn’t travel very well much to his regret) and enjoyed the brisk feel of the fall air. He found himself to be somewhat excited, as he had not foreseen anything more than a relatively pleasant month or so of holiday while his twice-removed aunt’s estate was settled. He’d only met Aunt Effie perhaps a half dozen times and had been surprised to say the least when he found that she had left her entire American holdings to “my favorite nephew… the one who dresses so well and has such nice manners….” He had sincerely been saddened and regretful at her funeral not to have spent more time with her. Now Mrs. Peel and he were entrenched in one of the more nicely maintained quaint cottages his late aunt had owned while the interminable legal gears ground every cent possible from the estate and into the government coffers. His real interest had not been in the financial part of her estate anyway, but in the many letters and memorabilia she had collected over the years since leaving England after the war with a dashing American bomber pilot. The unfortunate death at the University and the odd circumstances surrounding it were an unexpected diversion from perusing old letters and the like. He pulled into the funeral home's parking lot and slipped his British racing green car into a vacant space. The hand brake squealed slightly as he set it. He pushed himself up out of the rich brown leather seat and vaulted the door. As he reached in to retrieve his umbrella, he noticed a white Mercedes Benz and an old BMW parked across the lot from him. Something about them caught his eye. Steed peered past the cane handled crook of his brolly and suddenly realized what had attracted his attention. Both cars had persona license plates. The Mercedes' read “AVALON” and the BMW's read “TSR GMS”. Some old memory rippled through his subconscious but didn't quite surface. Steed shrugged and, with a casual swing of his umbrella, walked around to the entrance. A somber fellow dressed in too large a black suit met him in the foyer. In an almost conspiratorially whispered voice he inquired how he might be of assistance. “Mr. Promroy is in the Blue Room,” was his monotone answer to Steed's inquiry. Steed smiled obligingly and, bowler and brolly in hand, entered the indicated room through a wide, darkly curtained doorway. Two men standing by the casket across the way immediately caught his eye. One was an Army Captain. Airborne, Steed noted, undoubtedly from Steed searched his memory and recalled the name Fort Bragg. All spit shine and polish. Steed recalled some of his military years; all the bases, the long, lonely flights ending in places with exotic names, and the comradeship amid the roar of aircraft. So many years ago it seemed. The other chap wore a western style denim suit, cowboy boots, and held a ten gallon hat in both hands. Steed noted the brief flash of a sheathed knife beneath the unbut¬toned coat as the man turned to him. “Howdy,” the cowboy said. “This here is Capt'n Conklin.” He gestured in the general direction of the Army Officer. “I’m Kelvin Porter.” Steed shook the Captain's hand and gave his name. “Have you ever been to W.A.R.?” questioned Captain Conklin. Steed raised one eyebrow. “Not in quite a while. I did spend some time in Southeast Asia and the Falklands….” “No . . . no . . .” interrupted Mr. Porter. “He means 'W,' 'A,' 'R' 'Wellington's Associates in Reserve' or 'Wellington's Armored Reserve' as some like to jokingly refer to us. It's a wargaming club; miniatures, Napoleonics, board games and com¬puter simulations from the fields of Waterloo to Advanced Computerized Dungeons and Dragons. We're based in the Research Triangle Park.” Steed suddenly recalled the license plates he had noted earlier. “Avalon” must have stood for Avalon Hill, an old wargaming company, and “TSR GMS” had to have meant TSR Games, a similar company that was known for its fantasy role-playing games. He remembered spending some hours in his youth playing similar wargames where cardboard pieces represented a thousand troops, or a fleet of ships, or biplanes circling one another in desperate combat. It seemed, he recalled, that H. G. Wells, of all people, had written one of the early rulebooks for toy soldiering at the turn of the century. “Really?” He replied. “Sounds fascinating. I must drop by one day and try my hand at a game or two.” “Please feel free to do so,” said the Captain. “We have some of the finest gamers in the state if not the country. Our facilities, you will find, are impeccable.” “Was Mr. Promroy . . .?” Mr. Porter, who interrupted, anticipated Steed’s question. “Oh yes, indeed. Promroy was one of our finest members. A real pillar of the Association. An excellent gamer also. Pity he won't make the national tournament this Halloween. 'Origins XX' is to be the event of the decade!” “A good gamer, you say?” “Yes sir”, the Captain spoke crisply. “His variation on the Vipirii defense in 'Russian Campaign' is still considered a classic.” “As well as his method of Southern deployment in 'Terrible Swift Sword' absolutely a masterful grasping of game mechanics.” Mr. Porter was actually beaming. Steed nodded, though admittedly somewhat bewildered by their comments. He glanced into the casket. It was amazing what modern embalming methods could do, he thought. One would never suspect that the late Mr. Promroy had met his demise by way of a rather longish dive onto concrete. His burial attire was, Steed decided, unique. “A last request?” Steed raised one eyebrow. “Ah, yes”, Captain Conklin said, looking at the body. “Promroy had won the 'Squad Leader' tournament at the Origins' convention for the last three years running. He had always had remarkable success with the SS troops and, as a result, was rather fond of them. He had several uniforms made up to wear while playing. Something of a superstition like the old rabbit's foot. It always made playing against him fun. Added a bit of atmosphere, I always thought. Anyhow, in his will he requested burial be in one of them, so we honored his wishes.” “I see,” replied a thoughtful Steed. “With all the excitement of this convention coming up so soon, it seems rather odd that he would choose this time to do himself in . . . .” Steed let the sentence trail off. Mr. Porter was the first to break the momentary silence. “Does make one wonder. However, as I related to the police, old Promroy had been in quite a depression for the last month or so. Affected him so much that he lost the last ten or eleven games he played. I was even able to beat him at a game of ‘Cross of Iron,’ something I've never been able to do before. I have no idea of what could have brought him so low. He was always something of a loner when he wasn't gaming. No immediate family, you know. He never seemed to let anyone really get close to him.” Steed muttered something about the dehumanizing effects of modern society. The Captain was looking sadly at the body. “I do wish he had stayed around long enough to see the new dungeon.” “Dungeon?” queried Steed with a furrowed brow. “Oh yes”, replied Mr. Porter. “Our resident dungeon master is Kenneth McCarty. A real genius at designing fantasy role-playing games. He has just finished with a life size com¬puterized dungeon that we're going to unveil at the Origin's convention. Even Promroy would have liked it. Nothing like battling a few orcs or demons to add spice to the evening!” “No doubt,” Steed responded rather dryly. “Are you an associate of Mr. Promroy's?” “No,” Steed answered. “Not at all . . . I happened to read of the incident and simply became curious. Dragons and SS uniforms seemed rather an odd combination.” Mr. Porter snorted with undisguised disgust. “Dragons indeed! The kid was probably a D and D fantasy nut before he got strung out on drugs. It's a wonder he didn't think he was the dragon!” “Undoubtedly so,” Steed said somewhat uncommittedly as he glanced pointedly at his watch. “That no doubt is the case. I regret I must be going, still I do wish to express my condolences to you gentlemen on the loss of your associate.” Steed made a small bow and quietly found his way to the exit. The return drive to the cottage was a thoughtful one for, as Steed had shaken hands with Mr. Porter, he had noticed the knife Mr. Porter was carrying had a rather ornate pattern of mother of pearl inlaid on the black handle. The swastika, Steed decided, definitely clashed with the cowboy suit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mrs. Peel had felt a touch of awe upon first seeing the towering Gothic Cathedral as she turned onto its access road from the main circle on West Campus. She was reminded of the many cathedrals in England, particularly the one in Ely. She smiled at the memory of its lofty beauty. Some students had gotten off the inter-campus bus and she dropped her vintage Lotus Elan into neutral to allow them to cross in front of her. Unless it was a short jaunt to the Continent, where ever she went the Lotus went as well. More than a couple of heads turned to admire the woman and her sleek car. There was an aura about Mrs. Peel that seemed to either awe or challenge, depending on the individual. Her total confidence in her ability to handle herself no matter the situation somehow seemed to throw most men, in particular, off their stride. She was that most rare blend of femininity and independence that acknowledged no man her master and, in fact, few as her equal. Patiently, she waited until all had passed, then she smoothly dropped the powder blue Lotus into gear and eased forward towards the broad steps and the small parking lot that lay in front of the cathedral. Flipping her car into the first empty space, she slipped from behind the wheel with that feline grace uniquely hers and walked up to the chapel. A uniformed policeman had been posted near the chapel's main entrance. “Is this where the poor man fell?” The police officer, taken back a bit by her accent, replied somewhat more courteously than usual. “No, Miss. Over there where the area is cordoned off.” He indicated the area with a casual wave of his hand. Emma flashed a bright “thank you” smile then walked over and carefully looked at the body's sprawled and misshapen outline where it was scrawled with yellow chalk strokes upon the concrete. After a few moments of pacing about and looking from the tower's top to the outline and back, she calmly stepped over the rope and knelt beside the chalk marks to look inquisitively upwards. A strand of auburn hair, caught in a sudden, soft breeze blew before her eyes and she unconsciously pushed it back into place. “Hey, you!” Almost immediately the cry rang out. “What do you think you're doing?” The police officer was hurrying in her direction. “Recalling my Physics,” was her reply. She smiled disarmingly as she rose to her feet. “What?” was all the confused officer could manage. “You know,” she said, stepping again over the rope. “Sir Isaac Newton . . . Law of Gravity . . . mass and velocity . . . action and reaction . . . that sort of thing.” “Well, um, recall them somewhere else!” sputtered the policeman with all the authority he could muster under the circumstances. She looked up at the top of the tower. “A capital idea, officer.” she replied brightly as she walked away from the thoroughly befuddled representative of the law. The doors to the cathedral groaned as she pushed them open. A quiet and diffused light wafted amid the awesome reaches of stone piled so high above her head. A small lift to her left, much to her surprise, was in operation so she joined a few curiosity seekers and rode to the top of the tower. The lift opened onto a rather narrow walkway that led past the tower's bells. The student/guide busily explained how the bells were held immobile while the clappers moved to strike the notes. To her left, Mrs. Peel saw an opening with stairs that curved sharply away down and to the right. Where does this lead?” she asked. The young fellow who had operated the lift first pointed out the “Do Not Enter” sign posted on a stand before the opening, then replied that the steps led all the way down to the main floor of the cathedral. He hastened to add that they were not used due to their extreme narrowness and the consequent danger of a misstep and fall. The party proceeded across a catwalk that passed by the enormous bells and took a short upward curve of steps that ended at the top of the tower. The view was magnificent. Gentle hills with trees ablaze in fall colors rolled away in every direction until lost in the grey haze of distance. Mrs. Peel moved to the railing at the front of the tower and looked down at the beautiful quadrangles that fanned out from the chapel's central location. From this high angle she looked calculatingly down at the small square of rope that enclosed the fragile marks of chalk. She tilted her head and pursed her lips thoughtfully for several moments then nodded her head. Satisfied with her observations, she reentered the small passageway of steps and wound her way back down to the bell chamber. After a quick glance about to be sure she was alone, Emma lithely slipped passed the “Do Not Enter” sign and down the curving steps. The stairwell rapidly grew darker as she gingerly felt her way down its narrow way. When she was sure that she had descended far enough that the glow would not be seen, she removed a small penlight from one pocket and flicked it on. She carefully examined the walls and steps. A thick layer of dust lay upon all the exposed surfaces of the stairwell. The steps were covered with marks where the dust had been disturbed and Emma knelt to study them intently at various points while she continued her descent. After many turns, the stairwell ended in a chillingly empty room. The cold, grey stone walls seemed to absorb her small penlight making it a pale, weak beam that left far more shadows than it illuminated. A quick survey of the room revealed nothing of interest save a continuation of the tracks that lead to a heavy, darkly wooden, ironbound door opposite the stairwell. As she crossed to the door, Mrs. Peel's foot kicked something that skittered metal¬lically across the floor raising a small plume of dust before it came to rest against the far wall. In the pale, ghostly rays of the penlight Mrs. Peel crossed to the object, knelt, and pushed back another unruly lock of hair from her eyes. Her head tilted to one side while her lips pursed with astonishment. At her feet, painted in bright colors and holding a bayoneted flintlock, lay a tiny, lead, toy soldier. “You certainly have the most extraordinary conversations in a funeral parlor!” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Steed had just finished giving Mrs. Peel a quick summary of his morning's efforts while assisting her in putting away the groceries. His eye caught sight of a familiar shape and, with an elegant flourish, he deftly removed a bottle of champagne from the depths of one bag. “Ah, a '67!” He smiled most disarmingly. “A rather good year as I recall. We shall save this for the festivities.” Mrs. Peel looked rather puzzled. “Upon our reaching a successful conclusion to this little problem of course.” Her smile was pure sunshine. “Of course,” she repeated. “I try to make a point of having no conversations whatsoever in a funeral parlor.” Steed continued in a more somber tone. “But you're quite right . . . it was scarcely the time or place to discuss wargaming of all subjects. Yet I somehow got the distinct impression that the 'dear departed’ would have approved and even joined in the conversation had it been possible. They seemed very taken with 'WAR' and all their games.” Steed started down the stairs to the wine cellar. “By the way,” he shouted up. “I've decided to take up a new hobby.” “You mean something other than flying model aeroplanes and foiling the plans of diabolical masterminds?” “My dear Mrs. Peel, you must take this more seriously. It's not every day that a new Bonaparte appears on the international scene.” He reappeared, wearing a replica of the distinctive hat that always figured prominently in paintings of the Emperor. Steed reached beneath his jacket’s left lapel with his right hand and, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Peel's sudden guffaws and snorts of laughter brought forth a book. Its cover was adorned with a rather fanciful design Emma noted as Steed handed it to her. “Or that a new adventurer appears to battle assorted dragons and demons.” Mrs. Peel looked more closely at the cover. Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, it read. She began to leaf idly through the book. “Hmm . . . reminds me a bit of Tolkien . . . orcs even . . . .” “Not to mention the dragons”. Steed interrupted her musing. “Have you any fireproof jumpsuits?” “All at the cleaners, I'm afraid. They have such a difficult time pressing them . . . . ” “At least those fencing lessons you're always taking might finally be of some use. And don't forget your torches. Dungeons are such dank places when compared to the glory of the battlefield.” He struck what he thought was an appropriately majestic pose. “Unless,” Mrs. Peel retorted, “the battlefield happens to be one's Waterloo.” Steed could only wince. “Now about this toy soldier . . . .” She held up the metal soldier she had found in the chapel and quickly related to Steed the events of her morning's jaunt. Steed eyed the soldier critically then wandered towards the library. Emma poured herself a glass of creamed sherry and followed. “There were two points in particular that caught my attention.” she said, curling felinely into a Regency chair. “First, there was no way for our Mr. Promroy to have jumped so far without breaking every world record for the long jump. The body struck at least thirty-five feet from the base of the tower and, even allowing for a strong wind at his back - which there was not that evening, by the way - it is quite impossible that he could have leapt that far.” Steed paused amid rummaging among the books on a lower shelf. “And two,” he asked. “Secondly, the markings on the stairwell suggested that two people had ascended while dragging a long and rather unwieldy object between them. Neither individual, however, had retraced their way back down the stairs. Also the lift was locked, as it is every evening, so no one could have used it to descend.” Steed's eyebrow rose sharply. Mrs. Peel continued. “We know what happened to the Promroy chap but what in the world became of his companion to say nothing of whatever it was they so laboriously dragged to the top of the tower?” “Perhaps it was climbing gear and the second person rappelled down the side?” “I don't think so.” Emma pursed her lips a moment. “Whatever it was took the two of them some considerable effort to carry, more effort than any rappelling gear would necessitate, and, besides, climbers usually go up the outside of buildings before they come down them.” “Yes,” agreed Steed. “And from what I saw of the late Mr. Promroy, he was hardly the mountaineering type. Considering what you said about the location of the body, perhaps it was a lengthy diving board?” Steed smiled up at her. Mrs. Peel looked wryly at him over the top of her glass. “Hardly the place for anyone to be ‘walking the plank’. But I must admit it has me puzzled.” “Ah!” Steed exclaimed. “Here it is! It’s most providential Aunt Effie’s husband was an ardent student of military history” He pulled a thick, hardbound book from one of the lower shelves and, seating himself on the couch, began thumbing quickly through the pages. He paused every now and then to compare a color plate with the lead soldier Mrs. Peel had discovered. After several moments, he gave another “ah” of success and handed the book to Emma. A color picture of a man in a military uniform - a rather gaudy uniform, she thought - met her gaze. A caption beneath the plate read “Sergeant of the Old Guard - circa 1812.” “Your toy soldier,” Steed said, tossing her the small figure as he rose from the couch. A glance sufficed to show that the uniform did, indeed, match. She looked up to see Steed pull another thick volume from an upper shelf. He anticipated her question as he so often, and irritatingly, did. “Chandler's Campaignes of Napoleon - absolutely the book on Napoleonic strategy and tactics. I thought I might brush up on a few items before investigating 'W.A.R' further. Might I borrow your toy soldier in the morning? There can't be very many places that sell them.” ”Nor many people who buy them either,” Mrs. Peel smiled. ”Just like very few people wear SS uniforms . . . or see dragons flying over university chapels.“ It was Steed's turn to smile a knowing smile. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Steed searched through one of the older but not quite seedy sides of town for several hours before he managed to run down the exact location of the store that he was trying to find. Two blocks off the quaint Main Street of the nearby University village of Chapel Hill, he found it nestled snugly down an alleyway. A large sign rather ornately done in Olde English script announced the entrance to “The Armoury”. Opening the door, Steed found himself in a smallish foyer with stairs curving away to his right. He could hear voices faintly ascending the steps. Holding his brolly and bowler in one hand, he carefully made his way down the stairs to the loud accompaniment of squeaking steps. ”Take that, you bloody Hun!“ ”Up yours, Limey! Der Fueher's invincible armies are about to descend upon your pitiful armor and ragtag troops like a whirlwind and sweep the whole lot of you back into the Channel!“ ”Any swimming we do will be while crossing the waters of the Rhine, you swastika swinging swinehund!“ ”There aren't enough sixes on the die for that, even with your blasted British luck!” Steed heard a vicious rattle of dice followed by the tumbling sound of their being cast. A brown die with white spots popped through the doorway and rolled to a stop at his feet. He heard a rather sharp chorus of “damn's” erupt from the farther room. ”Where the hell did it go?” Someone shouted. ”Out here, I think”, another voice responded. This voice appeared to be attached to the body of a young fellow who scurried on his hands and knees through the doorway and up to the die at Steed's feet. ”Here it is!” he shouted over his shoulder, absolutely ignoring Steed's presence as he did. Another young man crawled into the hallway and inquired of the first. “Well? What is it?” ”A six!” the first chap shouted. ”A beautiful bloody six!” The second fellow groaned and began earnestly cursing his luck, or rather his lack of it. “How could you possibly roll a ten! I'll have to withdraw the Seventh Panzer three hexes towards Paris. Damn, damn and damn again!” Gathering up the errant die, they rose to their feet as one and disappeared back into the room without so much as a single glance in Steed's direction. Feeling somewhat chagrined, though he wasn't sure why, Steed followed them. The room was quite large, surprisingly so considering the building's diminutive exterior. A massive table stood on one side while the rest of the space seemed quite taken up by row after row and shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked games. The many colorful boxes were arranged by maker and category of game. Steed had not imagined that so many games existed on the theme of World War II to say nothing of the multitude of ones dedicated to the Napoleonic and American Civil War eras. The two young men he'd first seen sat at opposing sides of the table, a huge map made up of several game boards spread between them. A sheet of glass or clear Plexiglas covered the boards and literally hundreds of cardboard counters were scattered across the surface, singly and in small stacks. The players, even as Steed watched, were using oversized tweezers to manipulate various piles of counters deftly across the boards. The map appeared to be of Western Europe with a hexagonal grid superimposed upon its surface. France, Steed thought, Normandy to be precise . . . D-Day of course! The invasion was in its early days and Steed could see the way the battle had ebbed and flowed around the bulge of the Allies' push onto the Continent. Remarkable, he thought. The game looked quite as complicated as the real thing must have been. The two young fellows (college aged without question) continued to ignore Steed as if he lacked any material existence whatsoever. He was about to busy himself by looking more closely over the shelves of games when a sultry voice asked, “May I be of assistance?” Steed turned to see an absolutely exquisite blond girl sitting almost hidden behind what he took to be a counter. This assumption was based almost entirely upon the presence of an ancient cash register precariously perched upon a jumbled stack of boxes and wooden crates. He heard a snipping sound and, as he approached the girl, he saw that she was clipping small squares of cardboard with a pair of nail clippers. She apparently saw the questioning look upon his face, for as he approached her, she looked up and said, “Corners”. “Corners?” Steed echoed, not at all enlightened. “Corners”, she replied firmly. “The counters never come off the sheets with perfectly square corners and, anyway, they always seem too big for the hexes until you clip them. Besides, it gives the pieces a much more professional look. See for yourself.” She gestured towards two piles of cardboard counters that lay on a bare space in the midst of the clutter of odds and ends upon the countertop. One pile was of uncut counters. Odd edges and ragged bits of cardboard immediately caught Steed's eye. The other pile was almost elegant by comparison. Each counter looked clean, crisp, and most professional. Steed was duly impressed. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Must be rather a tedious job however.” She shrugged her shoulders. What Steed could make out of them beneath the voluminous sweatshirt she was wearing seemed quite fetching. The leather pants that tightly accentuated the swell of her hips made a most interesting contrast to the coarse looseness of the sweatshirt. “It passes the time between games. Besides, these counters for 'La Bataille de la Moskowa' are some of the most beautiful ever made. Not only are the colors exquisite, but they're historically accurate for each regiment as well. Adds a very nice touch, don't you think?” Steed readily agreed. “Now,” she continued, looking at Steed with a critical eye, “you strike me as the sort of man who would wish to explore the many ramifications of the Old World classics. Hastings, Agincourt, the Armada, the Hundred Years War, the Old Guard, the Thin Red Line, Wellington and Bonaparte that sort of thing.” Steed smiled. “Indeed so! 'Half a league, half a league, half a league onward' as Lord Tennyson was wont to say.” “Perhaps,” she replied, “but for some reason I somehow can't imagine you condoning such a foolhardy charge.” “Never!” Steed concurred heartily. “I have always been a firm believer in one of your General Patton's sayings that a soldier's duty was not to die for his country, but to let the enemy die for his.” “You didn't quote him exactly,” she said with a knowing smile. “But I appreciate your tact none the less.” “Well,” Steed admitted, “his language was a trifle more, shall we say 'expressive' but I believe that was the gist of what he was saying”. She smiled again, and then asked how she might be of assistance. Steed had immediate visions of a candlelight dinner to start the evening off properly, however he reminded himself that he was there on business and managed to restrain his initial, natural impulse. “Do you carry miniatures?” “Napoleonic, right?” “Of course!” He made it sound as if there were no other kinds manufactured. She offered Steed her hand. “By the way, my name is Katrina, Katrina Gael.” Steed raised one eyebrow briefly, then took her hand, bowed slightly at the waist and gave his name. “To be quite honest, I was interested primarily in this type of miniature.” So saying, Steed removed the lead soldier from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over to her. “A friend of mine stumbled across this and I wish to purchase a complete set.” Miss Gael examined the soldier with a knowledgeable eye. Her forehead wrinkled with thought and she turned the figure over to examine the base. Her face suddenly lit with a smile of recognition. A delightful smile Steed duly noted. “One of Eason's models. See the 'E' engraved on the base?” She held the figure up and Steed could, indeed, discern an elegant capital “E” etched with a flourish on the flat bottom of the stand. “I should have recognized it by the paint job. He always does such immaculate work; exquisite detail right down to the buttons.” She handed him back the toy soldier. “Eason?” Steed questioned. “Frank Eason”, she replied. “One of the best modeling masters about. His work is very much in demand.” She paused and her brow furrowed. “Funny you should have that particular soldier”. “Why is that?” Steed asked. “Well, Frank only cast a couple of these sets as I recall. And it just so happens that a Sergeant of the Old Guard would have been one of those participating in the battle of Borodino in 1812, which also happens to be the engagement that 'La Bataille de la Moskowa' depicts.” She made a gesture towards the pile of counters she had been working on. “A most curious coincidence. Do you happen to have Mr. Eason's address by any chance?” “Certainly,” she replied. She turned and made her way to an old filing cabinet in a dusty corner. Once there, she pulled open one creaky drawer and began rummaging among a clutter of papers that appeared to Steed to have been inserted with absolutely no rhyme or reason. “You wouldn't happen to know if a Mr. Promroy might have purchased a similar set from Mr. Eason?” “Promroy?” she questioned, looking over her shoulder. “The same Promroy who uh....” She made a diving gesture with one hand. Steed nodded. “No way.” She said with a shake of her head. “Old Promroy was a World War II and Civil War buff. A real expert at 'Squad Leader' and 'Terrible Swift Sword' but he was strictly a board gamer. Cared nothing at all about miniatures. Unless you'd consider hang gliders and the like as miniatures of sorts.” “Hang gliders?” “Yeah. He mentioned something about Kitty Hawk Kites the last time he was in here. Asked its address if I remember correctly. I think I still have it here somewhere.” She began looking through several more piles of paper. “Ah, here it is.” She scribbled an address and phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Steed. “You'll probably be better off calling him first. If you want to meet him, your best chance will most likely be this weekend. He's playing in a Survival Game Saturday. Don't be surprised if he recruits you to play on his team.” Steed vaguely recalled reading an article in a magazine about groups of adults playing a game similar to “Capture the Flag” where they rambled about wood and field shooting away at one another with some sort of paint pellet gun. A rather curious way to spend a Saturday, he thought. Still, his interest was aroused. “Thank you for your information, Miss Gael. You've been of great assistance.” “Don't mention it. Just be sure to visit our booth at the new Origins convention. We'll be giving some good discounts you may find of interest.” Another chorus of “damns” suddenly rang out through the room. Almost simultaneously a brown die with white spots bounced over the toe of Steed's boot and rolled under the filing cabinet. Miss Gael shook her head, shrugged, and strolled back to her pile of unfinished counters. The two young men were shouting for a flashlight as they knelt together and peered under the dark recesses of the cabinet. Steed gave his brolly a twirl and tried not to wince as each step of the stairs brought forth a new, and ear aching accompaniment of squeals. At the exit he paused a moment beneath the store's sign, placed the slip of paper with Eason's address and number within his bowler, and popped the bowler niftily upon his head. A brief glance at his reflection in the door's window to check the angle of his bowler, and off he marched into the early afternoon. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The hospital had the usual assortment of unusual odors. Mrs. Peel unconsciously wrinkled her nose as she searched the corridors for an orange stripe that was the color code for the hall upon which the patient she was seeking was quartered. As she moved out of the way of a laundry gurney being shuffled along by a sullen orderly, she spied the orange marking. The nurse's station attendant had informed her that Mr. Harrison was in room 221B. The television set was blaring out a soap opera and Eddie was staring blankly at the screen when she entered his room. “Harrison?,” she asked. “Eddie Harrison?” Eddie looked glumly at her, and then blew his hose rather loudly. “Yeah,” he said. “Whad-a-ya-wand? Nod anudder shod?” Mrs. Peel shook her head and held empty hands up for his inspection. “Not a needle to be found upon my person.” she said. “Ya fum da nuspapah?” Another negative shake. “No, not at all. I merely wish to ask you a few questions about Mr. Promroy's death.” Eddie interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, I bed . . . wha-ya weally wand ta know aboud is da dwagon, ain' id?” “Of course. I'm curious about all you might have seen that evening.” “Id waz dere awwight. Kwist amidy waz id big! Jus' kinda fwoated dere a momend den fwapped ids wings an' foo way high ober da dweez.” Mrs. Peel had a sudden thought. “Are you sure it really flapped its wings?” “Wha-ya-mean?” Mrs. Peel took one of the bed sheets that was neatly folded at the foot of Eddie's bed. “Are you sure it didn't make a sound like this and just soar away?” She snapped the sheet so that it made a noise like a canvas sail in the wind. Eddie turned his head to one side and his brow wrinkled with thought. “Yeah,” he said, “Id cwackeld like dat . . . jus' like dat....” Mrs. Peel nodded as she absently refolded the sheet and placed it on the foot of the bed. Some details about this little adventure were beginning to take definite form in her quick mind. Form that would, she thought to herself, make a great deal of sense out of what, on the surface, seemed senseless, if her surmising was correct. “In which direction did it fly?” “Huh?” Eddie was still lost in thought. “In which direction did it actually go?” “Oh, behin' me . . . behin' me . . . I hadda tun awoun....” Eddie sniffled then blew his nose loudly. He grinned a moment then said in a conspiratorially loud whisper , “Too much cocaine . . . too many lines....” Mrs. Peel was persistent. “Behind you towards the gardens? Is that where the dragon flew?” “Nebah mix coke an' acid,” Eddie mumbled on. “Yeah, id foo down to da gadanz . . . way ober da tweez and down ta da gadanz....” He looked suddenly more closely at Emma and, with a wave of his hand, gestured that she should come closer. Mrs. Peel bent nearer, pushing her hair away from her left ear as she did so and taking care not to get too close. Eddie whispered, “Ya don' habben ta hab a candy bah on ya, do ya? Da food in heah is haweebull!” He grimaced to emphasize how bad. Mrs. Peel pursed her lips then smiled wryly with a negative shake of her head. “Fraid not this trip. I'll slip you one in next time.” Eddie gave a heart-felt sigh. A commercial ended on the television and a deep-throated announcer began the intro to the next soap opera. Eddie suddenly sat up. “Hey,” he said, “My favowite soap! Wanna watch?” He patted the bedside and smiled an invitation Emma's way. Mrs. Peel gave him a “tisk-tisk you poor boy” look, politely declined and left him staring blankly at the flickering tube. Another loud sneeze followed her out into the hallway. She quickly found her way back out the hospital proper and walked briskly down to the gardens. The area was beautifully laid out with numerous glades hidden among evergreen and hardwood trees that grew in abundance. The hardwoods were ablaze with fall colors while late blooming flowers edged the slate and gravel paths that wound about softly sloping hills. Through the trees Mrs. Peel could dimly hear the sound of voices and music – flutes, recorders and lutes, to judge from the sound. She had reached a large goldfish pond when two people appeared on the path to her right and approached her. The young man was wearing chain mail armor and had a tremendous longsword fastened at his waist. The girl was all a swirl in a voluminous dress of medieval cut. They halted before her astonished form and the knight stooped low in an ornate bow while the girl curtsied. “Fail us not, fair lady.” the maiden spoke. “We beseech thee to accept an invitation to attend a banquet in the honor of Lord and Lady Greystone.” The knight continued, handing Mrs. Peel and ornately printed flyer as he did so “. . . and to participate with fellow stout-hearted adventurers in the exploration of newly found dungeons rumored to lie beneath our very feet.” Mrs. Peel looked at the flyer. “Greetings and salutations to fellow D&D enthusiasts!” it read. “In honor of the impending Origins XX convention to be held on the grounds of Duke University October the Twenty ninth, Thirtieth, and Thirty first, there will be held a grand costume ball in Cameron Indoor Stadium on the night of the Thirty first (All Hallows Eve) followed by an excursion by the most hearty (and best costumed) adventurers into a newly discovered dungeon. Become your favorite D&D character for the night. Prizes will be awarded to the party that most successfully and imaginatively explores the mysteries of the dark maze.” Mrs. Peel smiled warmly. “Enchanting!” she said cheerily. “I think I know just the gentleman to escort me to this affair!” “Great!” the knight dropped his phony British accent. “It really should be a good time for everyone. We've tried hard to make this something to remember.” “Are you a member of the 'Society'?” the maiden asked Emma. Seeing the confusion on her face, the knight elaborated. ”The Society for Creative Anachronism - we're a group of Medieval Reconstructionists, if you will.” The maiden interrupted again. “We dress, eat, and try (at least during our meetings) to live as if we were in the Middle Ages. We even have alternate personas that we develop over the course of years. I am Lady Gwendolyn for instance, and this is Sir Percival.” “Delighted to make your acquaintance!” Mrs. Peel smiled warmly at the couple. “Would you care to meet the rest of our group?” “Certainly!” They led Mrs. Peel around a curve in the path into another time. The entire open area before her was covered with tents and displays. People were milling around, some in modern dress but the majority sporting medieval costumes of every sort. Mrs. Peel was thoroughly charmed. She spent an hour wandering about the pavilions, observing everything from horseshoeing to needlepoint. The members of the Society were enthusiastic to the point that she almost forgot her afternoon appointment and it was with genuine regret that she finally made her farewells to the lady and the knight. Steed, she thought as she made her way out of the gardens towards the parking lot, would have to see this! She had even discovered a suit of armour that looked to be just his size and that would go quite well with his grey eyes. Her own eyes sparkled with humor at the thought of Steed clanking about in full armour. She’d be willing to bet that his first impulse would be to go for the nearest can of oil and metal polish! Doubtless the always-immaculate John Steed would never stand for squeaking armour or anything but the highest gloss on the smallest bit of metal! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It was about a forty-minute drive from Chapel Hill to another small town, Apex by name where “Kitty Hawk Kites” was located. Steed maneuvered his MG-TC carefully down a narrow, dirt road that reminded him so of England that he nearly drove down it on the wrong side. Curious American custom, he thought, driving on the right. No matter how often he and Mrs. Peel might travel to the States, he thought he would never truly feel at ease driving on the wrong side of the streets. The road made a sharp turn to the left and suddenly emptied into a large gravel parking lot in which several vehicles had been parked in a haphazard fashion. He thought he saw a small powder blue car on the far side partially hidden by a large van but before he could investigate further an ultra light aircraft buzzed over the parking lot at what he thought was a dangerously low altitude. The ultra light seemed to spin on one wingtip then roared off just clearing the tall pine trees that bordered the small, grass landing field. Steed parked his MG, hopped over the door, retrieved his brolly from the right hand seat, and proceeded towards a small, screen porched house in front of which a large sign proclaimed “Kitty Hawk Kites.” Before he could reach the house, a voice called out to him from behind one of the many ultra light aircraft parked to his left. “No one's in there right now. Could I help you?” Steed walked around a dark blue aircraft to find a large bellied man lying beneath the plane working on its engine. Steed stopped and tipped his bowler in the fellow's direction. “I sincerely hope so. I'd like some information about your aircraft.” The big-bellied fellow crawled out from beneath the ultra light and got heavily to his feet. He carefully wiped the grease off his right hand and extended it to Steed. “Bob Lurch,” he said. “Owner, operator, chief mechanic, cook and bottle washer of 'Kitty Hawk Kites.’ If it has to do with ultra lights or gliders, I know it. How can I help you?” Before Steed could reply the ultra light that had first buzzed the parking lot streaked by barely overhead, did another wing over one eighty turn above the landing field, then roared up into the air executing a beautiful Immelmann before dashing out of sight. “Best damned natural flyer I ever saw!” said Lurch. “She's only had that ultra light less than a month and she can already fly circles around me!” Steed squinted in the general direction the aircraft had disappeared. “Aren't such stunts a bit dangerous in these small craft?” “Only if you don't know what you're doing. These babies have come a long way from the early days. You can safely do all kinds of maneuvers with them now without having them fold up on you. Of course it takes a special talent to handle one of 'em like she does.” He tipped his head with obvious pride in the direction of the whirling ultra light craft. Steed could only nod in agreement. “Now, my friend, what can I do for you?” Lurch continued. “Do you custom design and build aircraft?” “Oh yeah, all the time. What do you have in mind: a boosted engine, a modified airframe, dual cockpit, or something really fancy?” “Shall we say an 'unusual' airframe?” “You have any particular design in mind? A bi wing or forward canard perhaps?” “Not exactly . . .” Steed hesitated a moment. “ I want something very quiet that looks like, uh . . . a dragon.” By reflex action Steed was ducking almost before he knew why. The crazy ultra light, somehow coming from nowhere, roared by just overhead seeming to twirl in midair once more before flattening out over the small runway to land ever so gracefully. Steed carefully rose from his stooped position still holding his bowler on his head with one hand while he squinted a “not again” grimace in the direction of the ultra light. The aircraft was taxiing towards him. He made up his mind to have a word with the pilot. “You another nut from WAR?” Lurch roared. “I told you guys the hang glider might have some handling problems with all that extra crap on it! I mean, I did the best I could to make it look like a dragon without completely killing its glide ratio but there was only so much I could do. Don't tell me that idiot put the flame-thrower in its mouth! He'll burn himself and the other guy all to hell if he tries to pull that stunt off....” A couple of pieces of the puzzle fell firmly into place in Steed's mind. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The mad ultra light pilot had stopped her craft, unbuckled her safety belt, climbed out of the low slung seat, chocked the wheels with yellow blocks of wood connected by a short length of heavy rope, and was now heading in Steed's direction. There was something about her, Steed realized, that seemed rather familiar. She undid the straps and pulled the helmet off, shaking her long auburn hair with a feline toss of her head. “Mrs. Peel,” Steed said tipping his bowler in her direction. “The dragon was a....” She interrupted him gleefully. “Hang glider!” she all but shouted. “The object of the game is quite simple: get the other team's flag back to your flag station without getting shot in the process. Failing that, the team with the most members left 'alive' at the end of an hour will be declared the winner.” Mrs. Peel was carefully applying camouflage make up to Steed's wincing face; first black, then brown and lastly green. Steed was feeling somewhat less foolish since joining up with the other members of this outing. Everyone was wearing camouflage outfits, hats, and even some scarves. He looked at Mrs. Peel and wondered for the tenth time how in the world she managed to look ravishing in such a ridiculous outfit. She smeared some green make up on his nose and smiled wickedly at him. Steed decided she was having far too much fun already. She had been looking forward to this ever since he had told her of Mr. Eason's insistent invitation. The game's sponsor finished with the few rules of the game - head shots did not count, goggles were mandatory, no going outside the brightly marked boundaries of the playing field, please don’t shoot the field judges (they were all wearing bright orange vests) and a malfunctioning gun was just tough luck. Steed hefted the Nell Spot paint pellet gun, felt its balance (a smidgen front heavy, he thought) and smiled at the “007” printed on its barrel. With Emma leading the way, they wandered over to the practice range. A number of wooden cutouts had been set up some thirty feet away. Painted in black on their yellow splotched surfaces were several life size human figures - one standing, one kneeling, and one prone. After adjusting her goggles, Mrs. Peel took aim and promptly shot the standing target squarely in the chest. She turned and smiled at Steed. He carefully sighted down his Nell Spot's barrel and squeezed the trigger gently. A spot of paint blossomed on the kneeling figure's left shoulder. “Drifts a bit to the right,” he noted as Mrs. Peel and he traded glances. “Quite excellent shooting!” They turned to see a tall, gangly man approaching. To either side walked a couple of gentleman Steed had recognized with some surprise earlier. The tall chap introduced himself. “Eason, Frank Eason.” he said, taking Steed's hand and bowing to Mrs. Peel. As he turned to introduce the other two men Steed interrupted him. “I've already had the pleasure. Mrs. Peel, may I introduce Captain Conklin and Mr. Porter? I'm delighted to see you gentlemen under more pleasant circumstances.” They shook hands all around, the men eyeing Mrs. Peel appreciatively. “We don't get many women at these games. It's a delight to have you here.” Mr. Eason smiled a warm welcome to Emma. “Steed tells me that you're quite an accomplished artist with miniatures.” “Well, thank you very much. We try to do our best. It's really a labor of love. Quite beautiful to see the divisions grow individual by individual. Almost like having a real army assemble before you.” “I imagine it must be quite difficult to part with them.” “At times,” Eason said. “I do grow quite fond of some sets.” “Which reminds me,” Steed said in an off-hand manner. “I wanted to ask you about a particular set....” Before Steed could finish his question a whistle blew signaling the two teams to assemble. “I see y’all are 'reds',” Mr. Porter observed as he and Conklin were pulling on camouflage gloves. “I gotta warn ya that we 'yellows' take no prisoners, so be on ya guard.” Frank Eason smiled and replied, “You boys from 'WAR' had better watch your own hides. My team is going to wipe you out to the last man.” After both teams received their last minute instructions, the two field judges led them off to their respective flag stations. Both teams shouted friendly taunts at each other as they separated. Steed automatically noted the lay of the land as they pushed through the woods. The ground sloped off to his left to a deep, dry ditch. The undergrowth was heavy in spots all the way to their flag station. Their red flag, three big kerchiefs tied together, hung limply in the middle. Everyone checked their red armbands once more and began discussing what type of tactics they might employ. Some favored an all-out attack while others preferred a defensive position. Frank Eason was their leader by virtue of having gathered the team members together so, at his suggestion, the team decided to leave eight players back on defense while four of them went for the yellow team's flag. Steed and Mrs. Peel volunteered to go out on their right flank. Mr. Eason and another red teammate were to take the left flank. “One minute!” shouted one of the judges. Mrs. Peel grinned and pushed the safety off her Nell Spot. “If you see any yellows, hit the dirt and try to let them pass. And don't shoot unless they're coming right at us. Even then wait. . . .” “. . . until you can see the whites of their eyes?” Steed chuckled as he interrupted Emma. “Quite!” she replied with a twinkle in her own eyes. They smiled warmly in unison. “Stick close to each other!” one of their teammates admonished. The single look which Steed and Mrs. Peel gave one another was fraught with latent, unspoken possibilities. The whistles of the field judges blew and they were off, racing madly for the right boundary, dodging tree branches and undergrowth. Steed found himself hard pressed to keep pace with Mrs. Peel and he was more glad than he cared to admit when they finally reached the wire fence that marked the right boundary of the field. They paused to catch their breaths (Steed happily noted that Mrs. Peel was panting just as hard as he) and survey the situation. The woods were still except for an occasional wind that rustled the colorful fall leaves, pulling many from their branches to waft slowly to the ground. After a few moments’ rest they began moving quietly from cover to cover, scanning continually the area to their front and left. They had covered perhaps sixty yards when they saw the first yellow. Steed found himself some ten yards to Mrs. Peel's left behind a clump of small trees. Mrs. Peel had dropped prone behind a fallen log. They froze and watched silently as one, then two, then three yellow arm banded figures approached. The underbrush and leaves crackled in spite of their foe’s stealthy movement. Emma and Steed could feel the adrenaline flow. They were both surprised at the degree of excitement they felt. The three yellows continued straight at them, moving cautiously as they advanced. The one in the lead had gotten to within ten feet of Mrs. Peel when she finally shot him. He looked down rather comically at the bright yellow splotch of paint that had suddenly blossomed on his chest, then began shouting, “Out! I'm out!” at the top of his lungs. Mrs. Peel rolled to one side and was reloading her Nell Spot while the other two yellows, sensing an easy kill, charged in her direction. Neither had seen Steed when he calmly potted the one closest to himself in the right shoulder. The remaining yellow hit the dirt and frantically looked about trying to determine where this second shot had come from, incidentally losing track of Emma's position as he did so. “Over here!” Mrs. Peel called. “No,” replied Steed, “Here!” The yellow player twisted first left, then right, undecided as to which way to shoot first. He could only curse as two paint pellets simultaneously hit him from opposite sides. The yellow squad ruefully undid their bandannas and walked off towards the neutral zone waving their arms over their heads and chorusing shouts of “Out! Out!” “First-rate shooting, Mrs. Peel,” Steed whispered loudly. “Thank you, Steed,” she replied, “you did rather well yourself.” They waited a moment to see if the shooting would bring out any more yellows, then, when none appeared, they resumed their cautious advance. Some fifty yards further along they found a dry creek bed, perhaps six feet deep, cutting across their path. The thought “ambush” popped into both of their heads at the same time. Steed slipped further to the left and Mrs. Peel watched carefully to see if any movement occurred in the ditch or on its opposite side. Steed crawled to within twenty feet of the gully then, behind the comforting cover of a large oak, got to his feet. He peered cautiously around the trunk but, even with the added height, he could see no one. It was amazing how well the camouflage worked provided the wearer kept still. Steed glanced at Mrs. Peel, caught her eye, and indicated that he was going to make a dash for it. She nodded and readied her gun to cover him. Steed took several deep breaths then broke for the ditch, weaving as he ran. There was a flash of movement to his right and he suddenly saw a figure rise and aim in his direction. As his opponent shot, Steed threw himself to the ground and rolled, stirring up a considerable cloud of leaves as he did so, into the gully. He heard the paint pellet splat as it hit the dirt behind him. Rolling to his knees, Steed saw that the fellow who had tried to ambush him was frantically trying to reload his Nell Spot. “Sorry, old man,” said Steed most genially as he shot him in the stomach. Steed was leisurely reloading his weapon when he heard the pop of another Nell Spot and a paint pellet whizzed by just over his head. He turned to see a yellow he had not noticed take a hit in one shoulder just before he could shoot Steed. Again, the yellows began to ruefully undo their armbands and shout a chorus of “outs”. Emma was standing on the bank above Steed, holding her Nell Spot pointed rather carelessly up, and looking quite content. “I believe that makes us all level,” she said. Rather too cheerily, Steed thought. Next time he'd let her do the flushing out. “Shall we continue?” He offered her his hand and helped her down the steep side of the ditch. She brushed some leaves off his shoulders, straightened his collar, and grinned enchantingly up at him. Steed assumed a military air and, after clearing his throat, said, “Follow me....” in a mock serious tone. “Aye, Sir!” Mrs. Peel saluted him as he turned, then clambered out of the creek bed behind his tall form. They had advanced perhaps ten more yards when a flurry of shots rang out to their left and rear. “Sounds like our comrades in arms are giving the foe a spirited welcome.” Steed gestured over his shoulder. Emma nodded in agreement. Again, they split apart, Steed moving to the left while Mrs. Peel hugged the right boundary. They moved up a gentle hill and cautiously into an area of heavy undergrowth. Several minutes passed during which they heard the ragged popping sound of Nell Spots being fired intermingled with various shouts from the direction of their home station. Steed saw a bit of yellow to his left and immediately froze. He waited a moment then shifted his position slightly more to the left. From this new angle, he realized that he was seeing the yellow flag hanging within the boundaries of its station. He gestured to Mrs. Peel and with hand signals suggested that she move farther right so they might approach the station from different angles. They took perhaps five minutes to make sure no yellows were lying in ambush around their home base. Mrs. Peel then dashed into the station and grabbed the yellow bandannas. She slipped the flags over her head and around her neck so that they hung loosely before her. Another quick sprint and she squatted beside Steed. “So far, so good,” she whispered. Steed smiled. “Now to get back without being shot.” They decided to continue across the playing field in hopes of linking up with Frank Eason and their other teammate. That way there could be as many as three reds to cover Mrs. Peel in case they ran into any renegade yellows. Steed led the way down the hill with Mrs. Peel some ten yards to his rear. They had just reached an embankment of the dry creek bed when they heard someone plowing noisily through the undergrowth on the far side. They immediately took cover behind a couple of stout hardwoods and waited with Nell Spots at the ready. A tall form staggered out of the thick underbrush and stood for a moment swaying on the edge of the creek bed. There was a bright splotch of red paint on the front of his camouflage shirt. Frank Eason was trying to remove his armband. “Out!” he shouted. Then, with an odd slur to his voice, he repeated, “I'm out . . . .” He tried to smile but his face had a curious look to it. He sank to his knees, limply pulled the armband off, waved it once, and, ever so slowly, toppled over into the dry creek bed. His body twitched a few times then lay ominously still. Steed and Mrs. Peel exchanged glances. They rose as one and slid down the embankment to Eason's side. Steed felt for the pulse that he knew wouldn’t be there. He was reaching to undo Eason's shirt when Mrs. Peel seized his hand. Her nose was wrinkled and he suddenly caught a whiff of a quite noxious odor coming from the red blotch on Eason’s shirt. “Don't,” she said pointedly. “Poison in the paint . . . mixed with dimethyl sulfoxide.” Steed nodded knowingly. It was the smell of the dimethyl sulfoxide, or DMSO as it was often referred to, that Mrs. Peel’s keen nose had detected just a moment before he had caught a whiff of its most unpleasant scent. DMSO would enter the body almost immediately through the skin, carrying the poison mixed with it straight to the bloodstream. Eason's death would likely appear to be a heart attack. “Mrs. Peel,” he said grimly, “of course you know, this means WAR!” She nodded back, equally grim. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The facility that housed WAR, Steed had to admit, was imposing. A longish ribbon of dark asphalt fed off Alexander Drive and wound gently through young pine groves and spotlessly manicured lawns before spilling into a very generous parking area. The building itself was ultra-modern in design with vast expanses of reflective glass, blinding white concrete, and oddly positioned, exposed, steel I-beams that seemed to poke randomly through the structure proper like some gigantic “pick up sticks” that had been dropped hap-hazardly. The front doors slid silently open at his approach, and, with a jaunty swing of his brolly, Steed strode into the entry foyer. Slightly to his right was a receptionist desk made of vertically inlaid pine paneling that flared out below a dark-green, marble top. The receptionist was a young blonde woman who greeted him with a cheerful, “Welcome to WAR…. How may I assist you?” Steed rocked back on his heels while he surveyed the wide expanses of steel and concrete that soared over his head. His tasted in architecture always leaned towards the conservative and he found modern structures to be lacking in a very human ambience that subconsciously permeated older buildings. Even the inlaid pine paneling seemed machine fabricated without real character such as one would find with wood planed by human hands, the small imperfections that somehow made the finished product more warm and more real. “Good afternoon,” he responded with his most supine and provincial smile. “I’m here to see Mr. Porter.” “And your name, sir?” “Steed,” he said with an inward grin and grimace, “John Steed”. He was reminded of James Bond’s famous one liner and must, coupled with his British accent, have impressed the young lady, at least sub-consciously. She almost leaped from her chair and scurried around the desk for all the world like a bloodhound that had just been put on the scent. “Oh, Mr. Steed, we’re so delighted to have you visit!” She was positively bubbling with excitement. “Mr. Porter left strict orders to show you in at once!” Steed raised an eyebrow. More tendrils of suspicion began to float up in the back of his mind like the first hints of smoke from a smoldering fire that was on the verge of flaring into full flame. It was only a couple of days after Frank Eason’s unfortunate demise. His death had been written off as a heart attack by the local coroner. Steed and Mrs. Peel’s suspicions otherwise were known only to the two of them. Conklin and Porter had acted the roles of shocked and saddened bystanders to the hilt. They had not been in Mr. Eason’s vicinity when he was shot. Eason, they claimed had sprinted ahead of them once he had caught sight of them when they had potted his partner and they were trying to catch up to shoot him when they came across Steed and Mrs. Peel kneeling over the body. They had heard rumors that he had a mild heart problem, but had they known that it could have been so serious, they would not have pursued him with such vigor. Steed and Mrs. Peel had both immediately noticed that the two men were wearing gloves – waterproof camouflage gloves. Now, two days later a bubbly receptionist was taking Steed by the arm and escorting him to Mr. Porter’s offices, rushing as though he were the Prime Minister himself come to visit. Steed allowed himself to be steered through a large oak door with “K. Porter” spelled out in three-inch brass lettering. Without so much as a knock he was ushered into Mr. Porter’s presence. “Ah, Mr. Steed”, Porter eased his way around the large mahogany desk he had been sitting behind and offered a hand to Steed. His grip was firm but Steed detected a slight dampness to the palm. “I’m dreadfully sorry about the unfortunate incident with Mr. Eason. Terrible things, heart attacks. Here one minute then, “he paused to snap his fingers, “gone the next. Glad to see that it didn’t put you off from coming to visit us.” Steed pursed his lips as though in sympathy. “As my Aunt Maude used to say, no one knows their hour or day.” He looked blandly at Mr. Porter and wondered if he had caught onto the double-edged meaning of the statement. Steed had never taken murder lightly and Eason’s death had weighed on him. He felt somehow that the late model creator’s death was due in part to his investigations. The owner of the lead soldier that Mrs. Peel had discovered did not wish to be found out. And Steed was ready to bet his best bowler that the key lay here in the ultramodern bowels of WAR. Porter, however, went merrily on with his conversation ignoring the underlying sharpness in Steed’s voice. He nodded in agreement then waved an expansive hand that encompassed the entire length and breadth of the huge facility. “Anyhow, welcome to WAR. Please allow me to give you the nickel tour of our place.” He opened the door to his office and led Steed back out to the entry foyer. Stopping before a set of chrome doors to the lift, he pressed the shiny recall button. In moments the lift appeared, its interior all bright chrome and dark, inlaid wood. With silent efficiency they were deposited upon the second floor. Due to the building’s unusual design there was a combination of normal hallways and what appeared to be catwalks heading off in every direction. Steed felt like he was on one corner of a vast spider’s web. Mr. Porter headed down one of the catwalks. “These are the mini-computers that we have linked into the Internet.” A very large room lay below them as they stood at the railing that crossed over some twenty feet above the floor proper. The room was filled with large, pale grey cabinets that contained the inner workings of the myriad of computers and routers that connected WAR directly to the World Wide Web. A number, perhaps six or seven, monitors with attached keyboards were manned by young men ranging in ages, Steed would have guessed, between the upper teens and middle twenties. Most wore thick lensed glasses and all seemed quite proficient and at ease as they monitored the innumerable activities transpiring each second. “This is where all the truly avid war gamers in the world interact. At any given time there are at least several hundred games being played either in real time or on a turn movement basis.” Porter stood rubbing his hands together as he looked out over the electronic empire of WAR. Steed was reminded somehow of Ebenezer Scrooge before the ghostly visitations had made him into a new man. Steed’s brow rose. “What sort of simulations are they engaged in?” “Oh, any and every type of conflict man or woman can imagine. I believe, however, that probably seventy odd percent at any one time are engaged in ‘modern’ simulations. Civil uprisings in Europe, South American dictatorships and coup de tats, Middle East hostilities between Israeli and Arab forces, African civil wars, South East and South West Asian conflicts… and on and on. If the conflict or uprising or whatever can be imagined I can almost guarantee you that someone is playing a scenario based on it at this very moment.” “Fascinating,” Steed commented. “How detailed can these simulations become?” “Our accuracy is overwhelming. Nearly to the minute. We have gamers that can tell you the composition of the US Seventh Fleet down to its last refueling tanker and where any ship is currently located within one hundred miles of its actual position!” Porter was positively beaming with pride. Gears were turning inside Steed’s head as he listened to Porter’s gushing dialogue. His bland smile and wide-eyed innocent look never wavered, but behind his self-effacing façade, Steed’s mind was snapping up data and starting to lay the foundations to what he was beginning to suspect would be some rather startling conclusions. “So, if someone came to you with say, the Northern Ireland problem, you could create a game that would incorporate the IRA, the Unionists, and Great Britain’s government?” “Easily! We could have simulations for every conceivable development, including foreign intervention by the way, in a matter of weeks. An IRA bombing could be planned and carried out just like you might read in the paper tomorrow morning!” “Remarkable”, was all Steed could say, astounded that such a deadly reality could so easily be rendered into a game. Porter turned and continued through double doors to another section of the building. Several hallways converged at this point. Two quickly turned into catwalks similar to the one Steed and Porter had first walked over. Vast skylights overhead allowed the late October sun to pour through. Tiny dust motes floated in the beams of sunlight. The third hallway led off directly in front and was more conventional in style with doors lining both sides of the pine paneling at twenty-foot intervals. Porter pointed to the right. “On this side we have our Civil War dioramas, every battle from first Bull Run through Gettysburg, can be recreated for our miniature buffs. While on this side”, he gestured to the left, “we have our Napoleonic miniatures and their associated dioramas. We can recreate all the great classical battles of the Napoleonic Era right through Waterloo.” Steed took a step to his left and glanced down. Below was an enormous open room with a multitude of tables scattered over the floor. Each table was on rollers and would lock together with the other tables once moved into place. Their tops were covered with incredibly detailed terrain, from small mountains, to rolling fields criss crossed with streams, to wide rivers with broad bridges connecting weaving dirt roads. On a number of already connected tables were miniature soldiers, some in marching columns on the winding roads, others in colorful lines as tiny armies faced off against one another. The effect was rather like being in a balloon looking down on a real battlefield. Tiny cannon were grouped in batteries with the firing artillery marked with puffs of smoke made of cotton balls placed cleverly before their barrels. Even as Steed watched, groups of young men were measuring distances and carefully maneuvering the small but impressive armies in painstakingly real recreations of Napoleonic battles. Steed had studied military history throughout his life and was able to recognize the battles of Ligny, Quatrae Bras, and, of course, Waterloo as they were being played out on several of the dioramas. Steed waved his brolly in the direction of the battlefields. “Anyone recreating the battle of Borodino by any chance?” he questioned. “As a matter of fact, yes,” replied Mr. Porter. “Come, allow me to show you.” To Steed’s mild surprise Mr. Porter led him along the middle passageway with all the office doors instead of down stairs. They went to the last door on the right, which Mr. Porter opened with a grand flourish. “After you, sir.” Steed nodded, gave a small bow of acknowledgement, and entered the room. Inside the space was surprisingly large with dimensions of at least twenty by thirty feet. An immense table that was covered with another exquisitely crafted diorama took up most of the space. One glance sufficed to show Steed that the battle in progress was, indeed, that of Borodino. Beautifully painted lead soldiers, cavalry and horse drawn artillery ebbed and flowed across the fields and short hills in lines that delineated the current status of the battle. “Captain Conklin and I have been playing this one for some time now.” Steed wandered to one side of the table where it appeared the heaviest fighting was in progress. “Looks like the Russians are falling on hard times in this sector.” He smiled up at Porter. “Even with the Old Guard short one of its sergeants.” He pulled the lead soldier that Mrs. Peel had found in the cathedral out of his jacket pocket and placed it close to the edge where the French troops were mounting a ferocious charge on the heights currently held by the hard pressed Russians. “I’d wondered where he’d gotten off to…” Porter smiled back at Steed. “Can’t have proper order maintained in an assault without all of one’s Sergeants in attendance.” A semi-automatic pistol, a Walther PP something or another Steed would have been willing to bet, had appeared suddenly in Porter’s hand. Steed’s unsureness of the exact model of the pistol was due primarily to the fact that his only view of the weapon was directly down its barrel, which, he noted with some unease, was steadily pointed at the third button of his waist coat. It was always surprising to him how large the diameter of a gun barrel appeared when viewed from the business end of said weapon, no matter the actual caliber. Quite congenially Mr. Porter asked, “Mind telling me how you came by it?” “Of course not,” Steed replied in his most bland and offhand voice. “ A friend of mine literally ‘stumbled’ across it the other day.” “Let me guess,” said Porter as he pursed his lips slightly. “Could that friend have been a tall, absolutely stunning, auburn-hair creature by the name of Mrs. Emma Peel?” Steed’s smile broadened. His eyes drifted up and to his left like people’s eyes often do when recalling a particularly delightful memory. He seemed to forget that Porter was even present for a moment and lightly touched the bamboo cane handle of his brolly to his lower lip. “We thought so . . . what with her snooping around the Chapel and talking with that acid-head in the hospital. Then the two of you showing up at the survival game. Had to be. Promroy must have grabbed him on the way out of here and dropped him sometime while we were out at the Chapel. Bad luck for you and your Mrs. Peel, I’m afraid.” Steed shrugged, pulled unpleasantly back to the chilled present from his warm memories. Such situations were a hazard that one in his profession soon came to realize could happen all too readily. And invariably when least expected. He slowly dropped his brolly back down to his side to gently swing it and his bowler in one hand. Porter now waved the pistol at Steed’s head and asked the question Steed had heard so many times in the past. “How much to you know?” “Let’s see,” drawled Steed. “You mean other than the fact that your and your associates are behind the deaths of Mr. Promroy and Mr. Eason? That Mr. Promroy was cut loose from your ‘dragon’ hang glider on a test flight over Duke Chapel while Mr. Eason’s demise was caused by the rather droll use of a poisoned paint pellet utilizing DSMO to transfer the poison into Eason’s blood stream? And that both were disposed of after they had stumbled too close to the true reason for the creation and existence of WAR?” Porter’s head twisted to one side while he pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Excellent, Mr. Steed, as far as you go. However, you still have left a number of, shall we say, loose ends?” “Oh,” Steed said offhanded. “Such as the real reason for WAR?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Simplicity itself. You simulate any potential conflict in any corner of the world and provide your ‘contracting entities’ perfect blueprints for successful operations in that conflict. In short, you sell guaranteed winning tactics and strategies for any manner of conflict to the highest bidder. Your group has become behind the scene Warlords” Porter’s eyebrows rose in appreciation. “Really Mr. Steed, you’ve outdone yourself. We had thought it more likely that Mrs. Peel would be the one to figure out our little operation. It is remarkable that a woman so physically attractive could also have such sterling intellectual abilities.” “Don’t tell her I said so but she’s really quite brilliant.” Steed responded. “However even I can occasionally blunder into enlightenment.” “You’re being far too modest.” Porter smiled a smile that had no warmth in it whatsoever. “Few people realize that the most powerful military minds today are not a product of the Pentagon or the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. The really innovative thinkers are the young people that play these games! They’ve come up with tactics and strategies that make Napoleon and Wellington or Rommel and Montgomery for that matter look like bumbling village idiots playing in sand boxes.” “And you utilize their unwitting assistance to perpetuate the existence of military horrors throughout the world. That’s hardly playing the game, is it, old boy?” “We don’t care, Mr. Steed, so long as our clients pay. And they pay very well for our services, very well indeed. You’re quite right. We are the modern day Warlords.” Steed shook his head and gave voice to a couple of “tsk, tsks” as though to say, “you naughty boys you.” “By the way,” Steed asked. “You can clear up one question for me, if you’d be so kind.” Porter cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. Steed gestured toward Porter’s waist. “Why the knife with the ‘SS’ insignia on the hilt?” Porter glanced down and caressed the knife. “A souvenir… just a souvenir. Promroy had beaten me too many times at ‘Squad Leader’ with his cursed SS troops. I relieved him of it before we made our last flight with the dragon. I knew he’d never have need of it again. And it was perfect for cutting the safety strap holding him to the glider.” Porter’s smile was wolfish. “Now to the matter of how to dispose of you. Shooting you seems rather a waste to me.” “I quite agree!” quipped Steed enthusiastically. “It would be an absolute shame to bleed all over your immaculate battlefield . . . .” The irony of the statement went unappreciated by a preoccupied Mr. Porter. Porter frowned a moment then suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know just the ticket!” Porter’s next smile was outright icy. “Are you a pilot, by chance, Mr. Steed?” “Afraid not,” Steed replied in his most matter of fact voice. “No matter.” Porter’s voice became almost oily. “As an Englishman I’m sure you have more than a passing knowledge concerning ‘The Battle of Britain’ during World War Two.” “The summer of 1940,” Steed replied rather slowly wondering just where this conversation was leading. “The blitz….” “I suspected as much.” Porter moved around towards Steed and pulled a small radiophone from his jacket pocket with his free hand. He hit one of the buttons and Steed could hear someone answer the call. “Kenneth, set up a three man Battle of Britain fighter simulation.” There was a short pause as Porter listened. “No. We have a special visitor going to pilot the Spitfire. Set it up for total virtual reality. Yes. A real death match.” Steed raised an eyebrow. Porter smiled savagely as he punched the disconnect button on the radiophone. “You’re in for a real treat, Mr. Steed. An experience you’ll never forget as long as you live, which, regretfully, will most likely not be very long at all.” Porter used the gun to direct Steed towards a door in the back of the room that opened onto another set of pine paneled corridors. Steed idly considered various ways of disarming the man during their walk, but a perverse curiosity kept him from acting on any of the many opportunities that presented themselves. They went down several more corridors, staying away from the catwalks, until they descended a stairway and almost immediately stopped before a pair of huge doors, which stood a good fifteen feet high. As if on cue one of the doors slid open with the faintest of squeaks. Steed was directed into a huge room with plate glass ceilings that soared at least twenty-five feet over his head and through which the last of the late afternoon sunlight poured with a pale, golden brilliance. A large number of rectangular boxes that stood encased within hydraulic frameworks filled most of the floor space. Short, movable stairways rather like the old-fashioned airline stairs of the late 50’s were pushed against doorways that opened up and outwards from the boxes. A large bundle of black cables ran from each box into a darkly windowed, hexagonal control room that squatted in the center of the vast space like a spider in the middle of its web. “Our flight simulator room,” Porter waved his gun around with evident pride. “As good as any Air Force or RAF setup in the world, and much more versatile. We can simulate any aircraft from World War One bi-planes to the most modern supersonic fighter. In this case, however, Kenneth has set up a nice World War Two Spitfire for you, a Mark V model. We will be flying Messerschmitt Me109Es of course.” Steed gave one of his banal, unassuming smiles. “I assumed no less,” he said. “And quite appropriate under the circumstances.” A door in the control room opened and a tall, slender man sporting a roguish red beard and long hair tied in a ponytail stepped out. Steed noted