Splendid, at least, until the jarring moment when some madman or other repealed the laws of nature. But until that moment, it was a splendid way: First-class compartment seating. The porcelain-smile attentions of three fetching stewardesses. Iced champagne at 35,000 feet. The day was clear. The sun had a sharp crystalline brightness. It blazed in a serene, cloudless sky, and glared blindingly from the silver hide of the great jet engines of the commercial airliner. Far below, the South China Sea glowed like a fine old painting. Mr. Napoleon Solo studied it, trying to recall what the pilot had just said over the speaker system about their ETA Hong Kong. Solo was dressed in his usual dapper style. Except for the pieces of sticking plaster on his chin and neck, there was no evidence that he had been down on all fours the night before, fighting for his life against a pack of THRUSH uglies in a foul Bangkok slum. One of the girls hovered, for a second time in sixty seconds. "More champagne, yes?" "Yes," said Illya Kuryakin from the aisle seat next to Solo.
