By M. Willow

Dark hair, sensuous lips, pale blue eyes, and legs that never seem to end—the nude woman over the bar was gorgeous.  The man sat up with a start.  He found himself seated at a table directly in front of the bar.  Heart racing he attempted to stand, but as the room began to sway, he grabbed the table for support.  Now he studied the room.  Other than the portrait of the woman over the bar, he saw a piano and numerous tables and chairs throughout the room.  On the walls were steer horns, spurs, and saddles.  He had seen a few places like this on the late show--Westerns where men drank whisky out of dirty glasses and women catered to their every need.  Except he was alone.  Alone, and still wearing his pajamas.  So how did he get here, he wondered?

Capsule B immediately came to mine.  It was the only answer.  He must have taken it to erase his memory and then he’d ended up in the saloon.  The only problem with that theory was that he could remember everything about his life.  If capsule B had been taken memories would come back in stages and he would even remember what happened during his amnesia period. 

Kidnapped was the next thing he considered.  He remembered going to bed, but reasoned that someone must have entered his apartment and knocked him out.  Then this same person had brought him here of all places.  But where was here? And why?.

The man looked around the room for a telephone.  He needed to get help before someone came back to finish him off.

First he went behind the bar.  The bar was a long paneled oak construction and it was covered with dust which meant no one had been there in quite some time.  He noticed a similar layer over everything else.

He looked in the back of the bar and found glasses and old liquor bottles.  They were heavy with dust and some of the bottles had never been opened.  They had names such as—Tanglefoot, Forty Rod, and Coffin Varnish. Sadly a telephone was not found.

The man looked toward the door.  It was one of those half-swinging types and the sunlight was streaming in through them.  He hated to go out there figuring whoever had brought him could be standing outside, waiting for a chance to shoot him.  On the other hand, if such a person existed they could just as easily come in and finish the deed.  He was hardly in a position to seem a threat considering he had no gun and was still in his pajamas. 

The man made his way across the saloon, the sound of sawdust crunching under his feet.  He bolted through the door, eyes nearly blinded by the sun.  It was hot.  Extremely hot.  It reminded him of being in the Middle East where temperatures climbed to impossible levels. 

His eyes having adjusted to the intense light, he was surprised to find a town straight out of the Old West.  The wind blew strongly, pushing dust and tumbleweeds in its wake.  A sign over the saloon proclaiming “Red Wake Saloon” swung slowly, the creak of metal against metal piercing the air.  He looked at the street and saw a hotel, a furnishings store, a livery stable, a general store, and the sheriff’s office.  He wasted no time in making his way across the dirt covered road. He didn’t see one single soul.

The man took a deep breath as he stood in front of the sheriff office.  The air smelled surprisingly fresh.  Gone were the city scents of exhaust fumes mixed with the stale odors of food and people. In its place was the crispness of virgin air—air untouched by pollution and smog.  Air so fresh he could almost taste it.  He’d never smelled anything quite like it.

He opened the door to the sheriff’s office, taking in the empty room immediately.  Like the saloon, dust covered everything.  He crept slowly across the floor until he stood in front of the desk.  He ran his hand across its rough texture, the grit of dust mingling with the feel of solid wood.

The man moved behind the desk and pushed the chair out of the way.  He checked the drawers, finding an old newspaper dated 1868.  The headline proclaimed the recent capture of an outlaw named Buffalo Kid.  He returned the paper to the draw, making a mental note of how the paper looked almost new. 

He turned his attention to the wall.  There were Wanted Posters there so numerous it looked like wall paper.  One thousand dollars for the capture of the Tyndale Kid.   Five hundred dollars for Max Robbinson who had apparently robbed a bank.  

The man sighed once he realized that a telephone could not be found.  On the other hand, it could have proven embarrassing to be rescued wearing only one’s pajamas.  His partner would never let him live it down. 

With no place else to go the man decided to return to the saloon and make a plan. He needed to get out of there.  He suspected that whoever left him stranded had no plans of returning. 

He was on his way to the saloon when he saw a figure.  The thing was standing motionless and looked like a man.  On the other hand, it could easily be a cactus.  There were many of them, tall stalks high against the sky.  But then the thing was moving.  It was a man.  He seemed about to collapse, his body hunched, shielding his eyes from the bright sun.  As he neared he realized the stranger wore pajamas and that he recognized him.  The man walked purposely, oblivious to him, his eyes trained on the road ahead.  He’d nearly reached him when the man heard a clock chime.  Strange, he thought because he hadn’t seen a clock anywhere in town and this one sounded as loud as Big Ben.  Soon the sound of the clock became louder, sending him to his knees, his hands clasped to his ears.  Then darkness followed.

The soft morning light cascaded through the open window.  Illya pulled the chenille spread over his eyes and lay trying to get his bearings.  Soon the aroma of fresh coffee spilled in from the restaurant below.  A car sounded its horn and a man called out for Martha to hurry up.  Then a truck passed, the clanking sound of garbage being collected in its wake.  Illya sat up with a start, reaching for his communicator and his gun at the same time.  How had he gotten back in his bed?

He looked down at himself.  Still wearing the pajamas, but the last time he’d seen them he was in the Old West.  At least he thought it was the Old West.  He ran through the possibilities.  There were still old towns maintained as tourist attractions.  Except there was no way he could have been in one of them.  The town he woke up in was as hot as hell, and New York was almost as cold as Moscow in winter.  He looked at his clock. It was seven o’clock in the morning and he had gone to bed at Three-thirty.  There was no way he could have been taken to a town in what obviously hadn’t been anywhere near New York,  then brought back here and safely tucked into bed  in Greenwich Village, all within a few hours. 

Illya shuddered, cursing himself for falling asleep with the window open yet again.  It was just that he enjoyed the connection to the world outside and a closed window always seemed like a prison.  The fact that it was February and temperatures well below zero had not hindered his desire for that connection. So even in winter he slept with the windows open.  Now he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.  He was obviously coming down with something.  Perhaps even a fever.  And maybe that was why he’d dreamed of a hot Western town.

He touched his forehead, feeling the coolness.  No temperature and he didn’t feel sick.  Just very tired. 

 Illya looked up at the picture on the wall.  April had sent him a painting of an Old Western town, along with an identical one for Napoleon.   It wasn’t exactly his taste and he didn’t think Napoleon cared for it either, but he’d nevertheless hung the thing in his bedroom.  Now he sat eyeing the offending painting.  It seemed to have only two colors—brown and grey.  It was a desolate painting of an old ghost town.  It displayed a livery station, a sheriff office, a furnishings store, a general store, and a saloon. It looked exactly like the town he just left.

Illya shuddered and slipped out of bed, padding over to get a better look.  He remembered the sign over the saloon and saw a similar one in the picture.  He just couldn’t make out what it was saying.  He went to his bedside table and retrieved his thick reading glasses and a magnifying mirror.  He put the reading glasses on and headed to the picture, holding the magnifying glass next to the sign over the saloon. 

“Red Wake Saloon” it read.  Just like the one in his dream.  He stood back, heart pounding.  The dream was a result of the painting, but if that were true, how had he known the name of the saloon.  It wasn’t possible to see it without the magnifying glass.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he worked to calm his nerves.  There is a reasonable explanation, he told himself.  Perhaps April mentioned it to him.  But that couldn’t be true because he hadn’t heard from her in two months, and the painting had only arrived a week ago. 

Perhaps he’d seen or heard of the painting courtesy of something he read.  Illya read often, taking in vast amounts of material on a daily basis.  It would be easy to remember something on a subconscious level and not a conscious level.  His heart rate slowed at the thought.  He was being silly.  He’d had the dream because the picture had been the last thing he saw before falling asleep.  And the name of the saloon was either a common one for that period or he’d heard about it someplace else. 

Now where to put the painting?  He certainly didn’t want it in his bedroom.  In fact he’d only chosen the location because it was hidden from view.  The American West simply didn’t fit in with his décor, not that he had a décor.  Illya’s apartment was sparsely furnished.  He bought what he needed, not caring how it looked in the tiny apartment. The décor of his apartment was a hog pod of dark furniture on a hardwood floor.  Hardly a candidate for “House Beautiful”, but he still didn’t like the painting.  It just didn’t suit him.  He’d selected the bedroom because he seldom spent time in the room.  He enjoyed the kitchen most of all.  A cup of strong tea, a technical journal, and he considered it an end to a productive day or a way to unwind after a trying mission.

Napoleon had put his picture in the bedroom as well, only in his case it was because he spent a lot of time in the bedroom in the arms of numerous women, and would seldom even see the ugly thing.

Illya was prepared to take the painting down and store it in the closet when he came to his senses.  It was just a dream, nothing more.  He headed for the shower instead.  

Solo struggled against the tangled sheets, his body racked with pain.  His back hurt, his arms hurt, and his skin was burning like it was on fire.  The previous day he’d spent the entire evening in the company of one Melanie Stuart, a new girl in section four.  They’d spent the afternoon in a very private area of the beach.  They had thrown caution to the wind, stripping off their clothes, and dashing into the surf.  They’d made love on the beach for hours and then Napoleon and the beautiful woman had hopped on a plane and headed back to cold, frigid New York. 

Solo had returned with two things:  a gift for Illya and a sunburn from hell.  So much for a week in Hawaii, he thought.

Solo sat up in bed, eyeing the painting that hung directly across from him.  It was a painting of a Western town and it was identical to Illya’s.  April had sent both paintings from London a week ago.  He missed her.  She’d been gone nearly two months, and by Waverly’s order they had not even been allowed to contact each other.  All because Napoleon had handled their last case horrendously, nearly costing them their lives.  Waverly had countered with the perfect punishment—Solo would no longer have any authority over April. And less than two weeks later, April had been reassigned to London along with Mark.  He hadn’t heard from her since.  And then the paintings came.

Not his taste, he thought immediately.  But he’d been so desperate for some sort of contact with the female agent that he treasured the painting.  He’d hung it in his bedroom because it didn’t look right anywhere else.  His apartment was ultra modern, with geometric shapes in chrome.  Black or white was the color he used throughout his apartment except for the bedroom which he’d thrown in a few slashes of red.  It was the perennial bachelor pad and the western painting simply didn’t fit in.  The whole thing was surreal since April was an excellent decorator who had in fact assisted him in redecorating his apartment.  She also held a master’s degree in art.

Napoleon looked at the clock and decided to go in early for work. He’d been gone for three days and knew there was a healthy stack of reports on his desk.  That is, unless Illya took pity on him and helped him out.  He laughed, not likely.

One hour later both agents sat in their shared office in companionable silence.  Illya eyed his friend.   Solo had a deep tan, his hair lightened by the sun.  Illya found himself wondering if the tan came from his time in Hawaii or his time in the ghost town.  He still recalled seeing the CEA headed in his direction.  Dismissing the idea, he turned his attention to the Hula doll Solo had given him, but within minutes he was back to staring at Solo, almost as if he expected him to look up and tell him why he’d been walking around in his pajamas in the middle of a desert.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Tovarish?”  Solo asked, looking up from his reports and meeting Illya's eyes.

“I was not looking at you,” Illya snapped, hastily turning his eyes to a stack of reports on his desk.

“Yes you were.  In fact you’ve been staring at me since I got here this morning.”  Napoleon wore a self-satisfying smirk on his face.  He looked at the Russian as if he could see through him.  And he probably could.  It was hard to hide things from Napoleon.  He knew him too well. 

Illya knew he had to steer Napoleon’s attention elsewhere.  The last thing he wanted to discuss was a vivid nightmare.  His friend would think he’d lost his sanity.  Illya could picture it now, his friend in a panic, trying to figure out how to keep his partner’s insanity from the Old Man, whisking him off for some rest and relaxation at the Victorian house. 

“How was your vacation?” he asked and was rewarded with seeing his friend’s face light up and the dark eyes take on a “Wish I was still there” look.

“Great.  Melanie is…is…”

“Spare me the details, my friend.  I just wanted to know how you enjoyed your vacation.”

“Best I’ve had in years.”

“I see you’ve got a sunburn,” Illya said and watched his friend blush profusely. 

“Yeah, Melanie and I spent a little time outdoors, She’s a very athletic girl,” the dark haired agent murmured, rubbing his back.

“I see,” Illya said, recalling the dream, and the struggle Napoleon seemed to be having as he walked toward him.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.  “Tovarish…is there something wrong?”

Now the dark-haired agent was on full alert, his concern evident in his eyes.

“No,” Illya said quickly, shuffling the papers on his desk.  “I was just inquiring as to your vacation.  Why would that indicate a problem?”

Napoleon looked down at his own stack of reports.  “Nothing.  Just seem…”

“There’s nothing wrong, Napoleon,” Illya said pointedly.  “Now I need to get back to these reports.  I am sure Mr. Waverly will have an assignment for us soon, and I don’t want to leave these undone.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Napoleon mumbled before returning to the stack on his desk.

The day went by slowly, but soon the stack of reports had disappeared and the agents headed home.  Both men were tired from filing reports.  Illya plopped his feet up on the cocktail table, laying back against the cushions.  Unlike Solo, Illya resided in an apartment located just above a restaurant.  He knew few people in the neighborhood and none knew him.  He was simply the blond man who stayed away a lot.  This suited Kuryakin fine.  He didn’t want nosy neighbors questioning this or that bruise or why he was home so infrequently.

He closed his eyes, the memory of the dream still troubling him.

Why the Old West, he wondered?  He was Russian so logically speaking it should have been a dream about some frozen world in the Soviet Union, not the American West. Illya had lived in the United States for a little over five years.  In that time he rarely saw more than one Western.  He was willing to admit that the painting of a Western town may have triggered the odd dream, but couldn’t understand how it could feel so real.  Even now he could smell the freshness of air, feel the dirt beneath his feet.

Putting the dream to the back of his mind, Illya decided to take a hot shower and go to bed early.  He felt like he hadn’t slept in years.

The first thing Napoleon saw was the nude girl.  A second later he realized it was actually just a picture hanging over a bar.  He stood up, his body shaking as if he’d just run four miles in one second.  Now he looked around, his eyebrow raised in puzzlement.  How the hell had he wound up in a saloon, he wondered?  The last thing he recalled was crawling into bed, far too tired to even consider going out.  And if he had decided to go out, it sure wouldn’t be an empty saloon that looked like something out of the Old West.  He had sophisticated taste.  He enjoyed places that served Martinis on the rocks, with women dripping in Channel no 5 and diamonds. 

Solo reached for his gun when he heard someone moan.  He was shocked to discover that not only didn’t he have a gun, but he was still in his pajamas.  “What the heck?” he murmured, then turned quickly to find out who else was in the room.

The man was sitting in a chair, his eyes closed, blond hair gleaming in the sunny room. 

Napoleon moved quickly, glad to see his partner, then wondering why he would be so happy to see someone in a dream.

“Wake up, Illya,” he shouted.  Seconds seemed to pass, but eventually one eye opened, then the other.  Soon the Russian was looking around.  He seemed utterly confused.  Finally his eyes settled on Solo.  When the Russian spoke Napoleon couldn’t understand a word he said.

“What did you say?” Napoleon asked.

Again the Russian spoke in what Napoleon realized was Russian.

“Illya will you please speak English,” he said and waited to see if his dream Illya would comply.

“Why should I speak English in my dreams?” Illya asked.  “I only dream in Russian.”

The blond walked over to the bar and grabbed a tall bottle of amber liquid.  He took a glass from behind the bar and dusted it with the edge of his pajamas. 

Napoleon sighed.  “It’s not your dream, it’s mine.”

Solo looked at the bottle for a second.  He could clearly see the name, “Coffin Varnish”.

“I wouldn’t drink that, Tovarish.” he stuttered. 

His dream Illya seemed to agree because he pushed the glass to the side and regarded him.

“Illya would you stop staring at me.” Napoleon said.

“I’m not staring, I’m observing.  You look very real Napoleon.”

Solo shrugged.  “So do you Tovarish.” 

Napoleon took a quick tour around the room, then came back and took a long hard look at his partner.  Illya was wearing pajamas and his hair wasn’t exactly neat, but it was definitely the Russian.  So why was he dreaming of his partner?

“Do you know where we are?” Solo asked.

“Yes.  We are in the Old West.  I would say approximately 1870 or thereabouts.”

“Wait a minute.  I don’t get it.  How did…”

“Well.  Could be a hallucination.  Could be a nightmare.  Could be we’re both crazy.  Of course if it is a dream, than you’re not really here.  Just a figment of my imagination.”

“Am I often in your dreams, Tovarish?” Solo said smiling.

“Never.  But here you are now.  First time for everything.”  Napoleon didn’t return the smile.  He was decidedly uncomfortable.  The dream, or whatever it was, felt entirely too real.”

“Have you been outside?”

“Yes.  It looks like the picture April gave us.”

Napoleon strolled over to the door and peered outside.  He came back to the bar and actually considered having a glass of Coffin Varnish.

“Okay, I’m dreaming the entire thing?” Illya said.  “But what are the chances of dreaming about the same place, identical in every detail?”

“Don’t know.  I’ve had this dream last night.  Only then I was struggling to get to this town.  I remember there was a dust storm starting and it was hot as hell.”

Illya laughed. “That’s a consideration too.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.  “What’s a consideration?”

“We could be in hell.  You know, atoning for all our sins.”

“Can’t be.  Sides, you’re an atheist so there is no hell.”

“Could be in your dreams.”

“Who says this is my dream?”

Illya shrugged, clearly not having an answer for that.

“Okay.  Let’s say it’s both our dream.”

Napoleon shook his head.  “Then what?”

“Well then we’ll wake up and everything will be fine.  We’ll find ourselves back in our apartment safe and sound.”

Napoleon massaged his head.  “Yeah, like the last time.”

“I saw you walking toward me yesterday,” Illya said.  “You were wearing pajamas and then I heard…”

And as if on queue the bell sounded. 

Two days later found Illya’s head buried in a book.  He’d managed to pick up a book about the Old West from the library.  It was informative and almost glamorous with its descriptions of the outlaws and cowboys that populated the Western United States in the nineteenth century.  He was looking for parallels in these stories and the town he had dreamed about.  It didn’t take long for him to discover that the names of the liquor had been real and so had the way the bar looked.  He found a full picture of one from approximately 1870 which is when he figured his dream saloon existed.  Only now his suspicion that it wasn’t a dream was going full force.  There was no way he’d read about the names of liquor of that time.  No way he could guess that someone actually drank something called “Coffin Varnish” and no way can a man raised in Russia know how the inside of a saloon looked in vivid detail, not even by watching  Westerns which were glamorized versions of reality at best.

Illya flipped the page and started reading about the climate and topography of the West.  He was thoroughly immersed when he heard the unmistakable footsteps of his partner.  He quickly put the book in his desk, locking it before Solo even appeared at the room.

Napoleon entered the office, coffee in hand, and plopped down at his desk, mumbling hello before he started on his reports.  Illya was tempted to say something about his ragged appearance when he realized he probably looked just as bad.  He hadn’t gotten much sleep the other night, plagued by the same nightmare he’d had the night before.  And now the sleep deprivation was starting to get to him, causing him to entertain the idea of time travel—all based on an old newspaper he’d found and a dream that felt a little too real.  He needed sleep, and needed it badly.

“Long night?” Illya said, trying to put a teasing tone in his voice.  What he really wanted to know was if Solo had spent the night in the Old West.  Of course that question would make him certifiable.

“No.  I turned in early.”

“Who was she?” the Russian countered.

Napoleon took a sip of his coffee.  “No one.  I was too tired to even consider a date.”  Napoleon rubbed his eyes. 

“Are you saying the great Napoleon Solo was too tired for a date,” Illya said jokingly.  “Women throughout the world are crying as we speak.”

Solo shook his head mockingly, then leaned back and closed his eyes. 

“So why are you tired?” Illya asked before he could stop himself.  He looked down at his desk, wishing that he had a few more reports there so he wouldn’t look so transparent.

Solo said nothing and Illya’s heart skipped a beat.  He spared a glance at his partner and saw dark eyes meeting his.

“Don’t know.  Maybe I need another vacation.”

Illya tried to laugh.  “I don’t think Mr. Waverly is going to agree with that.”

Solo smiled.  “Guess you’re right.  I’ll just have to go to bed earlier.”

But by the end of two weeks, both men were near exhaustion.  Now Solo arrived at his shared office with Illya and found the blond sleeping, his head slumped over the desk.  He thought of waking the Russian, but decided he was too tired to do it.  Over the past week he’d had the same dream again.  Always Illya was in the Saloon.  Always they discussed whose dream it was.  And always a loud bell sound signaled the end of the dream.  Solo had tried everything to stop the dream, including putting the picture in his closet, but nothing worked.

Solo leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.  He was so tired he could hardly move.  He wondered how long it would take before Waverly said something about his failing condition.  As it was the Old Man hadn’t sent them on any missions for which Solo was uncharacteristically grateful.

Napoleon looked up when he heard the Russian snore.  It was unlike the blond not to wake up when someone entered the room.  He watched confusingly as Illya settled his head in a more comfortable position.  Now the Russian had his arms folded and his head propped over the top of them. He murmured something now and again but it was in Russian, so he had no idea what he was saying.

Soon Solo felt himself drift into sleep.  His last coherent thoughts were how strange it was that both he and Kuryakin were both so exhausted, yet neither man had been on a mission.

Illya rolled across the floor, gun drawn.  Across from him his partner did a similar maneuver.  It was a startling awakening to discover the enemy wasn’t some Thrush goon, or even someone from that nightmare world, but their very own UNCLE security guards.

He shouldered his gun, casting a worried look at Napoleon who still had his gun aimed at the two security men.

“Sorry, sir,” the tall red-head guard known as Anderson said.  “Mr. Waverly tried to contact you for the past two hours.  He sent us in to see if you were okay.”

Illya nodded his head and looked at his partner. “Napoleon, I think you can put your gun away.”

Solo was flat on his stomach, gun drawn.  Kuryakin didn’t like the way he looked.  He seemed dazed, as if he didn’t know where he was.  The two men standing at the door were UNCLE security people, hardly a threat.

“Napoleon, can you hear me?” Illya asked.

But the dark-haired agent said nothing.  Now Illya was really getting worried.  The security men still held their guns.  They had it aimed directly at his partner.  Illya didn’t doubt for a second that they would shoot.

“Mr. Canton, Mr. Andersen, please leave the room.” Illya ordered.

The men stood there for a second, each looking to the other for confirmation.  When neither spoke Illya ordered them out again.  Finally both men left.  Now Illya stood alone watching Napoleon.  He knew they weren’t entirely out of danger—sooner or later the security men would return once Waverly heard about it.  He needed to get Solo calmed down before they did.

He deliberately stepped in front of the gun, crouching low to face his partner.  If Solo was having a psychotic reaction from lack of sleep, seeing and hearing him would bring him out of it, Illya reasoned.

“Napoleon, can you hear me?”

Solo said nothing, but the gun started to shake in his hands.  Illya waited patiently. 

“Napoleon…”

 Illya knew that a lack of sleep could affect an individual negatively.  A person could experience hallucinations, headaches, and psychotic breaks.  The list went on.  Illya had battled some of it for the past week, but he was a man used to sleeping under unusual circumstances.  He’d discovered that the dreams only occurred when he was in his apartment.  Therefore he’d started to take little cat naps at work and other places.  He had an uncanny ability to fall asleep almost anywhere. 

Solo, on the other hand, required the creature comforts of home in order to sleep.  Illya didn’t doubt the dark haired agent had little sleep over the past weeks.  Now it had finally caused a problem.  He placed his hand over the gun.  Solo looked at him, his eyes finally focusing.

“What happened?” Solo asked, his voice shaky.

“Give me the gun first before you get us both killed, then I’ll tell you my theory.”

Solo looked at him, then handed the Russian the gun.  Illya carefully placed the gun on the desk then helped his friend to stand.  Napoleon was still shaking as he settled in a chair.  Illya perched on the edge of his partner’s desk, watching him carefully.

“What happened?” Napoleon asked again.  “Why was I holding a gun on you?”

“There is not enough time to go over my theory, but I need to ask you a question.” 

Illya paused before speaking.

 “Does the Wild West mean anything to you?”

The next two days passed in a blur of examinations both physical and mental.  It had all started when both men discovered they were having the same dream.  Illya had theorized that the dreams were real and Solo had agreed.  They’d had then presented this theory to Waverly who’d promptly had them committed—so to speak.  Actually they’d been taken under guard to the infirmary where a team of doctors probed and questioned them for hours.  Then they had been put under psychiatric evaluation where more probing was done.  Finally they had been put in a room together where the only people they saw were medical personnel. 

Solo was beside himself with anxiety while the Russian sat idly reading technical journals as if everything were okay.  Now Solo eyed the blond and suppressed a shudder.  How could he sit there so calmly while their lives were in the tank?  In a few days they could either be committed permanently in some mental institution, or fired and turned on the streets.  Which meant Illya could wind up in Russia.

Solo sat up in bed, eyeing his partner. “How can you sit there reading technical journals with all this going on?”

Illya spared him a glance.  “Easy.  We have nothing else to do.  I might as well enhance my knowledge.”

“Well, where we’re going I’m sure you won’t need to know all that technical…”

“And where will that be?”

Solo couldn’t believe how naive the Russian was.  He seemed completely oblivious to the position they found themselves in.

“Illya the men with white coats are on their way.  When they get here we’re going to find ourselves locked up for the rest of our lives.”

“I fail to see why that should occur.  We told the truth.  They are considering it.  They will come up with a logical explanation of…”

“How two grown men could find themselves transported to 1870,” Solo continued.

“It may not necessarily be 1870…”

“1870, 1970, who the hell cares, Illya,” Solo said tightly.  “The fact is we marched in Waverly’s office and told him we had traveled through time by using a painting April sent us.”

Illya crinkled his forehead.  “You know the more I think about it, the less I believe April sent the paintings.  Her taste in art is far too superior to imagine it would fit with either of our decors.  Therefore the paintings must have been sent by someone who is aware of her reassignment to London and decided to use that knowledge to their advantage.”

“Fine.  But that still doesn’t get us off the hook.  We’re going to be committed, Illya.  That or thrown out on the streets and for you that could mean Russia.”

Solo didn’t know much about the method used to bring Illya into the country, but he did know he was on loan.  If the Russian wasn’t an UNCLE agent, it followed he would be returned to the Soviet Union which meant he could possibly be in danger when he returned because the KGB would never trust a man who’d been spoiled by Western ideals.

“I doubt…” Illya started.

And then the door opened and the unlikely duo of Alexander Waverly and Victor Marton entered the room.  Victor was dressed in an impeccable grey Italian suit, red handkerchief tucked into the pocket, and expensive cufflinks.  He wore the same smug expression Napoleon remembered the last time they’d met.

Waverly pulled chairs to sit in the center between them.  Napoleon was speechless.  He’d expected white coats, or any number of things, but not Victor Marton.  The last time he’d seen the man was right after the Electronic Thought Translator had been destroyed.  Waverly had taken him back to the office for what Solo thought was to incarcerate him.  Instead the men reached a “gentleman’s agreement” and Marton was set free.  Waverly never told him what the “gentlemen’s agreement” was, and Napoleon doubted he ever would.

Waverly spoke, “I believe you know Mr. Marton,”

“Yes, seems only yesterday,” Solo said sarcastically.

“Yes, nice having your acquaintance again, Mr. Solo.”  Victor smiled.  It was the one thing Solo hated most about the man—that smile.  The smile that was just short of out and out disrespect and firmly entrenched in the “I know something you don’t” world.  The “know something” was the part that really bothered Solo.

Waverly shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “Are you certain time travel is involved, gentlemen?” Waverly asked as if he were involved in a conversation that had gone on for some time. 

“I am quite certain time travel is involved,” Illya said.  “However, it may not be as far back as we think.”

“You seem fairly certain of the time travel, but perhaps you were merely transported to another place and time travel is not a part of it.”

“The Saguaro Cacti blooms in May and June, sir. And it is abundant in Arizona. My first trip back in time took place in February when the plant couldn’t possibly have bloomed.  And then of course there is the newspaper to consider.”

Waverly looked thoughtful.  “Yes, you said it hadn’t yellowed with age.”

“No, sir.  Which leads me to estimate the date at around 1870.”

Marton leaned back in his seat, the large man looking uncomfortable in the small plastic chair. Waverly cleared his throat and spoke, “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”  He settled his eyes on Napoleon and then Illya.

“In 1873 Dr. Miguelito Loveless created a way to transport a person into a picture.    He invented the Portal Transporter, as it has become known, as a way to kill the great rulers of the world.  He’d planned to put killers into these paintings and transport them into the very homes of his enemies.”

Napoleon looked at Waverly in stunned silence as the Old man continued his story. 

“Eventually this fiendish plot became known by Jim West and Artemus Gordon of the Secret Service and the mad scheme came to an end.”

Waverly cleared his throat and continued.  “The paintings were all confiscated and secured by the Secret Service and later UNCLE.  Until now, gentlemen.”

“What happened?” Illya asked.

“One month ago a double agent stole the paintings along with the transporter devices used to activate them.  Now Thrush has them.”

Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat, imagining the power Thrush now held.  If they had the device, they could change the fabric of time.  Suddenly wars could be lost that had once been won, treasures could disappear, men could die who one day may have made a difference.  All without their knowledge. Even now something could have changed.

Solo glared at Marton who seemed pleased to sit quietly and let Waverly do the talking.

“How could such a thing exist?  Time is not something we can change.” Illya said.

Waverly leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes sharp.  “We have never understood how the Portal Transporter works.  We do know that it was not designed as a time machine, however, it appears that since the paintings were completed during the nineteenth century, time is literally captured, allowing a man to travel back through time..”

Napoleon’s breath caught.  “Is there any danger in being transported?”

Waverly locked eyes with him.  “Oh…indeed, sorry.  I should have added that our medical test prove that neither you nor Mr. Kuryakin are in danger.  You’re both perfectly healthy.”

“Have we ever tested it, sir?  On animals perhaps?” Solo asked.  He knew a human would never be used for testing.

“We never attempted to use it for moral reasons and an animal would prove nothing.  Nevertheless, our scientist spent years trying to unlock its secrets.  It is a masterpiece created by a madman.  A madman thought dead at the time the pictures were confiscated.  A man who escaped, only to improve on his invention years later.  It is this invention, this monstrosity that can spell our doom, Mr. Solo.”

Illya wrinkled his brow.  “You said it has been improved from its original design.”

“Yes, Dr Loveless returned to his original invention in 1882, making some improvements before supposedly dying.  The original design required a component that could easily fill a large room.  The new design requires only a small component the size of a telephone handset. This device is capable of issuing the sound needed and transporting the individual at the same time. An individual can also be transported to other pictures without the paintings presence.”

“And this is what has been stolen?” Solo asked.

“Yes, along with fifteen paintings.  All by a double agent of ours, I’m afraid.  A Thrush agent.”

“Who is no doubt working on a way to use it as we speak.” Illya said.

“Yes, and using us as guinea pigs.” Solo added.

Illya leaned back on the bed.  “Thrush knows we are already aware they have it.  Why not use us as guinea pigs before using one of their own people.  Think about it.  They can see how we react and make plans on how they will utilize the Portal Transporter against us.”

“Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin.  According to the report of Jim West, the technology had limitations.  A man could be transported to a place, but he was not free to move about more than five miles from the place of entry.”

Napoleon took a deep breath.  “So that means we’re possibly safe, unless the collection contains something historic.  Something that can be changed to Thrush advantage.”

“Possibly,” Waverly said.  “But should Thrush discover how the technology works they can create new art work.  Historic art.”

Solo turned his attention to Marton.  “So why are you here?”

“Purely for selfish reasons,” Marton said, a slight smile on his face.  “You see I was well on my way to a top position at Thrush when my competition obtained your little trinket.  Now the man makes a mockery of me, determine to not only see the end of my career, but rid me of this life.  He is a threat worse then Lucia.”

Lucia Belmont was the woman who had competed with Marton for a top position at Thrush.  She’d been unsuccessful partly as a result of UNCLE interference and partly because of a rather explosive handkerchief.  Marton had sought UNCLE’s help that time, too.

“So you assist us in recovering the Portal Transporter and you rise up the ranks of Thrush?” Illya said, clearly not pleased with the prospect of working with the man.

Marton put on a wide smile.  “Precisely.  Always knew you were the smart one.”

Solo shook his head mockingly.

“Mr. Marton’s assistance in this affair will be limited.”  Waverly looked pointedly at the man.  “The Portal Transporter is being transferred from its current location to New York.  Mr. Marton has been kind enough to provide the itinerary of the transport.  We of course will intercept, securing the transporter ourselves.”

“Will the courier have everything?”

“I can assure you that he will,” Marton said.  “There will be three men, all arriving at the same time, all traveling along.  Thrush is under the belief that this will throw you off, allowing them to successfully get everything to our New York location.”

“Why didn’t they just take it there in the first place?” Solo asked.

“They needed to test it at their research facilities first.  The New York office is ill equipped for such a test,” Marton said.

 “Of course,” Illya said, snidely.

“Where can we find the New York satrap?” Solo asked.

Marton said nothing for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he considered how much imparting this type of information would cost him.  Then the wolf like smile appeared.  “There is no need for you to know that.  I will see that you intercept it long before it reaches headquarters.”

Napoleon was about to speak, but Waverly cut him off.  “I’m afraid it is necessary, Victor.  I expect to have full knowledge of the entire route.  Including Thrush headquarters.”

Again Victor didn’t speak.  Solo thought he looked like a caged animal, searching for a way out. “We have a satrapy in New York just a few miles from here.  It’s in the back of a hat shop, one I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“I thought Thrush had moved, considering we had already infiltrated that satrapy,” Illya said.

“We had.  But what can I say.  It’s hard to find real estate in New York so we moved back.”

“I don’t trust you, Marton,” Solo said tightly.  He knew how the man thought.  He wasn’t so much for Thrush as he was for himself.  He was a greedy man, a man who easily went with the highest bidder.  A man who thought life was one big joke.  Even now he was sitting there like the whole thing was a game.

“None of us trust him,” Waverly interrupted.  “But I trust his greed.  He has been replaced at Thrush.  On the outs as they say.  No, Victor has much at steak in this affair.  I daresay he will cooperate.”

Solo knew they had no choice.  Without Marton they hadn’t a single clue as to the whereabouts of any of the paintings besides the two they already had.  Speaking of which…

“What happened to the two paintings?”

“Confiscated and analyzed,” Waverly said.  “They are indeed part of the collection. I’m certain the Thrush double agent saw to the placement in your apartments.  Now, enough talk gentlemen.  The infirmary should offer sufficient cover while we make our plans.”

The infirmary was located in the lower levels of UNCLE headquarters.  It had its own separate entrance and exit, all hidden from the prying eyes of most. If there was another double agent, he wouldn’t stand a chance of finding out about Marton.

“What is the plan, sir?” Illya said.  Napoleon could see from the glint in the Russian’s eyes that the entire concept of time travel interested him. As a scientist he would definitely be intrigued by the research on the device.  Solo knew that he would hardly be able to find the Russian once the Portal Transporter was confiscated.  The Russian would spend all his time in research.

The next evening the partner’s found themselves in a dark alley waiting for the lone car to emerge.  This Thrush operative would be a single man, unassuming, driving a Volkswagen Beetle, Victor had said.  In the car would be the whole collection.  Thrush was indeed smart.  If it hadn’t been for Victor Marton they would never have expected something so important and potentially deadly to be transported in such a way.

“What did you find in those technical journals, Illya?” Solo asked referring to the technical research Waverly had provided the Russian regarding the transporter.

“I’m afraid the level of technology would be too difficult for you to decipher, Napoleon.”

“Okay.  Give me the Cliff Note version.”

Illya turned and looked at his partner in the darkened car, his eyebrow raised.  “Who is Cliff and why should I have his notes?”

“It’s an outlined version of literary books,” Napoleon said exasperatingly.  “Kids use them in school instead of reading the entire boring book.”

Kuryakin grunted.  “Why does it not surprise me to find you are well acquainted with them, Napoleon?”

“Just heard of them.  Didn’t have things like that when I was in school.  Now, get to the point.  How does the portal work?”

Illya thought about it for a second.  He had spent the past evening pouring over the technical journals about the remarkable invention.  It was complicated and simplistic at the same time.  He found himself admiring the dastardly doctor, along with the men who’d finally brought him to justice.  He looked at Solo and thought of a way to best describe it.

Solo stared out at the night streets as he spoke. 

“It works by using sound, a certain key to activate it.  Originally a tuning fork was used, but anything that emits the right pitch will work.  Eventually Doctor Loveless invented a device to eliminate the need for large, bulky equipment, combining everything into a sort of electronic tuning fork.  The clock chime sound we heard was basically the gears shifting as we made our trip through the portal.  It also caused us to pass out.  One has to be within thirty feet for it to work which is why our visits to the Old West stopped once we were brought to the infirmary.”

Illya shuddered to think how Thrush was able to transport themselves into his apartment and Solo’s without either of them realizing it. All courtesy of the painting.

“And to think something like that actually sent us back to the Old West.”

Illya sighed.  “Yes, a major disappointment.  I would have preferred Russia around the turn of the century.”

“I don’t know.  There’s something glamorous about the Old West.  I wouldn’t mind spending time there as long as I could come back to the future.”

Illya smiled.  “Somehow, Napoleon, I don’t think you would find the type of women you’re accustomed too.”

“Don’t know.  Did you get a look at that painting over the bar?  She had…”

Just then a Volkswagen plowed by.  The description confirmed that this was indeed the driver they wanted. Illya slowly drove out of the alley.  Now they followed the blue car discretely.  The plan was to force him into another alley about six blocks up. Then they could take the equipment easily.

“He doesn’t seem to be aware of us, Tovarish.  Just keep steady.”

“I’m quite aware of how to drive,” Illya shot back.  But suddenly the car ahead of him sped up.

“How did he know we were following?” Illya asked. 

“I smell a rat and that rat is Marton.  The man has never done anything that wouldn’t make him look good.  He’s going to make us work for this one.”

Illya burned rubber, weaving in and out of traffic, carefully watching the car ahead that had just narrowly averted an accident. The little car was moving, the streetlights illuminating it as it passed.  Illya clasped the steering wheel hard, swerving the car, moving unmindful of the red lights.  He expected to see a police car any second, but the streets were empty.  Now the cars were side by side and Illya could see the driver.  He seemed a small man with short brown hair.  And he seemed intent on getting away.

“Hang on Napoleon,” Illya called out as cut the wheel sharply, ramming the tiny car.  The car swerved to the side, clipping a parked car, but it kept going. 

Kuryakin slammed his car into him again.  This time the tiny car ran up on the sidewalk and slammed into a street light. It wasn’t going anywhere.  Illya stopped his car, then both men were out.  Illya could see the driver of the car looked unconscious, his body slumped over the steering wheel.

“I don’t like this, Illya.  Somethings not right.”

At that precise moment Napoleon collapsed to the ground and vanished.  Illya stared at the tiny man in the car who sat with a small metal device in his hand.  Then he too heard the bells.

Dark hair, thick lips, black, glinting eyes, dusty shoes under blue jeans, a gun snapped to his side.  The man standing in front of Illya was straight out of the Wild West.  And from the notches on his gun, he would say he was facing a gunslinger.  Or more likely Solo was facing a gunslinger.  Right now the dazed agent was being held up by the man like a cat by the neck. .

Illya grabbed his gun and the man promptly dropped his partner.  Illya heard the gun blast as he rolled over the top of a table and fell to the floor.  It probably saved his life.  The man was fast, too fast.  He didn’t stand a chance against a man who could draw that quickly.

“Move just like a cat,” the gunslinger said, his voice deep and booming.  “But no man bumps into me the way your pardner did and gets away with it.  Now, if ya know what’s good fer yer, you’d stay out of this.”

Solo was getting off the floor as Illya stood slowly, tossing his gun to the side.  Yes, he was number one at shooting at UNCLE, but he was no match for a gunslinger and knew it. 

“It was an accident, my friend.”  Illya said, noting that the gunslinger wasn’t the only person in the room.  There were at least ten other men there as well.  All looking more than a little frighten, and all looking at the gunslinger.

Solo stepped forward.  “My name is Nap…Nathan Stone.  I’m very sorry if I bumped into you.  Please accept my apology.” He offered his hand, but the dark man didn’t accept it. 

Illya was grateful Solo didn’t give his real name which would certainly be a surprise to the men in the saloon who only knew Napoleon as Bonaparte.  For all Illya knew, the historic figure could still be at the height of his power. 

Illya walked over to join his friend and was pleased to see the gunslinger putting his gun away.  He still wasn’t smiling which made Kuryakin a little uneasy.  They couldn’t afford to fight a gunfighter for two reasons: one they would lose, and two they couldn’t risk killing anyone in the past lest they end up affecting the future.  For all he knew he could be looking at his best friend’s great grandfather.

A saloon girl walked up to the bar and threw her arms around Solo.  Typical, Illya thought.  He spared a look around the saloon.  It looked similar to the other place, but this one was somewhat larger, and the rich oak of the other bar had been replaced with a dark mahogany in this one.

“Now he didn’t mean anything by it Bart.  He just bumped into you is all.” The girl said.  She was still clinging to his partner.  Now Illya wondered why none of the men or woman in the bar seemed surprised by their what had to be spectacular entrance into their world.  A quick look around offered a clue.  Most of the men had returned to the games they were playing at the numerous gambling tables.  Most likely they had been dumped into the room without a single man noticing.  That is with the exception of Bart with whom Napoleon apparently fell into upon entrance.  They were in big trouble!

“Miss….Miss…” Illya started.

“Lottie, names Lottie.” The blonde lady eyed him up and down like she was looking at a side of choice beef.  Illya cleared his throat and prepared for the reaction his next question would cause.

“Yes, of course, Miss Lottie.  Can you tell me what date this is?”

Lottie looked from Illya to Bart and back to him.  “Yeah, July twelfth.  What you been drikin’ so much you lost track of time?”

This was met with a hardy laugh by more than a few patrons.  With the exception of Bart.  He just stood there, his eyes never leaving Napoleon.

“No, just wondered,” Illya answered.

“And what year?” Solo asked.  Illya cringed as he waited for that answer.

“My, my, you boys are really messed up.  It’s 1873 and this here is Arizona Territory.”

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged looks.  And then Bart again grabbed Solo by the neck, but this time the big man noticed the gun holstered discretely beneath Solo’s suit coat.  Bart removed it, holding it out as if it were a viper.  “Well, look at here.  Some kinda strange lookin’ gun if I says so myself.”

“They are very popular in the East,” Illya supplied.

Bart’s eyes narrowed.  “Well, I been East many a time.  Never sees the likes of this ‘fore.”

“They’re new,”  Napoleon said.  “Just came out a month ago.”

That seemed to satisfy Bart because he put the gun on the bar, but Illya could tell by his guarded stance that they weren’t out of the woods yet.

“I’d like to see this here gun in action.  Now I’m gonna be real nice and see that you get a holster so it’s fair and all.”

Bart snapped his finger and a short, dark man stepped forward.  “Charlie, give him your holster.”

Illya could see this was getting out of hand quickly. He could tell from the look in Napoleon’s eyes that he wasn’t about to back down and neither was Bart.  Illya didn’t want to consider what would happen if Solo killed Bart, but even more troubling to him was if Bart killed Solo—if that were even possible.  After all, Solo hadn’t been born yet.

Illya stepped forward.  “There’s no reason…”

“Illya stay out of this,” Solo said, putting on the holster and securing his gun.

“You don’t understand, Nap...Nathan.  If you …”

“I know what I’m doing, Illya.” Solo said, backing up poised to draw.

Bart’s eyes were deadly, all black, narrowed.  Illya could recall a new actor that reminded him of Bart.  The guy had just starred in something called a spaghetti Western.

“I don’t take kindly to strangers knockin’ me around.  Now I’m going to count to three and you’re gonna draw.”

“Leave him along, Bart,” Lottie cried out, but the gunslinger eyes only narrowed more as he backed away.  Illya noticed that most of the patrons had moved away, although they hadn’t left the room. 

Illya cringed as he waited for the inevitable.  And then suddenly he heard the clang of a bell.

Solo awakened to find himself lying in the infirmary.  He stole a glance to his right and found Illya there as well.  He sat up, the movement causing his head to throb.

“What the hell?”

In the bed next to him the Russian stirred, finally coming awake, and looking around just as confused.

Solo sighed.  Seconds ago he was about to die at the hands of a gunslinger from 1873.  But somehow he was now in the infirmary, back at UNCLE HQ.

“From the looks of you, my friend, I have to assume you survived our little Wild West trip and we are safely back at headquarters.”

“I would say we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Napoleon said, swinging his legs over the bed, and standing only to fall back on the bed. He was so dizzy and the room was still moving.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked.

“Fine.  Just a little dizzy.”

“As am I.”

Waverly walked in, looking at both agents.  “Ah…. you’re awake.”

“Yes, sir,” Solo said.  “Although I still don’t know how we got here.”

“Simple.  I was quite aware that Victor Marton may try to deceive us and make himself look better by claiming the prize for himself.  I therefore stationed agents along the way to ensure our success.  I witnessed Marton speaking to his courier and knew he had hatched a plan that would get him the transporter complete with a dazzling display of bravery.  I then made my own plan which included the other transporter device.”

“Other?” Illya asked.

“Yes.  Victor was unaware of this, but we were able to duplicate the machinery to allow transport.  Once it was reported that you had literally disappeared, I had you transported to the two pictures we have and finally here.”

“I don’t understand, sir.  I don’t remember being in the other place.”

“As it should be.  Which is why you have been in the infirmary for two days.”

“Two days!” Illya exclaimed.

“Quite.  The stress of a double transport proved too much for you and you remained unconscious even after we transported you here.”

Solo rubbed his head, his headache becoming worse.  “I don’t understand, sir.  Why not just take it himself.  Why the elaborate plot?”

“He needed to make a show of it.  Let Thrush know how he single-handedly rescued the Portal Transporter from the evil clutches of UNCLE.  Knowing the man, I anticipated just such a move.”

“I take it Mr. Marton’s partner was our Volkswagen driver?”

“Indeed.  A simple scheme, but one that didn’t work.”

“Thanks to your insight, sir.” Napoleon said. 

“Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to rest.” Waverly turned to leave.  “And you have the next two weeks off.  Perhaps a vacation is in order.”

Waverly left the room.  Solo lay back on the bed and thought of possible vacation spots.  The first thought that came to mind was Hawaii.  Hawaii and that beautiful girl from section four, but he looked at Illya and thought it might be fun to spend time with the Russian.

“Illya how would you like to go to Arizona?” he laughed, expecting the usual protest.  The West was the last place Napoleon wanted to find himself in and he knew Kuryakin would fill the same way.  But instead of the expected answer, Napoleon was surprised to see the Russian’s eyes light up.

“I would love to see your American West, Napoleon,” Illya said excitedly. “Now first thing an entire Wild West tour is in order.  Maybe we could get a few horses.  Maybe we could visit ghost towns. Maybe we could take a stagecoach.  Who knows Napoleon, maybe we could even find the town we were in…”

Napoleon listen as the Russian sprouted out one Wild West adventure after another.  He drifted off to sleep somewhere after panning for gold in Deadwood.

The End

Author’s note:  This story was based on the television series “The Wild Wild West”.  The episode is titled “The Night of the Surreal McCoys