"It's supposed to do _what?_"

Napoleon Solo stood on the deck of the Night Run and glared at his nephew's newest mechanical monstrosity. The powers-that-be seemed to think that his sister's 22-year-old son, a certified electronic genius, might have invented some items U.N.C.L.E. could find useful. So as long as he and Illya were vacationing in sunny Hawaii, would they mind checking out Patrick Lowell's latest inventions? OK. But to Solo, the thing currently sitting on the deck in front of him looked like an insane cross between a Christmas tree and an Electrolux.

"It'll polish the deck -- automatically." Patrick made several adjustments to the gadget with a screwdriver. Behind him, Illya Kuryakin and "Bot," Patrick's first mechanical creation, looked on.

"You mean it's another robot?" Illya asked.

Patrick pushed his slipping eyeglasses back up on his nose. "Yeah sort of," he said noncommitally. "Just let me get this rotor tightened and I'll..."

The machine coughed and sputtered, spraying Patrick with a fine coating of polishing compound. His onlookers stifled chortles. Even Bot released an amused little squeak.

"You know, you look good with a wax job, Patrick," Solo teased.

"Right," Illya chimed in. "Perhaps you should name this one Frank. Short for Frankenstein's monster."

Ignoring them, Patrick pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a loose shirt tail. The unnamed deck polisher sat in its newly created puddle of wax and managed somehow to look smug.

"I'm not sure it's gonna work out, Patrick," Solo said. "And in any case, I think you'd better housebreak it first."

Patrick shot him a withering look, but before he could respond, a voice from dockside said, "Excuse me. Is this the Night Run?"

Three heads turned in response to the feminine query. Solo found his voice first at the sight of their very lovely brunette visistor. "It certainly is," he said, ignoring the convention that as the boat's resident, his nephew should have been the one to answer. "What can we do for you?"

She smiled. "Well nothing) really. I just thought I'd come by and say hello. My name is Eileen Crowley and I have the slip on your port side for the summer."

Solo looked back at the sleek yacht that occupied the next slip and beamed with new admiration.

"That one hundred footer that came in this morning belongs to you?" Patrick asked, equally awed.

Accepting their motioned invitation to come aboard the Night Run, Eileen said, "Well, to my father, actually. That is, it used to. It was part of an inheritance."

"Indeed?" Illya moved in on her right, trading a competitive glare with his partner. "I had a rich relative once. He left me twenty-six hundred rubles worth of Baklovitzia Chemical Fertilizer stock. I don't think he liked me very much."

Patrick watched his uncle and uncle's partner introduce themselves, both having suddenly become entirely oblivious to his presence. Sighing, he picked up the malfunctioning polisher, tucked it under an arm and nodded to the wheeled blue robot with the stumpy arms. "Come on, Bot. I think we'll be better off below decks -- out of the line of fire."

Illya and Solo never noticed his discreet disappearance. They were already deeply involved in arranging an evening cruise with his attractive new neighbor.

The cruise, as it turned out, was to be aboard the Night Run rather than Eileen's yacht, which was temporarily out of commission for some minor engine maintenance. But she had expressed an apparently genuine interest in spending a few hours with them on the Night Run, sailing the bay.

Patrick lent the helm to his visitors, then elected to stay below and out of sight. He had no desire even to attempt any rivalry with Illya and Uncle Napoleon. They were more than enough competition for each other.

Well into the second hour of their cruise (and the third bottle of champagne,) Illya happened to glance toward the starboard railing, and squinted at something in the dark water beyond. Solo noticed his puzzled expression.

"What is it? What's the matter?'

"Over there." Illya got up to move to the rail, pointing. "See it?"

Solo and Eileen joined him, both staring into the dark. "I don't see anything," Eileen said. Solo squinted. "What the--?" He cut off the intended expletive, raced to an on-deck storage locker and returned with a pair of binoculars.

"Anybody we know?" Illya wondered.

"Anybody you know where?" Eileen asked, still confused. "I can't see a thing. You mean there's a ship out there?"

"A boat. With no running lights," Solo said, and hurriedly handed the binoculars to Illya. "I can't make out any details at all."

While Illya adjusted the lenses, a rumble from across the water signalled the mystery boat's movement.

"He's started his engines," Illya said from behind the field glasses. "Still no lights."

"Drug running, maybe?" Solo theorized.

"This far into the harbor? They'd have to be-- Wait a minute." Illya dropped the binoculars to stare toward the other boat.

"What?" Solo demanded. "What's he doing?"

Illya waited an infuriating moment before he answered. "He's heading straight for us."

"What??" Spurred to action, Solo made it to the bridge in record time and began restarting Night Run's engines. "Come on, he coaxed anxiously when the motor sputtered. "Come on! Don't stall on us now!" He shouted over the wheel to Illya. "Where are they?!"

"Still coming!"

Night Run's engines at long last caught, and grappling the wheel, Solo fought to steer them out of the oncoming boat's path.

He almost made it.

Illya had pulled Eileen away from the rail to the better-protected area behind the bridge bulkhead. Solo's frantic efforts had turned them in the water and put the 'blind' attacker off their port bow. The roar of his motor told them he was almost on top of them -- and that Solo wasn't going to get them out of his way in time.

Illya's shout of warning was lost in the noise of the impact.

Night Run lurched drunkenly and pitched starboard, throwing Illya and Eileen to the deck. Over Solo's unexpurgated cursing, the other boat's engine roar receded into the night, leaving the Night Run still bobbing like a toy boat in the water.

Patrick had come scrambling from below in the midst of the confusion. Solo cut off his questions with a curt "Later," and headed forward to inspect the damage.

Illya and Eileen, having picked themselves up, went after him.

"How bad is it?"

Solo groaned. "We're not taking on any water, but it's bad enough. Who the hell was that maniac, anyhow?"

"Guys--" Patrick's nasal voice came from behind them. Solo and Illya ignored him.

"Perhaps they thought we were Coast Guard," Illya said. "You can't tell in the dark."

"Well you'd better call the Coast Guard," Eileen said. "There must be laws against nautical hit-and-run."

"Guys--"

"We have to call the Harbor Patrol," Illya explained patiently. "The Coast Guard only handles military matters -- and drug smugglers."

"I suppose we could have made an enemy or two last time we were here," Solo fumed. "Good old Thrush, maybe? But nobody knew we were coming out here tonight."

"Unless they followed us. You know it could've been-"

"Guys!"

Solo finally spun on Patrick. "WHAT???"

"They're coming back!"

As a group, they hurried back to the bridge, where Solo again struggled with Night Run's rudder and wheel.

"What's that idiot trying to do?" Illya shouted over the strain of the engines.

"I dunno!" Solo shouted back. "But I can't outrun him!"

Night Run limped through the water like a wounded elk through swampland, fighting to gain speed and for the most part failing. Patrick snatched up the radio mike to start a may-day call, but he never got past the Night Run's registration number. Their attacker had come abreast of them and engines roaring, once again bumped the hull. Solo swore and spun the wheel away, but the dark boat followed suit, dealing them yet another glancing blow before something else seemed to ram them from below.

There was a shriek, a loud scraping sound and a thud as the Night Run lurched to a bone-jarring halt. The motors of her assailant once again faded away as her own choked and stalled.

"What happened?" Patrick and Illya had chorused the question.

Solo went back to the side, peered over, and said something rude. "We hit a reef. Or one of those damned coral islands. Patrick! You got a flashlight around here that works?"

"Yeah, but shouldn' we radio for help first? I mean, those guys might come back again."

"Just bring the flashlight, OK?"

Patrick, did and the four of them peered over the side together, each unwittingly mirroring Solo's grimace at the sight of Night Run's splintered hull.

"Coral island?" Illya queried gently.

In a sick voice, Solo said, "Coral island."

"This is gonna cost a fortune to fix," Patrick said miserably. "Does U.N.C.L.E. carry island collision insurance?"

Solo, still aiming the flashlight over the side, didn't answer him. "Looks like a good sized island," he said. "Big enough to walk around on. Where's the ladder? I think I could get a better idea how bad it is from down there."

Illya helped him lower the rope ladder and the two of them went over the side together. Once down on the island's surface, they surveyed the terrain with jaundiced expressions.

Illya shook his head at the splintered ruin of Night Run's port bow. "Well, Captain Solo, when you run a ship aground, I must say you do it up right."

Solo's intended retort was cut off when Eileen came down the ladder. "How big is this iceberg?" she asked.

"Island," Solo corrected testily. "And you shouldn't be down here."

"Why? Are your pirate friends coming back for another try?"

"Speaking of pirates," Illya interjected, snapping his fingers, "maybe it was Gustav Rettinger. He could be out on parole by now."

"Yeah," Solo said. "Or Silov and Potenski. We gave them to Interpol on a platter last year after that international extortion ring bust. They could be out by now too."

"What about Harry Pembreck, the Thrush satrap? Did he ever own a boat?"

"Or Igraine Henderson... Or Gervaise Ravel. You know what the trouble with the spy business is? You make way too many enemies."

"Well what if they do come back?" Eileen queried. "Don't you guys have a gun or something?"

Solo shrugged. "We're... on vacation."

"Besides," Illya added. "We supposed to use brains instead of guns these days. They don't backfire nearly as often."

Solo shone the flashlight off into the night. "Maybe it would be a good idea to find out just how big this coral rock is," he said. "I'll take that end. You want the other one?"

"All right." Illya turned to call back up the ladder. "Do you have another flashlight, Patrick?"

A muffled voice answered him, and in a moment, the requested tool had been dropped over the side to him.

"What about me?" Eileen asked.

"Go back aboard with Patrick," Solo told her. "We'll be back in a minute."

Illya had ventured only a few dozen yards over the rough, bumpy terrain when he literally ran out of island. The beam of his flashlight revealed nothing but lichened coral dropping off into the lapping sea water. He'd turned to go back when he heard the scream. It was closely followed by the rumble of a motor coming to life. Illya began to run, slipped, recovered his balance and made his way more carefully back to the damaged boat, his flashlight beam wavering in the darkness as he went.

He arrived in time to see a speedboat sputtering away from the island with two men aboard -- one of whom was fighting to subdue a struggling Eileen Crowley.

"Hey!" Illya shouted the word at the top of his lungs, and was chorused in a moment by Patrick's voice from the deck above.

"What is it? What's goin' on?"

Illya turned circle with the flashlight. "Where's Napoleon?"

"I dunno. I thought he was with you."

Exasperated, Illya pointed the beam toward the opposite end of the tiny island -- but nowhere was there any sign of his partner.

* * *

Eileen Crowley's kidnappers had pulled their speedboat up alongside the "pirate" that had earlier attacked the Night Run, and had forcibly carried her aboard. They didn't see the dripping figure that had slipped out of the water to climb the ladder several minutes behind them.

Napoleon Solo shivered as he dropped onto the deck, and mentally swore an oath not to hitch any more underwater rides on speeding motor boats. He'd nearly been caught in the rotors twice and three times he'd come close to drowning when he'd been unable to come up for air.

Trying to silence the squish of his wet sneakers, he crept toward the aft section, hid behind a bulkhead and eavesdropped on the heated conversation transpiring on the other side.

"I don't think you understood me, Eileen," one of the two men was grumbling. "All we want is a signature. You sign the bottom of that piece of paper and we'll be more than happy to deliver you back to your beached buddies over there, safe and sound."

Eileen's voice, utterly unruffled, answered him. "You haven't changed a bit, Donahue. You're still a lousy liar."

The familiarity surprised Solo a bit. So these guys had been after Eileen all along? He peeked around a corner in time to see Donahue restrain his hulking partner from striking Eileen, who was seated in a deck chair in front of them.

"Not yet, Fitz," he said soothingly. "Not just yet."

Fitz was not consoled. "You want the signature?" he huffed. "I'll get it for you."

"I don't think so." The thinner man smiled patronizingly at Eileen. "You don't really want me to turn Fitz here loose now do you?"

Still unintimidated, Eileen said, "Go to hell, Donahue."

Again, Fitz was discouraged from delivering a blow. Solo rolled his eyes at the Jekyll and Hyde act, but was pleased to see that Eileen hadn't fallen for it.

"I have a better idea," Donahue said coolly. "I think we'll just head back to that island and shoot your three friends -- one by one."

That got a reaction. Donahue, grinning apishly, gave Fitz a small shove toward the bridge. "Go start the engines."

Muttering, Fitz moved off, and Solo was obliged to shift his position in order to stay out of sight.

"Here's the paper," Donahue was saying to Eileen as the engines came to life. "And here's a pen."

Eyeing him with complete loathing, Eileen took both objects, deliberately holding the pen with its point aimed away from her. Donahue failed to notice that until it was too late. Eileen pretended to begin signing the paper with the upside-down pen, but as they began moving in the water, she suddenly rose from the chair -- and jammed the penpoint hard into Donahue's mid-section.

He yelped in pain, grabbing for her in the same instant that Solo decided to break cover. He tackled Donahue from behind and the two of them had rolled together, trading blows twice before something crashed over Donahue's head. The man collapsed on top of a surprised Solo, who struggled out from under him as Eileen lowered the splintered chair back to the deck.

"Thanks," Solo said.

Her answer was lost in the new commotion coming from behind them. Fitz had finally noticed that something was amiss, and was barrelling toward them now with murder in his eye. Solo sidestepped, then stuck a leg back out to trip him. The big man went sprawling over his fallen cohort. Before Solo could lay hands on something else to hit him with, the broken chair came back into play, breaking still more as Eileen cracked it over Fitz's balding head. She dropped the remnants on top of him and resolutely dusted off her hands.

Solo stared at her in amazement. "You do this sort of thing often?"

"No. Do you?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm... I mean..."

He shrugged, feeling suddenly very conspicuous in his dripping clothes.

"You wouldn't want a job with a couple of getting-too-old-for-this secret agents, would you?"

She laughed. "Thanks. I'll think about it."

They were back in the speed boat, after hog-tying Fitz and Donahue and leaving them for the Harbor Police, when Solo finally remembered the question he'd been meaning to ask her.

"Who were those guys, anyhow?"

"Former employees of the electronics firm I inherited a major interest in. They wanted me to sign over my stocks. I told them to forget it."

"Yeah. So I heard."

"Thanks for your help, Napoleon."

He looked mildly chagrined. "Lady, you didn't need my help. You sure you don't want a job?"

* * *

Solo was still trying to persuade her two weeks later, when the Night Run, newly repaired and back in its berth, played host to a small deck party for several of Patrick's neighboring mariners.

"It's not such a bad profession," he said over the noise of the music, laughter and clinking cocktail glasses. "It's just that we get sort of a bad reputation from all those TV shows."

Eileen traded smiles with Illya across the small table. "Thanks for the offer, Napoleon. But I really don't think I'm cut out for it." She rose, and they both followed suit automatically. "Thanks for the party, too. Sorry I have to run so early, but duty calls. I have to go over some books tonight and check the early stock returns in the morning."

One on either side, they escorted her dockside, and found themselves rewarded with a brief good-bye kiss each before she disappeared into the night.

"Nice lady," Illya commented absently, staring off into the darkness after her.

"Yeah." Solo smiled. "Maybe I'll buy a boat myself and retire here."

Patrick's strident voice made them both turn. "There you are," he said. "I've been looking all over for you guys. Look! It's fixed. It's finally working!"

The deck polishing robot trailed at his heels, appendages waving. It was attracting considerable attention from the party guests. The thing whirred and girated, industriously polishing the floorboards as it moved.

"That's excellent, Patrick," Illya said, genuinely impressed.

Solo, reserving judgment, moved to the robot's side to peer down at it suspiciously. "Can you control this thing?"

"Sure. The remote's right here. See, there's a control for on, off, and--"

The polisher abruptly sputtered, wheezed and spit up an oozing puddle of oil all over the deck - and Uncle Napoleon's shoes.

Solo smirked and gave the little robot a disgusted retaliatory kick. Then he and the party guests were instantly obliged to duck as the robot went into mechanical spasms and started spewing more wax, simultaneously hurling pieces of itself in all directions.

When the flurry was over and heads began coming back up, Patrick pulled off his glasses and tucked them resignedly into a pocket.

"Well," he sighed. "I guess it could use just a little more work..."