The prime talent of the Double-Six agent was adaptability. This covered in a loose sense any particular talent conceivable but included specif- ically a native talent and flair for local dialects and speech patterns, a facile but highly retentive mind, and the ability to operate with com- plete independence. In addition, though by no means necessary was that rare combination of an aura of nonentity, the perfect face in the crowd that wouldn't be remembered. Double-Sixes were very rare in- dividuals, and were, even to the Chief himself, just a bit frightening. You never knew-one might just be the PM himself at any given mo- ment. But of course, the Chief kept this observation to himself as he kept the key to all the operations in strictest secrecy.

He regarded the young man facing him. Hard to believe that be- hind that baby-face was one of the most fantastic minds with which he had ever dealt. Especially hard when he regarded the entirely natural mannerisms of the typical West Ender dressed in the latest style of the current recording idol. 661 had been assigned that role some six months before, after a year and a half of living in really sub-human con- ditions on tiny island in the Mediterranean that had resulted in the eventual destruction of one of the largest bands of smugglers yet ap- prehended. Out of the results of that operation had come evidence of an extensive narcotics ring operating among the young people of England, and Agent 661 had just as naturally scrubbed well, had his shaggy mane clipped to the "Mod" style and twenty-four hours after landing in England, was dancing the "Frug" with a group of teenagers in Liverpool. Flexibility, the Chief decided. That was it. Flexibility.

"You picked up rather a bonus down there didn't you? Quite a good piece of work that-we've stopped most of the drugs now- Thank Heaven we have a sensible policy of dealing with it here!—but this intelligence network you've run onto is something else. It helps wrap up a few odd ends we've been kicking about for several months.”

The young agent's eyes snapped with a dark heat. "I'd like a go at it—in fact, I thought I had it doped out before you called me back here. As I reported-there are these three discotheque places-you know where a girl in a glass cage over the middle of the floor plays records and leads the rest of the people in dancing. At any rate, every- thing I've seen points to the one in Liverpool as one terminal—and I should think Berlin would be the other, and just as logically, Paris is the intermediate. Possibly another network joins it there. Then there's these small manufacturers of records-literally hundreds of them down there now each bringing in samples and deliveries. I'd say it's a natu-

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