3

"Mr. Solo."

Napoleon blinked, looked down at the intercom on his desk. The light flashed and Mr. Waverly's voice crackled from the speaker again.

"Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon hit the button. "Solo here." He realized he'd been staring blankly at the clock on the wall for the past ... 10 minutes?

"Come to my office, Mr. Solo. We have a problem."

Illya.

The thought came unbidden to attach itself to the end of Mr. Waverly's terse statement.

Napoleon left his and Illya's shared office to head for Mr. Waverly's.

Must have been the unusually late night. He'd been in a strange kind of funk all morning, unable to concentrate. Woolgathering. About trees. A lake. Mountains.

No. Not woolgathering. Too much anxiety was attached to the images to call it woolgathering. He'd been worrying. About trees?

Of course the end-of-mission pile of paperwork wasn't very engaging at the best of times, but Napoleon usually just grit his teeth and ploughed through it. Except when he could find a way to fob it off on his partner.

No such luck today. Illya wasn't even in yet. That in itself was unusual -- it was nearly noon -- but not necessarily cause for worry.

So who's worried? Napoleon asked himself as the door to Mr. Waverly's office slid open. "I am."