[Emma Peel sits on a kitchen chair, holding an ice pack to the back of her head. John Steed is plying her with a snifter of brandy.]
Peel: That was dirty pool, Steed.
Steed: My dear, I do so apologize. Here, drink this. How do you feel now?
Peel: I’m sitting upright; that’ll do for now. But what on earth could have happened to make me try and … kill you?
Steed: Well, I was a bit off-putting about the almondine.
Peel: Be serious!
Steed: Mrs. Peel … I believe you were the victim of a highly-localized mind-control ray, with its own power source, possibly remote-controlled, and certainly transistorized.
Peel: Wh ..? Where would such a thing have come from?
Steed: Ah, both the East and West have been trying their hands at such a device for months now. If the Soviets perfected it, and if it was used on you tonight, I’d look no further than our friend Arnold, though he has run away and is probably clear to Pixley by now.
Peel: The pig?! [Suddenly she understands.] Oh, that collar, of course! Steed, that reminds me, I meant to tell you about a conversation about the Ziffels I had today with Mr. Drucker, at the general store. He told me the postal carrier regularly delivers parcels of highly unusual goods to the Ziffel farm. Electronics, crates of transistors and radio equipment, that sort of thing. Very large packages. All so mysterious.
Steed: Good Lord! That could be the final proof that the Ziffels are not at all what they seem. We must have a look around that farm for ourselves. Er, how did Mr. Drucker know all this?
Peel: Oh, he heard it from Lula, the telephone operator, who has her hair coiffed by the sister of the neighbor who bakes pies for the postmaster’s Men’s Club. [Steed does a double-take. Peel shrugs.]
[ They prepare to sneak to the Ziffels’ farm and do some investigating under cover of darkness. Peel arms herself. She’s back in her signature black vinyl outfit, with a utility belt and shoulder holster. Steed looks bandbox-fresh in his suit with bowler and umbrella. He slips something into his pocket. Together, they pile into the Bentley and head off to the farm.]
/ / /
[They park a little way up a dark gravel road, get out and walk quietly to the farm. There’s a light in one window of the Ziffels’ humble abode. Peel, her gun drawn, sneaks with Steed into the barn. It’s dark and very quiet. Then a lightbulb switches on above their heads. A man’s voice speaks coldly: “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot.” Peel reluctantly tosses down her gun and they raise their hands. Out from the shadow steps …]
Steed: Eb!
Eb: [Holds a Lugar steady. A Russian accent has replaced his backwoods patois.] Good evening, Mr. Steed, Mrs. Peel.
Steed: You know our names? But how?
Eb: “The riddle does not exist. If a question can be put at all, then it can also be answered.”
Peel: Wittgenstein!
Eb: Yes. The benefits of a classical education in Moscow, before joining the KGB – and later, the Organization. [Eb carefully crosses the barn floor.] You gave us quite a turn, you know. It wasn’t until today we were quite certain you were British agents, and not just a couple of bored urbanites trying their hands at the country life. When we got confirmation from our sources in London, we made arrangements to dispatch you in your home. A murder/suicide, nice and convenient. Which brings up a new subject – you two are quite inconveniently alive.
Peel: So sorry to spoil your plans.
Eb: Oh, they’re not spoiled; far from it. You are just an annoyance, easily taken care of.
[Eb flips a lever on the wall. Lassos automatically swoop down and truss Peel and Steed securely, brolly and all. A second lever opens a trap door at their feet.]
Stumble it!
Comments