Aaachooo!

The helmet shot off his head, but remained safely reined by the elastic chin-strap; the fly was propelled forward out of the slimy tunnel on a wave of mucous - if you could have seen it, you'd have sworn it was surfing. 

The pilot lost his grip on the guide bar and the glider dropped sharply toward the concrete below. His thick and neatly cropped moustache twitched - drastic action was needed to avoid another sneeze. He grabbed at the bar with his right hand, his left formed a pointer and his index finger shot into the itching orifice ... he prodded around, the insect had gone and he could feel the sneeze dissolving.

He returned his left hand to the bar and looked up just in time to see the brick wall around the top of a large warehouse rush into view about three metres from his nose - he started to shout and tried to pull the hang glider up and away - but it was too late.

KRUMPP!!

There was a muffled thud, followed by some bad language, as the glider lifted skyward and the Black Overcoat hit the wall with his waist and legs - the whole contraption tipped forward over the lip and tumbled across the gravelled roof...

Kerrang!!!

The V-shaped wing buckled and bent as if it were made of paper...

*spa-dinnnnng*

The safety harness strained and snapped, the pilot tumbled free of the hang-glider and rolled with it across the top of the factory...

BOM-DE-BOM-TISH!

He hit a drum kit that somebody had carelessly left lying about...

POP!!

The plastic bag containing his packed lunch burst, he could feel the clammy texture of the macaroni cheese as it soaked into his pocket. The Black Overcoat rolled and tumbled, but in a kind of slow motion. He could see a skylight approaching, it was painted white but most of the paint had flaked off long ago due to the wet winters and the dry summers. The putty holding the glass was crumbly and brown. He, and the remains of his aircraft now folded around him, hurtled unavoidably towards it. 

They bounced once against a small air-vent just before the skylight and hung in the air above the wooden frame for what seemed an age before dropping onto the old glass...
 

A yellow light started blinking next to a slightly less big red button.

Black scrambled to his feet, lucky for him he had found a safe landing place. He was standing next to a large steaming vat with the words 'DANGER: Boiling Detergent' painted in giant straight black letters around it's top edge. It smelled faintly of soap and cheese.

The yellow light blinked a little bit faster, it was really quite desperate to get someone's attention.

The giant vat was situated in the south-west corner of CleanyPANTS laundry; exactly the place Black had been heading for before the crash. What a stroke of luck. Fate had dropped it's buttered toast face-up on his new shag-pile carpet once more. It was somewhere in the laundry that he had a package to collect, or rather: a package to steal. 

The Black Overcoat often did this sort of thing. He was a spy, a very good one too; he had a couple of medals and all the necessary certificates from the Hard International School of Spies (or H.I.S.S for short). He even had an autographed picture of Roger Moore in his wallet.

Stepping across a muttering bundle, he made his way towards the north-western section of the factory where he could see stacks of  neat cardboard boxes teetering above the hissing machinery. 

Orson, rubbing his sore head, stood up just as The Black Overcoat disappeared around the edge of a trouser press and into the heart of the factory. He turned back to the vat in time to see the yellow light  flashing so quickly that it looked permanently on. 

He tutted: 

  tut,

   tut,

    tut,

and placed a finger thoughtfully against his bottom lip. The sides of the huge container began to swell. The yellow light had stopped flashing, it was much too tired to carry on. 

He muttered:

  mutter,

   mutter,

    mutter, 

...as hot, blue liquid began to spill over the rim. He ran:

   pitter,

    patter,

     pitter,

...in the same direction as the intruder. You see, it was Orson's job to press the special buttons that made sure the
detergent vat was able to drain and refill properly. 

The yellow light flicked on briefly but went out with a sharp 'ping' when it realised that it was probably too late for
warnings. 

The vat exploded with a horrible, loud screech; the sound of the metal tearing like the cry of a great Pterodactyl. A great deep-blue wave of hot fluid, mixed with partly-washed socks, rolled and slopped across the factory floor. It knocked over baskets and buckets, carrying them along like boats; it foamed through passages and frothed over presses and irons; workers ran to the exits in panic, some slipping and disappearing under the tidal wave of stockings and cleaner.

Unaware of the disaster spreading its way across the building, Black approached the neat towers of packing cases and surveyed each column in turn. Every box bore a clean white label describing its contents: 'extra large aprons for extra large butchers' said one, 'dolls handkerchiefs' said another. Black spotted the case he was looking for about three rows along and about ten cases up; it didn't have a label, in fact it seemed to be the ONLY box without a label in the entire area. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the grappling hook.

Somebody shouted in the distance.

Black needed to be quick now. He unravelled some thick nylon cord from his trouser pocket - it was sticky with the remains of his lunch. He attached it to the hook, swung it a couple of times by his side and launched it up the wall of cardboard.

The first time it failed to catch and it fell back to its owner, narrowly missing his head as it thonked into the floor. The second time it caught; Black pulled the rope tight and lifted himself up slightly to make sure it was safe.

It was safe.

Hand over hand he began to climb. He was no more than a couple of boxes high when three workers, dressed in grey overalls, came running from the area of the starching machines. They didn't seem to see Black, or his rope, as they speeded passed the cases and almost fell into the fire escape close by. Black could now hear a roaring noise, something clanged against a nearby machine and the detergent ocean began to wash into view. He climbed faster, almost losing his grip on the macaroni-ed nylon, hand over hand toward his target. The box tower next to his own began to wobble and rock - the weight of the water and socks was undermining it's foundations. A box fell, then another - they began to rain on Black from all around, some splitting open and losing their innards as they bounced and tumbled to the floor, others splashing into the soapy river with a dull slap. He was near his target now; he reached out, one hand tightly gripping the rope, the other clawing at the cardboard for purchase. 

One hand on ! The other hand ON ! 

The rope dangled loose.

He clung to the top edge of the case while his feet swung crazily below him; the roar of the torrent filled his ears. He
pulled on the box and it fell forward towards him...

...he toppled backwards
 

in

the

air

with 

his

arms

gripping

the

box

on

either

side.

**SPLASH**

They hit the water.

The Black Overcoat was washed through the fire exit on the box, like a white-water canoeist,  into a car-park at the back of the laundry. He clambered off and dragged the wet package to a nearby wall. He pulled several items from inside, tucked them into his overcoat, and vanished into the sunny afternoon.
 

Mr Bolognese was doing very badly on a pocket video game.

'I do hope he didn't run into any trouble at the laundry, sir' said Miss Fennel quietly. She wore glasses with lenses so thick you could stop a car with them.

'Agent Overcoat always runs into trouble' muttered Mr Bolognese, he was shaking the game as if to make the characters dizzy, 'last week he went to the toilet and nearly destroyed the entire building.'

'That's as may be' said Mr Ravioli sternly, 'but he's now nearly an hour overdue, and that just won't do at all !'

The only door in the room opened and the Black Overcoat stepped inside.

'Sorry I'm late, sir, but the traffic was just awful.' he smiled; he had a wet sock sticking out of his collar.

He was carrying a shopping bag. He removed the sock, placing it in his pocket.

'And how are you today, Miss Fennel ? You are looking as ravishing as always' Black said. He removed his overcoat to reveal a fresh, dry overcoat underneath. He threw the old one away behind him - it landed on Mr Ravioli's head.

'Agent Overcoat...when you've quite finished.' came a muffled shout.

'Sorry, sir.' Black handed the carrier bag to Mr Bolognese, who put the game into his pocket with a sigh. 'I think you find that they are all there' Black continued, 'every last one of them.'

'Jolly good work, Black' said Mr Ravioli, shaking Black's hand. 'The Prime Minister will be awfully pleased.'

'I don't see why he couldn't have picked up his own washing' muttered Mr Bolognese pulling a pair of large pants from the bag and holding them up to the light, ' and they still haven't got the orange juice stain out of these, you know.'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, sir' said Black to Mr Ravioli, 'but those aren't an ordinary pair of Y-fronts - if you'll allow
me...'

Mr Ravioli nodded and Black took the pants from Mr Bolognese; he grabbed the washing instructions label and pulled hard. It came away with a long ripping sound revealing a thin roll of camera film.

'If I'm not mistaken' continued Black, 'this film contains the plans to a new tip-top secret weapon developed by S.P.I.M, the Society for the Promotion of International Mischief. There are more films in the socks, the brassieres, and the "Welcome to Bournmouth" ear-cosies.'

They all boo-ed at the mention of S.P.I.M.

'Yes, yes, agent Overcoat, that's enough of that.' said Mr Ravioli.

'Tell him about the new mission' prompted Mr Bolognese.

'I was just about to' replied Mr Ravioli. He sat down. They all sat down - apart from Mr Bolognese who, not having a chair, fell flat on his behind with a thump.

'What do you know of the forthcoming "International Conference for Peace and General Niceness" ?' asked Mr  Ravioli.

'Well,' answered Black, 'it's been planned and organised by the United Nations to put an end to all wars and make everybody love eachother a bit more. It's going to take place in Switzerland, at the end of this week. All the world leaders will be there.'

'Precisely!' exclaimed Mr Ravioli.

'Ahhh,' said Black thoughtfully, 'a perfect opportunity for S.P.I.M to do something horrid and spiteful.'

They all hissed when Black mentioned 'S.P.I.M' again, and then went quiet and serious.

'We want you to go to Switzerland and meet up with Agent Pesto. He's got some information about planned S.P.I.M activities. Then its up to you to make sure that the conference goes ahead without any trouble.' explained Mr Ravioli. He was so serious that his eyebrows now completely covered his eyes.

'How will I recognise Agent Pesto when I see him ?' asked Black.

'He'll be thumbing for a lift on the St Bilderthwaite's Pass road' answered Mr Bolognese.

Mr Ravioli looked at his watch. 'Blast!' he cried, 'I'm late for my Step class' and he hurried out of the room, Miss Fennel scuttled after him closing the door behind her.

'If you'll come with me, Overcoat, I'll give you the equipment you'll be needing on this mission' said Mr Bolognese. He pressed a hidden button somewhere on Mr Ravioli's desk; it swung aside revealing a set of stairs disappearing into the ground.

'Now you'll have to avoid the airports when travelling - we have reason to believe that S.P.I.M agents will be expecting one of our best men to be on this case.' explained Mr Bolognese, 'It's lucky for us that we're sending YOU instead' he chuckled.

The room that they had walked down into was as big as a football pitch and as high as a house. There were lots of people in long, white coats running to and fro carrying boxes and guns and small, brown things that went 'neep neep' when you squeezed them. This was the central research laboratory of H.I.S.S.

'Over here we have the exploding forks...' continued Mr Bolognese, '...when they come into contact with spit they
detonate and force the prongs of the fork into the tongue and cheeks of the victim. Very nasty and very effective.' he said.

'And over there ?' Black pointed to a heavily shielded area at one side of the room.

'That's where we keep the "cowpats of doom"' replied Mr Bolognese,' not a very pleasant site on a hot, sunny afternoon'.

They moved quickly to the far end of the enormous laboratory where Black could see an exit door. Parked near this door was a Citroen 2CV, the model that looks like an upside-down jelly mould. It was painted yellow. It looked horrible.

'And what amazing things does this do, Chief ?' asked Black, pointing to the car.

'Oh that? Nothing...nothing at all. Since Agent Lobster-Thermadore crashed our Aston Martin this is all we could
afford.' replied Mr Bolognese, ' in fact that's going to be YOUR transport to Switzerland.'

Black sighed. 'Could we at least put some skiis on the top to make it look a little bit trendy ?' he asked.

'Oh allright then.' was his answer.
 

He had decided, after getting punched clean out of the ring by Bomber Spittoon, that he needed to take a holiday. He chose a walking holiday in Italy and Switzerland because it was clean, scenic, cheap, and NOT full of other boxers who would hit him.

However, he had run out of money and had been thrown off the bus just before the St Bilderthwaite's Pass that lead from Italy into Switzerland. All he had was rucksack with a change of underwear in it, and a half-eaten bag of soggy chips.

It was while he was walking up the steep mountain road that he noticed a strange package in a group of thick bushes. On closer inspection, Norbert saw that it was a body.

The man was dressed in shorts and an 'I love Blind Date' tee-shirt. He had been tickled to death by a feather boa that lay nearby. It made Norbert feel sick - it was pink and fluffy and had glittery stuff on the edges. In the man's pocket was a wallet with an I.D card; it said 'Alfred G. Pesto'.

Fearing that the police would arrive and blame him, Norbert began running toward the pass, still high above him, and didn't stop for twenty minutes. He looked down and saw that the boa had caught in his shoes and he'd dragged it all this way. He was about to throw it over the edge of the steep cliff next to the road when a car horn tweeted behind him.

He froze.

It must be the police, he thought. He put his hands in the air, still clutching the feather boa, and shouted 'I'm innocent. I surrender.'

'I'm sure that you are.' came the response, ' In the meantime, can I offer you a lift somewhere ?'

Norbert turned round. There was a bright yellow Citroen 2CV parked in front of him, the engine chugging and popping. The driver wore expensive sun-glasses, the ones with the mirrors on the inside. There were a pair of skis tied to the roof with string - they wobbled in time with the rattle of the engine.

(dramatic pause)

'What are you doing here, cousin Norbert ?' asked Black as he carried on driving up the mountain.

'I'm on holiday, cousin Black, and a rotten one it is too.' he replied, 'I found a body back there, you know.' 

Norbert handed him the wallet. Black glanced at the I.D card.

'Ah, poor Pesto - I was supposed to meet him on this road. It looks like he's thumbed his last lift.' Black sighed.

'Are you still an International spy, cousin ?' asked Norbert, producing the chips from his rucksack and chewing the less-green ones.

'I'm not at liberty to divulge that information, Norbert, but lets just say that 'NO' would be an incorrect answer to give to that question.' Black replied.

Norbert looked confused: 'Does that mean that you are or that you aren't ?'

Black sighed again: 'Never mind.'

It was now midday and the weather had become very hot. They rolled the windows down. Birds sang in the olive groves and vineyards that littered the green mountainsides; the sky was the bluest of blues. Black turned the radio on and they tapped their feet to summer songs. Norbert got a bit carried away and his foot went though the floor; he pulled his leg back in quickly and watched the grey of the road whizzing underneath the car.

Soon the road became thinner and dustier, the 2CV was followed by an orange cloud of dry mud and dead leaves, and the dark, round entrance of the St Bilderthwaites Pass tunnel came into view. Hovering above it in the hazy heat of the afternoon was a small, white helicopter, even it's cockpit was encased in milky glass - it looked like an angry dragonfly.

'Hello...?' said Black nervously.

'Hello' replied Norbert, who was reading a comic.

Black hit the brakes hard. The helicopter buzzed forward slowly, two machine guns attached to the underside began spitting hot lead at them. Two parallel lines of dusty bullet impacts chattered past, the 2CV in between.

'It looks like Pesto's killers want to play' Black said. He thumped the car into reverse and sent it backwards at an
alarming rate, the helicopter stopped firing and overshot them - it disappeared behind a rocky outcrop. There was a loud squal as Black applied the brakes again; they sped into the safety of the tunnel before the helicopter returned. 

The trouble wasn't over though. When they emerged on the Switzerland side of the tunnel, they saw four white sports cars, probably Ferraris, parked and waiting. As Black and Norbert sped passed, they shot forward and formed a snake-like train behind them; their engines roared and growled. Out of alternate passenger windows a man appeared, pointing a rifle at the 2CV, and began firing; they wobbled and swayed around each corner. 

The speedometer showed 100KPM and the accelerator was pressed right to the floor, Black couldn't get the thing to go any faster. 

'We're going to have to get rid of these guys one by one, Norbert - are you with me ?' Black asked.

'I haven't got much of a choice, have I cousin?' he replied.

Black patted Norbert's knee: 'Good!' He explained his plan. It was Plan 1764 in the Spy's Book of Cunning Things to Do in a Dangerous Situation.

As they rounded another, particularly sharp, corner, Norbert slipped his seat back and bent down to the hole his foot had made in the floor. 

'It should be within arms reach from there' said Black.

Norbert felt the bleed nipple for the oil sump. 'I'll need a wrench of some kind' he complained. Black took an ordinary pen from his pocket. 

'Here,' he said, handing it to Norbert, ' this should do it. Just press the nib against the nipple and squeeze.'

Norbert did this. There was a muffled crack, like the sound of a stick snapping, and he felt a warm wetness on his hand.

'It worked!' he cheered.

Behind them, a trail of engine oil had begun to form. The first white sports car couldn't avoid the inky slick and it skidded into a violent spin, like a top. The gunman was thrown out of the window and over the edge of the roadside cliff; a few short seconds later, the first white car followed him.

'We've got to act fast' said Black, 'now that we've emptied our engine of oil.'.

Whizz! Crack! Spa-ding! Spa-dow!

The second car had pulled up into the position of the missing first. The gunmen were still shooting. The back window of the 2CV was punched by the impact of several bullets before it exploded in a shower of tiny fragments onto the back seat. 

'Now!' shouted Black. Norbert took a box of matches from the glove compartment and lit them one after another, dropping them on to the back seat. It began to smoulder. Within 30 seconds, the seat was ablaze, the old foam and vinyl producing a cloud of smelly, black smoke. There was a squeal of brakes in the dark fog behind and Black saw the second white car swerve off the road and over the cliff. 

'Two down...' he cheered,

'...and two to go!' finished Norbert. This was much more exciting than his comic.

The road was wider now, they had come quite a way down the mountain, but still the remaining two white cars followed. In the distance, Black and Norbert could hear the 'whump whump whump' of a helicopter.

The gunman in the third car had swapped his rifle for a bigger weapon; it looked like a launcher of some kind. There was a whoosh and a whistle and most of the road in front of the Overcoat boys disappeared under an avalanche of stone and dust. There was hardly any room to get by. 

'Hang on!' cried Black as he steered the car towards the grassy roadside bank. It hit it with a load thunk! One of the wheels on the passenger side lost it's hubcap, which rolled on its own down the road and into the rocky blockage. 

Black was now driving the 2CV on two wheels! Norbert leant out of his window to see the road about 6 feet below him.

They trundled precariously around the edge of the rubble barrier; Black looked out of his window to see the steep cliff drop sharply away. It was a long way down. They were no more than two or three inches from the edge.

The third Ferrari hit the bank in roughly the same spot as the 2CV. It was going too quickly, though, and rolled onto its roof. It scraped along the road until it hit the rockfall where it tipped up onto it's boot and slammed into the stone. The fourth car couldn't stop in time to avoid the stricken third. It hit the bumper and rode up onto the roof of it's partner. With a whizz and a growl, it flew over the blockage using the other car as a ramp. It landed on clear road on the other side and continued it's chase. Meanwhile, the driver of the third car climbed out of his ruined vehicle and was so dizzy that he staggered off the top of the cliff by mistake.

The fire in the back seat of their car was growing, and the dry engine began to bang and rattle. Black saw a petrol station up ahead and pulled in. They both jumped out and ran into the shop as the fire reached the petrol tank:

WHUMMP!

The last white car sped into the petrol station, narrowly missing the blazing 2CV and hitting the petrol pumps full on:

WHUMMP! WHUMMP!

Black and Norbert stood up. The air was full of smoke and paper. The owner, an old man with wispy hair and a pipe, was staring in open -mouthed horror at his forecourt.

'Sacre Bleu!' he muttered.

Black put a 10 franc note on the counter and spoke. 

'I'll have an Orange lolly and my friend here will have a Mr Whippy.'

The owner turned to face him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Black continued:

'I don't suppose you know anybody who would like to sell us a car ?'

Agent Hotpot would meet them on the piste.

*

Black and Norbert went to pay the fare for the cable car journey to the top of the mountain. Norbert insisted on tagging along, seeing as how he had been so useful during the car chase. Black agreed - with a bit of luck Norbert would get shot before he did.

A little, old lady sat behind the pay desk. She wore small, gold-rimmed glasses balanced on the edge of her nose. A huge cup of tea steamed next to her as she took bites out of a huge cake.

'Bon le morning, madamouselle.' said Black confidently, ' Je needez deux tiquets pour le car de cable, por favor'.

'mmmf mmmf mmmf *gulp* mmmf ?' asked the old lady.

'Oui, une pour moi et une por mon amis "Norbert"' he answered.

'mmmf mmmf *chew* mmmf *barp*' she continued, pausing to take a slurp of the tea.

'Non, madamme, juste the une way - nous shall be skiing sur le mountain apres' Black lied. The old lady looked around for their skiis.

'mmmf ?' she asked. Black nodded. She tore off two red tickets and pushed them over the counter, taking the money on the way back. She pointed in the direction of the loading platform where a car had just arrived and they moved away. When she was sure that they couldn't see or hear her anymore, the old lady pressed a button on her intercom and whispered into the microphone:

'mmmmf *burp*chew* mmmf !' she said.

'H'over an out, senora' came the reply.

*

The cable car started toward the mountain. It was big enough for four people and was completely round, like a football, with several sets of skiis and a mountain bike strapped to its side for transportation. Norbert opened one of the sliding windows and began throwing chips at people below.

'Who were those people trying to kill us ?' he asked.

'They were probably working for S.P.I.M.' Black replied, for a moment he thought he heard a boo-ing sound. Black continued: 'There's a big international conference taking place in the Swiss village of Pomme de Terre tomorrow - all the world's major leaders will be there. We've got to find out what S.P.I.M are up to and stop them.'

'How is Agent Hotpot going to help ?' asked Norbert.

'He's been working undercover as part of S.P.I.M for several months now. He's going to get us into their secret
headquarters.' replied Black.

'Where are the headquarters ?' said Norbert.

'I don't know - it's a secret !' answered Black.

Black stopped. Coming down another cable toward them was a white car. When they were parallel, both vehicles stopped. A hatch flipped up on the white car's roof and a man climbed out; he attached a grapple to some rope and swung it at them - it clanged and caught against the arm that held their car to the thick, steel cable.

They rocked slowly backwards and forwards, underneath them was a thousand feet of air and a clean white plain of snow.

The windows of the white car opened and three men leaned out with pistols pointed at Black and Norbert.

'Don move a mossle!' one of them shouted, he had a Spanish accent, 'Stay right where you are.'

The man on the rope was nearly across.

'What are we going to do ?' asked Norbert. But Black was already thinking.

'When I say, drop to the floor!' he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, 'Ready ....NOW!'

They both leapt to the floor and the men in the other car opened fire, the air was filled with the ratta-tat-tat of bullets. 

Black had ripped off one of his coat sleeves and taken what looked like a mortar bomb from his pocket.

'Thank goodness for deep pockets!' he mumbled. He pulled a cord hidden in the lining of the sleeve and the whole thing went as stiff as a piece of drainpipe. He slotted one end of the tube into a shoe that he had just removed; he gave the bomb to Norbert.

'Drop this down the tube when I say, Norbert.' he instructed.

Black moved to the back of the car, avoiding glass and metal fragments that littered the interior, and levelled the
contraption. 

'Now, Norbert, now !' he shouted. Norbert dropped the metal canister into the stiffened sleeve and ducked.

There was clang and whoop and then a huge, echoing explosion, and then silence.

Black and Norbert looked out of the shattered windows. The only thing that remained of the white cable car was the attaching arm and a small square of roof fixed to it. On the plain far below, they could see person shaped holes in the snow. 

*

Jusavio Hotpot placed his empty coffee cup on the table and put his eye to the mini-telescope. He had heard the explosion from his hotel room and had stepped on to the balcony to investigate.

He followed the cable from the terminus at the bottom of the mountain and stopped when he spotted a cable car swaying on the up line, and the remains of another on the down line; Jusavio couldn't see anybody inside. He followed the cable again, this time toward the top of the mountain - two figures were moving along it, one of them he immediately recognised as the Black Overcoat, the other was sat on Black's shoulders with his arms
outstretched.

They were riding a bike.

Jusavio zoomed in closer. The tyres of the bike had been removed to provide better grip on the thick, steel cord. Black was pedalling as fast as possible because they could keep better balance that way; his face was bright red with the strain and sweat dripped off his moustache like a leaky tap. 

Norbert had his eyes squeezed tightly shut because he was afraid of heights.

'If we ever reach the top, we're going to have some explaining to do you know' he said, not even peeking at the enormous drop below them.

'Don't (puff) worry about that (wheeze)" Black replied, 'I've (gasp) got just the thing in my utility (honk) belt.' He reached into his coat and handed Norbert a package, 'Standard H.I.S.S issue' he explained,' It's the latest in (gasp) non-recognition scenario facilitators (wheeze)'

'Oh,' said Norbert, 'It's a disguise then ?'

*

A small crowd applauded and cheered in amazement as the two clowns cycled tiredly into the way station at the top of the mountain. They hopped off, their long oversized shoes flapping and clapping on the concrete floor.

Agent Hotpot recognised the bald one with the revolving bow-tie as Black and walked up to him. The other clown was throwing a bucket of paper squares over nearby children.

'The sun is hot on the wheat fields' said Jusavio, tapping his nose.

'And the price of skimmed milk remains low' replied Black, tugging his left ear.

'That's if you have a taste for it' continued Jusavio, tickling his knees.

'Spippy-spippy-doo' finished Black, waving his hands under his armpits like a monkey.

'The Black Overcoat, I presume' said Hotpot.

'Agent Hotpot, is it not ?' replied Black. They shook hands. 'And this is my cousin Norbert' he added. Norbert honked his bicycle horn three times.

They talked as they walked to Hotpot's room.

'I see you had a spot of trouble in the cable car' said Jusavio.

'Yes. S.P.I.M agents, no doubt. They must be planning something big, they've been trying to get rid of me since I entered the Alps.' Black replied.

Norbert tweeted the horn again.

'And what of Pesto ?' asked Hotpot.

'He didn't make it, poor fellow. Somebody got to him by the pass.'

Hotpot nodded solemnly. Behind them a hooter hooted.

'Poor fellow indeed.' said Hotpot, 'However, we in Swiss H.I.S.S have made an important breakthrough - we have a man on the inside at S.P.I.M headquarters here in Pomme de Terre. His name is Marcel de Bommmmmmmmmmmm. He is one of our best operatives and will meet us here this evening.'

'We need to act fast, Jusavio, the conference begins tomorrow and we still have no idea what S.P.I.M are up to.' Black frowned as he said this.

*Paaarp* went the hooter.

:CRUNCH:

(*honk*tweet*)

Hotpot ushered them into his room; Black used the toilet while Norbert tried to remove the horn from his nose.
 

Black finished his coffee. 'I recently recovered some S.P.I.M blueprints for a secret weapon; it was a chemical weapon of some kind. Perhaps this and the beans are related somehow ?' he said.

'How fiendish ! How diabolical ! What would they hope to achieve by such an act?' gasped Hotpot.

There was a knock at the door.

'Ah, that will be Marcel' said Hotpot. He opened the door.

Marcel de Bommmmmmmmmmmm side-stepped into the chamber with his hands open and in front of him as if he were trapped behind an invisible wall. He was a mime. He made no sound at all as he glided across the carpet. He wore a stripey black and white shirt with black leggings and his face was completely covered with a mask of white.

'Who's this ponce ?' asked Norbert, finally able to speak after getting the hooter out.

'This, how you say 'ponce', is the legendary Marcel de Bommmmmmmmmmmm' answered Hotpot. The mime took a long and exaggerated bow and sat cross-legged on the floor. Hotpot continued: 'he is our foremost expert on S.P.I.M'.

'He looks a right 'nana in those tights.' chuckled Norbert.

There was a brief shout and a tweet as the horn was re-inserted.

'We'll be back before midnight' said Black, adjusting his coat,' - don't wait up.'

They followed the performance artist out of the door, taking huge strides and waving their arms around as they did so.

'Is this entirely necessary ?' Black asked the mime.

Marcel nodded and sped up. Hotpot watched them disappear down the corridor before going back into his room for some supper.

*

They stomped down the snowy road to the main part of the village of Pomme de Terre, a small and pretty resort nestled in the famous Aubergine mountains. It was still quite early in the evening and the smells of barbecues and the sound of songs and laughter filled the crystal air. Icicles had begun to form on Black's moustache; Norbert had put his moustache in his pocket for safe-keeping.

They remained silent as they travelled. 

Eventually, after much too-ing and fro-ing, and juggling-with-balls-that -you-couldn't-see-ing, they reached the
secret S.P.I.M meeting place. It was an old supply warehouse on the lonely side of the village. It was four storeys high with bricked up windows and a rotting sign hung over the tattered front doors. 

The sign was swinging in the gentle wind, squeaking.

Marcel indicated to a pathway, leading around to the back of the building, which they followed. He then began stepping down an imaginary staircase and disappeared.

Black looked at Norbert. Norbert looked at Black. They gave it a go.

At the bottom of the non-stairs, Marcel opened the cellar door that wasn't there with a key he didn't have and they stepped inside.

Black turned on his pen-torch. The cellar they had walked into was damp, dark and musty but with a smooth slate floor and a high ceiling. It was a very high ceiling. The cellar was empty; there wasn't even a staircase, which must have moulded away long ago.

'What now ?' whispered Norbert.

Black turned to Marcel. 'What now ?' he asked.

Marcel guided the torch toward a far corner where the plaster of the ceiling had rotted and fallen away, dim light filtered through a hatch that somebody had recently fitted over it. In the cold silence of the cellar they could hear voices above them.

Once the hatch was opened, Black could just about pop his head through into what seemed like a box. He was standing on Norbert's shoulders who was, in turn, standing on Marcel's - it didn't feel very secure.

The box had two holes in it; Black looked through into a bright room.

'What can you see ?' asked Norbert excitedly.

Black could see a large table. More accurately, he could see the legs of a large table, the legs of the chairs that were placed around it, and the legs of various S.P.I.M persons. 

He could  hear everything they were saying:

'Are you sure that everything is in place ?' asked one.

'Completely, number 34. Our agents are, as we speak, preparing the final meals. The whole base has been put on Yellow Alert.' came the reply.

'And the antidote ? Has everybody been given the antidote ?' asked a third.

'Yes indeedy. All non-active S.P.I.M personnel have been issued with anti-gas pills.' the second voice responded.

'Do we have our agents in place at the conference building ? It would be a shame to have gone to all this trouble for nothing.' piped up a fourth, 'And I wouldn't like to be in your shoes if this enterprise goes wrong, number 28.'

'That's right' said the first voice,' they've probably been stuffed full of explosives.'

'ENOUGH!' boomed a strong voice. Somebody had just entered the room. 'Everything is ready. The conference will be S.P.I.M's greatest success to date!' 

'We could do with a success. Those rotters at H.I.S.S keep stopping us in the nick of time. In fact, I wouldn't be
surprised if they were about to stop us right now.' muttered a sad voice.

Everybody stopped and they looked around the room warily. A nervous voice began to speak:

'G.g..oood e..evening, number wa..wa..one' it said 'You honour us with your p..p..presence'

'Creep' mumbled somebody.

'You can dispense with the pleasantries, number 83.' said the leader, pressing a button on the table in front of him.

Somebody's flip-flops went bang!

He continued: 'I am here to make sure that the final stages of Operation Pardon Me go smoothly. Now, have you seen to those tiresome enemy agents yet ?'

'Not yet, number one, but we have dispatched our finest assassins to finish them off tonight. They're staying at the
Hotel de la Valise.' number 83 answered. 

'FOOL!' screamed number 1, 'Don't you know that the assassins charge a fortune for overtime! This is going to cost us ... cost YOU a lot!'

They continued to bicker and argue, every now and again one of them would go 'Pop!' or 'Phizz' and disappear in a cloud of smoke, or slip down a chute to a shark pool, or something equally horrid.

Meanwhile, Marcel was having problems at the bottom of the people -tower. Several rats had come into the cellar and were sniffing around his feet. He kicked out but they wouldn't go away. There was nothing he could do by hop around in surprise when one of them ran up his trouser leg.

There was a crash and shout and a wallop and a curse. Marcel was squashed beneath Norbert, who was squashed beneath Black. When they sat themselves up they were surrounded by nasty men wearing padded red jumpsuits; they were holding guns with torches on.

'Good evening, Black Overcoat' said a voice from behind the men, it sounded like number one. The guards parted and a man stepped into the light; Norbert gasped:

'My goodness, cousin Black' he cried,' Its your brother!'
 

They were in a small cell somewhere deep in the bowels of S.P.I.M headquarters. Marcel was in the corner, trapped in an invisible box.

'On the contrary, dear brother, I most certainly will.' answered the White Overcoat, his dastardly twin.' You see, we have developed a chemical that, when mixed with foods, makes the eater break wind a lot.'

'So ?' laughed Black, 'you should try eating in the H.I.S.S canteen some time.'

'That is not all, my wretched sibling' continued White, 'the normally noxious purp gases are replaced with an odour that induces sleep to all that breath it. We will unleash this barrage of billious, bed-beckoning bottom-burps on the United Nations conference tomorrow and kidnap all of the world's most important leaders! The ransom will be a billion dollars.'

'Egad!' cried Norbert,' that's despicable'

'Thankyou, cousin' said White, brushing his moustache wickedly, 'I like to think so.'

Black wriggled in his bonds, 'I will do everything in my power to stop you, evil kinsman.'

Some of the guards sniggered.

'I'm afraid that's not very likely, brother' said White, ' you see - we have something rather special lined up for you.'

The floor underneath Black and Norbert fell away revealing a dark, smoking pit.

'Did you know that the village of Pomme de Terre is built on the site of a volcanic crater ?' questioned the White Overcoat.

'Is it really ?' asked Norbert excitedly, ' How fascinating.'

'Well, it is.' continued White,' and although it is now inactive, there are still a few smouldering pockets of
superheated mud. Just enough to help us kill the odd H.I.S.S agent here and there.'

'But that's impossible.' said Black, ' This is Switzerland. There aren't any volcanoes in Switzerland.'

Oh allright then.' conceded White,' I just made that bit up. It's just a vat of mud warmed by our central heating boiler, BUT IT'S STILL NASTY.'

'Very nasty' echoed one of the guards.

'Very very nasty' echoed another.

'Very very very..'

'That's enough !' interrupted White, 'No more talking. Let's set up the slow death trap and get on with our work.' He strode angrily out of the room, turning once and speaking before he left:

'Goodbye, brother' he said coldly.

'I prefer Au Revoir' replied Black, and the henchmen moved in closer.

*

'So let me get this straight' said Norbert, who was slightly confused.

'We're tied to the ceiling by THOSE ropes over there, and those candles underneath them will burn through the rope and drop us into the pit of boiling mud.

'That is correct, doomed personage' replied the guard. His jump-suit was particularly padded, with leather patches on the sleeves.

'So how are the candles ignited ?' Norbert asked. 

'By the gas burner in the corner' answered the guard.

'And that burner will be started by the action of the goat...' continued Norbert. There was a muffled 'baaa'.

'...being brought down and devoured by the Bengal tiger...'

There was a distant growl.

'...on the pressure sensitive pad by the cage.'

'Yes.' agreed the guard.

'I'm with you so far' sighed Black.

'So how does the tiger get out ?' asked Norbert.

The guard shuffled, tutted, and answered.

'Look,' he said, 'it's perfectly simple. When the barman in the S.P.I.M members-only bar pulls the fiftieth pint of the evening, the barrel in his cellar will be light enough to be tipped by a cunning set of scales. This tipping motion will slowly raise the gate of the tiger cage, releasing it onto the goat.'

'Then tiger kills goat, goat falls on pad, pad lights burner, burner lights candles, candles burn through rope, and plummet.' summarised Norbert.

'That is correct -' smiled the guard, 'plummet! And now, if you don't mind, I've got a Needlework evening class to go to.'

The guard left the cell.

'What are we going to do, Black ?' asked Norbert nervously.

'I'm not sure, Norbert, but I think those monsters have forgotten one important thing' he replied.

'What's that ?' asked Norbert.

'Their plan is incredibly silly.' he said.

They hung there in the prison for an age. Time passed slowly.

Suddenly, a small door opened in the cell wall and a goat stumbled in; it looked confused and scared as it trotted over to the pressure -sensitive pad where somebody had laid out some fresh hay.

'Uh-oh' said Norbert, 'have you got a plan, cousin Black, because I don't think we've got much time left.'

'I've got a plan so clever you can mark it ten out of ten and stick on a gold star for good measure !' replied Black. He seemed to be rummaging in his pockets for something, every now and again an object would slip from inside the ropes and fall into the smoky hole beneath them.

'Ah! Got it!' he cried triumphantly as he pushed a sock out with his fingertips. The goat looked up and bleated. It liked socks. It trotted over to where Black was hanging and sniffed at it; it was slightly cheesy.

'Go on, go on' encouraged Black, waving the sock around in front of the goat's nose. 

It took a nervous nibble.

Liking what it tasted, the goat took a bigger bite and began tugging on the foot/shoe interface product while Black held on to it tightly. Black began to swing back and forth as the animal pulled harder and harder.

'Oh no!' cried Norbert in horror,' LOOK!'. He popped his index finger out between his bonds and pointed.

A big tiger had also entered the room.

It was sleek and powerful. Muscles rippled along it's bright orange torso. Muscles rippled on the muscles. It's green eyes were clear and alert, shining with hunger. It dribbled.

Marcel, who was asleep in the corner with his head titled on to his praying hands, woke with a start as the tiger bounded across the cell toward him. There was a growl and a shout and, finally, a long belch.

He was gone.

(If you looked carefully at the tiger's body in the next moment, you would swear you saw hand shapes pressing out against the beast's skin)

The tiger pounced at the goat. It was a powerful, graceful pounce. It pounced as if lighter than a feather. Pounce-wise this was the tops.

It clawed at the bleating creature, narrowly missing Black, who was swinging around violently on his suspending rope after letting go of the sock.

The tiger missed and fell into the pit with a surprised purr.

Something sizzled in the darkness below Black and Norbert.

'I don't suppose it's feline too good now' quipped Black as he snipped the ropes tied around him with a pair of key-ring scissors. He timed the last snip as he swung over a safe part of the floor and fell to the ground with soft thump.

Black set Norbert free and they both crept out of the room, turning the light off after them.

'Poor Marcel' sighed Norbert sadly,' What a horrible way to go.'

'What do you mean "poor Marcel" ?' asked Black,' What about "poor tiger" ? It can't have been much fun for the mighty jungle beast to have spent it's last moments with a useless mime crawling about it's stomach.'

'What sort of attitude is that to have ?' asked Norbert angrily. 

'I don't like mimes.' replied Black.

'Why not ?' Norbert continued.

'I stepped on one at a beach when I was a young boy' Black answered.

'You mean a MINE, don't you ?' corrected Norbert.

'No,' Black said thoughtfully, recalling the awful moment,' it was definitely a mime. Thin chap, white face. Apparently, he was pretending to be a limpet.'

'A limpet mime ?' said Norbert.

'Apparently so.' answered Black.

They followed the corridors and passages trying to find a way out of the building. It was difficult because the place was a hive of activity, all in preparation for Operation Pardon Me's execution the next day.

They were sneaking passed the kitchens when a chef in a padded white uniform spotted them. He let out a cry.

'Prisoners! They are escaping! Call the guards! Sound the alarm!' he shouted.

They ran on. People were appearing from all around as a high-pitched siren began to sound. The chef had stepped into the corridor and the top of his stiff, white hat lifted open revealing a small gun. He tipped himself forward and it fired. 

Black and Norbert burst through a small door and into the cool night air. 

They had emerged in the back yard of S.P.I.M headquarters; there were bins and boxes all around. Snatching a greasy, metal tray which was resting against the wall, Black and Norbert headed towards the centre of the village. A crowd of henchmen were in close pursuit, however, and they had more expensive shoes with better grip on the icy ground; they were gaining fast. 

'Come on, Norbert' shouted Black to his flagging cousin,' We need more speed'

Black grabbed hold of Norbert's hand, pulling him closer, and placed the tray on the snow with his other hand; they hopped on together just in time.

Dawn was breaking as they sped down the mountain on theircustomised sled.
 

'Out of the frying pan...' said Black. Ice had begun to form on their moustaches and gouts of white, condensed breath trailed behind them like a steam train.

The helicopter was a big passenger-carrying model. It whupp-whupped over the crisp mountain side, five skiers on each side waiting for their cue.

(Dramatic music began playing in the background)

The helicopter dipped in low behind the escapees and the men dropped onto the slope.

(The music got louder)

Black handed Norbert a pistol from inside his sock. 

'Here...do something useful with this' he said. Norbert began shooting.

Each skier raised one of his sticks, really a cleverly disguised rifle, and began shooting back.

*Phht*Phht*Phht*Phtt* went the bullets as they hit the snow around the sled.

'Let's go somewhere more private' shouted Black as he dug his foot in the soft surface and the tray whipped off to their left into a forest.

'They'll never catch us in here' said Black confidently.

'That's providing WE manage to get through these trees without crashing' answered Norbert.

They were hurtling down the mountain at breakneck speed now. The forest wasn't dense enough to cause Black too many navigation problems, but it was still a scary ride.

BANG! They bounced of a hidden rock.

WHOOOSH! They kicked up a cloud of snow in an emergency turn.

CLANG! They hit a tree stump.

SQUAWK! They clipped a feeding bird.

BOM-DE-BOM-TISH! They collided with a drum kit that somebody had carelessly left lying around.

The area opened out into a flat plain of silver white before them. A red sign whizzed passed them; it said 'NO SKIING! Danger of Avalanche'. 

They sped on. The S.P.I.M assassins were still following.

Another sign whistled by; it said 'Look, this really IS an avalanche area - Absolutely NO Skiing OR Sledging !'

Black and Norbert ignored it. The skiers got closer.

Finally, they passed a huge neon sign with yellow lights flashing around it's edge. It winked 'Please Go Back - You'll Regret It'. The bad guys were nearly upon them.

'Keep firing, Norbert' shouted Black.

'Why ?' Norbert asked, levelling the pistol at the lead assassin and sending him tumbling away from the chase.

'Because, with a bit of luck, we'll start an avalanche' he replied.

Norbert couldn't control himself. He screamed at the top of his voice:

'AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!' YOU'RE A NUTTER!

'Happy now ?' asked Black. There was an ominous rumble, like thunder, from behind them. They turned around.

'Oh...my...gosh' said Black quietly.

Even the skiers were looking up the mountain at the tidal wave of snow and ice that was plunging toward them at an incredible speed. Within seconds it was upon them all; an ear-splitting, eyebrow-raising, bum-clenching, toe-curling, arm-waving, leg-jellying, stomach -churning, 'deary-deary-me'-ing monster of an avalanche.

It crashed and roared around them. Everyone was screaming but you couldn't hear them for the pounding. Norbert could see Black trying to shout something but the words were lost in the clamour. 

The tray veered crazily off to one side, carried forward by the momentum of the giant wave, Black and Norbert clinging to each -other for dear life. Then, with a final deafening boom, they were punched forward into the icy ground and the mountain washed over them.

*

It was cold, so cold.

Black couldn't feel his fingers though he was sure he was wriggling them. He was shivering. 

He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. He moved his arms and legs, nothing hurt too bad - no broken bones it seemed.

He clawed at the snow that surrounded him and sunlight streamed onto his raised face. He gulped the air greedily.

Norbert's familiar face appeared.

'What kept you ?' he asked, smiling.

'Had a bit of bother' Black replied. Norbert helped him out.

There was no sign of the S.P.I.M henchmen, they must have been buried in the disaster. Somebody handed Black a steaming mug of hot chocolate, it was Jusavio Hotpot.

'You were very lucky, Agent Overcoat' he said, wrapping a blanket around Black's shoulders,' it seems that you and your cousin are the only survivors.'

'What time is it ?' Black asked, feeling the warmth return to his farthest parts.

'It's a little after seven o'clock, my friend' answered Hotpot.

'Good' said Black, standing, 'we've still got time to warn the conference about S.P.I.M's plans.'

'What are they up to ?' asked Hotpot.

Black told him as they walked back to the Swiss agent's snowmobile.

*

They were making good progress across the new fallen snow when, suddenly, the engine of the snowmobile began to cough and splutter.

'What now?' ask Black angrily.

'We've run out of fuel' said Hotpot, tapping the petrol gauge, 'how could that be ?'

Norbert coughed.

'Hotpot ?' asked Black, 'How did you make me that delicious cup of hot chocolate?'

'I didn't' he replied, 'your cousin did'

They both turned to Norbert, who was looking out at the mountains and trying to whistle.

'Norbert ?' said Black.

'Allright,' said Norbert apologetically, 'so I ran the engine a little faster to boil the milk - who wouldn't have ?' He
shrugged hopefully.

'I mean, we've all done it, haven't we!' he continued.

There was a stony silence from the other two.

'Haven't we ?'  Norbert said weakly. His bottom lip shot forward and he hung his head in shame.

Leaving almost everything behind, apart from the blankets and a copy of 'Travel SCRABBLE', they continued their journey on foot. It took them almost an hour to get back to the village, where the preparations for the conference were well underway.
 

'Just one picture for our readers...' shouted one journalist.

'Over here, Mr President' called another.

'It's no use, Norbert,' said Black, as they watched the proceedings from the other side of the road, 'we'll never get in at this rate. There are too many guards around.'

'But can't we just tell somebody what's going to happen ?' questioned Norbert. He had just bought himself a large vanilla ice-cream.

'No.' answered Black,' We haven't got the time and, besides, wedon't know who we can trust.'

'But how can we tell the good guys from the S.P.I.M agents ?' asked Norbert.

'We can't, cousin.' Black replied, 'We will just have to wait until they make their move, and rely on our Swiss friends.'

Black had sent Hotpot away to fetch some more help.

'If only we could get into the building, that would be something at least' Black muttered.

Norbert took a big lick at his ice-cream and it fell off the cone onto the pavement with a 'SPLOT!'.

'Aww no.' he cried, bending over to try and save as much of it as he could. He looked up, after replacing some of it on the wafer, and saw the answer to their problems.

At the far end of the main village square, a television crew, working from their nearby van, were inflating a huge hot-air balloon. It was shaped like an upside-down tear, and was made up of brightly -coloured strips of fabric.

'Black' said Norbert quietly, tugging Black's lapel,' couldn't we do something with that ?'

He pointed to the balloon - Black smiled. 

'Well done, Norbert' he said, and they strode off across the square toward it.

*

Jusavio Hotpot had gathered as many local agents as he could find in the short time between his arrival back in Pomme de Terre and the opening of the conference. 

In front of him stood three men.

The first was a short, stocky fellow in navy blue dungarees. He had a bald head and singed eyebrows, and an adjustable spanner in his breast pocket. His name was Roger Poulet and he was an explosives expert.

The second was a very fat man with beady eyes and long, frizzy hair. He, too, was wearing a pair of navy blue dungarees; in his breast pocket was a piece of French loaf with Brie cheese in it. His name was Jean Paul Jeneregretterien and he was the world's only non-Japanese sumo wrestling champion.

The third man could barely stand up. He was resting heavily on an old walking stick with a duck on the handle.Not a carved duck, you understand, but a real live dead one; it had begun to smell a bit. He, also, was wearing a pair of navy blue dungarees. He looked as if he were a hundred years old. His name was Francios Pantelons and he was a martial arts master.

Hotpot told them what was happening and they returned to the village, blending into the gathering crowd and vanishing from view.

*

As Black and Norbert sneaked up to the balloon, they saw that there were only two people by the basket; one was an engineer fiddling with a camera, the other was the pilot who was operating two giant gas burners. 

There was a DINK! and a DONK! and Norbert dragged the unconscious fellows into a nearby alley. When he returned, Black had finished inflating the multicoloured canopy and the vehicle was tugging at it's moorings, ready for the off.

'Hop aboard, Norbert' shouted Black, as his cousin jogged across to the basket and vaulted in. With a snip and a twang, the whole vehicle swayed gracefully into the clear sky.

A man came running out of the back of the transmission van, waving his fist at them and shouting something inaudible; they were already four hundred feet up in the air.

'I would assume that some S.P.I.M agents have been planted as roof guards for the conference. That way it would be easier for them to take the kidnapped leaders away by helicopter.' said Black thoughtfully.

'Why do you think that they'll use helicopters ?' asked Norbert.

'Because there's no way they'll get away with all those journalists crowding the area' Black replied.

'Okay. So we'll have to sort the guys on the roof out then, won't we ?' said Norbert, loading his gun.

'Well done, young cousin, we'll make a spy out of you yet!' said Black heartily, slapping Norbert on the shoulders. 

He nearly dropped his weapon in surprise.

The balloon drifted across toward the conference centre. It was a converted hotel with twelve storeys of rooms, restaurants, shops, and meeting halls. A small wall surrounded the edge of the centre's roof; behind it Black could see men crouching with rifles. 

They drifted over the left-hand side of the top of the building, they were only five or six feet above the roof. Black and Norbert leant over and loosened the sand bags, tied to the outside of the balloon's basket, and they fell onto the hidden guards with muffled thumps. 

When the roof was clear of enemies, Black and Norbert leapt onto one of the many chimneys, shuffled down behind the wall and crept in to the building through an open window.

'Where to next ?' whispered Norbert.

'Let's take a look at the conference itself' replied Black. 

They followed a number of service corridors and passages until they emerged on a lighting balcony high above the main meeting room. It was a modest chamber, the size of a small theatre, and the air was filled with chatter and echoes. In it's centre was a large, round table. 

The world's most powerful men and women were sat around it, each had their own jug of water and a set of headphones for translations. 

Black could see four sets of doors into the room, each of which was posted with two armed guards. In addition to the security guards, there were a number of waiters and waitresses serving a morning snack to the delegates - it was beans on toast.

Everybody began to eat heartily.

'There are too many people in here' hissed Black nervously,' the S.P.I.M agents could be anywhere.' He sat facing the balcony door with his back to the room.

THWAAARRRPPP!!!

The President of the United States broke wind and blushed.

'Ahma mahtay sorry, y'all - excuse me' he apologised. Suddenly he, and several people sat next to him, slumped forward onto their empty plates and began to snore.

Norbert nudged Black.

'It's starting - LOOK!' he said. They watched the chaos below.

There were cries of fear and alarm. The guards by the doors fell to the floor, asleep as well.

FRAAARPP!!! THWRRPPP!!! FWAAAAARRRPPPTTTHHH!!!

One by one, the delegates sniffed, sighed, and slumped onto their notes. In the distance, Black and Norbert could hear the sound of approaching helicopters.

'Quick! We've got to do something' cried Black, jumping to his feet. 

'I'm beginning to feel a little sleepy' said Norbert, yawning.

'It must be the effect of the purp air rising; we're breathing a diluted dose of the S.P.I.M chemical. Quick! We've got to get out of here' Black replied, dragging Norbert back into the corridor. 

The S.P.I.M agents were loading the sleeping leaders into lifts and sending them to the top floor, where other agents were stacking them by a fire escape leading to the roof.

The chugga-chugga of helicopters got closer.

'They're coming in to land.' shouted Black, 'We've got to do something!'

He pulled out a pistol.

They clambered back on to the top of the hotel and saw three aircraft hovering above the fire escape. 

Norbert could hardly keep his eyes open.

'It's no use' he mumbled,' you'll have to leave me (yawn) here'. He curled up into a ball and began snoring softly. Black shook him.

'Come on, Norbert! Wake up! I need you!' he shouted. Norbert rolled over.

'Dash it!' cursed Black. 

Hotpot, Jean Paul, Francios, and Roger emerged from different windows along the roof of the building in time to see the arrival of the S.P.I.M helicopters. 

There were people everywhere; bad guys and good guys. 

Black waved to his fellow H.I.S.S agents as they scamperedacross the slippery slates. The S.P.I.M henchmen were preparing to load the delegates into the first helicopter that hovered patiently above them. Men leaned out of the other vehicles and began shooting.

SPADDING! SPADOWW! BLAAAM! BLAAAM! BLAAAM!

Hotpot joined Black behind a chimney stack and they laid down covering fire for their colleagues.

Jean Paul, his huge belly flopping up and down in front of him, bounded over to the first helicopter bouncing people off his tummy if they got in his way. The old man, Francios, followed behind, hitting S.P.I.M personnel so hard with his stick that the air was full of rotten feathers.

The pilot of the helicopter, seeing their approach, decided it would be sensible to retreat. He'd lost all his guards in the fire-fight, and the fuel tank had been shot and was leaking. He pulled the stick back hard expecting the flying machine to whizz safely away.

It stopped.

It hung in the air, the engines whining with the strain. The pilot looked in his wing-mirror at the undercarriage and saw the enormous H.I.S.S agent hanging on to the wheels. He was too heavy.

The pilot pulled the throttle out full, but still the helicopter wouldn't move. Then, slowly at first, the strength of the
machine won out over the strength of the man and the they began lifting off. He picked up a pistol from the instrument panel and opened his side window. Leaning out, he took a pot shot at Jean Paul.

He missed once. He missed twice. Bingo !!!

Jean Paul Jeneregretterien was hit in the shoulder, screamed in pain, and let go of the wheels. Luckily, he was still over the building and he plummeted through the roof into the conference centre beneath; there was a person-shaped hole in the slates.

The helicopter was out of control now. It buzzed wildly away from the village. The pilot had turned everything up to cope with H.I.S.S agent's weight and, now that he was gone, it was too much. It hit the mountain slopes with a muffled 'PHOOOOMM!', a mushroom cloud of flame and black smoke curling up into the sky like, well, a mushroom.

Back on the roof, the air was thick with gunfire like a deadly hail storm. Francios had joined Roger and they had fought their way to the second helicopter. Roger produced a spongy substance from his dungarees and attached it to the vehicle's underside. 

'Okay!' he signalled to Francios. 

Francios hit the bad guy he was struggling with one more time and they fled across the roof to safety. The bad guy fell, the beak from Francios' duck sticking out of the top of his head. 

'That was a quacking blow' joked Roger on their way back.

*

Hotpot turned to Black.

'Did you see what Roger just did ?' he asked, ' he's just fixed some explosives to that second helicopter. All we have to do is give it one good shot.'

Black levelled his pistol, closed his left eye and took aim.

'Come on, baby' he muttered. The helicopter rocked up and down, trying to stay steady in the combat. Black couldn't quite see the explosives.

'Come on, sugar plum'  he encouraged.

The 'copter tipped forward slightly. Black still couldn't get a clear shot.

'Come on, cuddly-wuddly-woo' he mumbled. The bomb came briefly into view and Black fired.

KaBOOOOOMM

The helicopter had disintegrated. The third one was rockedviolently by the shockwave. The wreck dropped onto the roof, slid down into the surrounding wall and tipped over the edge. There was another distant explosion.

'Good shot, my friend' said Hotpot cheerfully.

'It's not over yet.' replied Black, seriously. They stepped out from behind the chimney.

The roof looked like a junkyard; there were bits of torn metal and pools of burning oil everywhere. They couldn't see any enemy agents left. 

Hotpot's walkie-talkie shoe bleeped into life:

'Agent Pantelons to agent Hotpot. Come in, Hotpot' crackled a voice.

Hotpot answered: 'Hotpot here, what is it Francios ?'

'We are in the main hall. Agent Jeneregretterien has apprehended the S.P.I.M agents disguised as the catering staff. Apparently, he fell on them while they were making their escape.'

'Everything is under control here, Hotpot' continued the crackly voice. 'Do you need assistance up there ?'

Hotpot looked at Black. Black looked at the single remaining helicopter as it hovered over the wrecked roof, its cargo door opened and he recognised the person that hopped out into the snow.

It was the White Overcoat.

'This ones for me' said Black scarily, 'I'll join you in a minute.'

'But monsieur Overcoat ...?' said Hotpot.

It was too late, Black had gone. Jusavio Hotpot sighed and made his way back into the safety of the building.

* 

It was like a wild west story. The Overcoat brothers stood a short distance apart on the ridge of the conference centre roof. Each had his hands hung by his side, their fingers twitching.

Black brushed his overcoat aside, revealing his revolver. White did likewise, revealing a carton of squash. He realised it was the wrong side and covered it up again.

'You failed, evil sibling' laughed Black.

'Yes, brother, but only THIS time. The next time I will be victorious.' spat White.

'Why do you always say that ? I always beat you !' asked Black.

'Well, you can't be sure, can you ? One day I'll be right and then who will be laughing ?' White replied hopefully.

'Father sends his love.' said Black, changing the subject.

'Does he ? Oh, that's nice.' replied White. 'And how is mother, and Dingle the dog?' he asked.

Black flinched: 'Enough small talk, wicked kinsman. Prepare to pay for your crimes!'

A large and bloody fight followed. Fists flew and kicks kicked. There were 'oofs' and 'arrghs', 'curse you's and camel-bites. They threw snowballs at eachother and thumb-wrestled, had a tap-dancing marathon, and even had a staring contest. But it couldn't go on, both men were exhausted. Finally, White cart-wheeled toward the edge of the roof, stood on the lip of the wall and waved at Black.

'I'd love to stay and chat, brother, but I must live to fight another day.' he shouted,' Goodbye!' Then, with a brief salute, he jumped.

Black looked over the side of the roof. It was a long way down. He couldn't see a body.

'I prefer "Au Revoir"' he said quietly, and made his way back to the interior of the building.
 

The police searched the outside of the conference centre but couldn't find any trace of the White Overcoat. The S.P.I.M agents, who were lucky enough to survive, were taken away in a big lorry.

'What will happen to them ?' asked Norbert, as they were ushered into a posh limousine.

'Oh, they'll be sent back to the employment exchange with bad references.' answered Black,' The world would be a dull place without henchmen for hire.'

The engine of the car revved loudly and the crowd parted to let Black and Norbert through. Soon, the village of Pomme de Terre was far behind them.

'So it's back to England, is it ?' said Norbert wearily.

'Yes,' said Black,' Did you enjoy your holiday ?'

'Well, it was exciting, wasn't it ?' said Norbert, chuckling.

'It certainly was.' agreed Black, 'Onward, driver!' he said to the chauffeur,' and don't spare the horses.'

'Very good, sir' the chauffeur replied, tipping his hat. Hesmiled to himself, two icicles hanging from his moustache like giant fangs; he looked awfully familiar.