"Why, M17 is an arm of aytch are em's Services," said Penelope, wide-eyed and innocently.

"I figgered that out, chicky," replied Chonga, reverting in her language to her previous, ill-paying, occupation of tough private dick. "But what I wanna know is, what do they do?"

"W...they serve her majesty, the queen!" Penelope answered with a grin. "And depending upon who is on the Throne, they might well serve his majesty the queen, as they did Edward II."

"I thought M17 was for propaganda," interjected Chinga.

"Only the cover of a cover," said Penelope. "And I must tell you both that you know more than citizens of the UK and bad things may happen to you if you blab about it."

There was a knock on the door. Chinga answered it and all but whistled at the man who knocked.

Tall, obviously fit, his clothing for deep cold did nothing to hide his military bearing. He introduced himself.

"Good evening, ladies. I am General Sir Nigel West. May I come in?"

"Nigel!" gushed Penelope with sincerity. "Come in! Come in! This is Chinga and this is her twin sister Chonga. Chinga, Chonga...my old friend Nigel West. He has letters after his name, like VC and OBE and CGC and...."

"PhD," said Nigel. He smiled and said, "I finished last month. Oxcam. History. If you'd like to read it, I have copies of my dissertation, 'On the Use of the Welsh Archer as Sniper During the Wars of the Roses, With Notes Upon the Ballistics of Yew Arrows and Bows When Compared to Those of Other Nations, Especially Those of the Siberian Steppes.' It's only slightly over a thousand pages, and a certain cure for insomnia."

"I thought Wales was conquered by England long before the Wars of the Roses," Penelope said.

"Yeah," said Chonga. "In somethin' like 1299 it was all over for the jWelsh."

"Indeed," replied Nigel, "which made the damned thing easy to write, as there were no Welsh archers -- they were English. But it was a big hit with Professors Llywelyn ap Gruffudd and Owain Gwynedd, both of whom were named for Welsh kings. I doubt if they read it beyond the title."

"Celebrate!" exclaimed Penelope as she handed him a glass of the Talisker.

He sipped it and said, "Ladies, we have a bit of a journey ahead and it must be done started immediately. Please bundle up against the cold and bring a minimum of baggage -- something that you might carry had you been shopping."

They dressed for the weather, gathering a few things.

Nigel let them out though an alarmed exit door, which didn't alarm, and they boarded a snowcoach painted in winter camouflage. It drove away without almost no noise whatsoever; when they were clear of the town the driver put it in a mile-eating speed of 60 miles per hour.

"Okay, Nigel. I got the message you were coming to help us, so as our friend Chonga would say, let's have it. Spill the beans. What's up?"

(What, indeed, IS up? Why is the UK government invovled? And what is the Lone Ranger's secret identity? All this and more, coming up!)