May I ask you to check this guy out? You'll need to copy-paste the link into your browser and delete the spaces in the URL.

www. youtube. com/watch?v=IL4vWJbwmqM&feature=related

Thank you, Leviathan, a thousand times, for Tom Lehrer. And for helping me hash out the idea for this fic, and making me believe that Stanley's story had to be told.

For a Nobel Prize winner, Dr. Stanley Hopkins, BSC, MSC, Ph.D., was the coolest cat Scott and Robinson had ever had the pleasure to bodyguard.

For a start, Stanley "Call-me-Stan-please-forget-the-alphabet-soup-ceremony-is for-the-suits" Hopkins didn't have an elevated sense of his own importance. At four foot eleven-and-a-half, ("but I always stood on tiptoe because how embarrassing is it for a fella to be under five feet?") he was a bookworm ("Do you know my name is the same as the Police Constable in the Sherlock Holmes stories?"), slight of build and what Scotty's mom would have called 'puny', and burdened besides with a heart condition that made it hard for him to climb stairs, but absolutely no self-pity ("Fellas, you're missing out. Chicks just love the little guys. They want to mother you, you see..."), but he made up for it all with sheer good cheer and an effervescent personality. To Robinson's amused chagrin, his engaging grin attracted females for tables around, and he even stole some of Kelly's girls despite his shortness of stature and thick glasses, while Scott cheered him on just to get his partner's goat. Right now, Hopkins was entertaining the hotel guests in the lobby of the small Andalusian hotel, banging out on the piano, belting out a song about academic integrity.

"Plagiarize!

Let no-one else's work evade your eyes!

Remember why the Good Lord made your eyes,

So don't shade your eyes,

But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize!"

Robinson and Scott laughed and clapped as the scientist returned to the table amid the applause of the patrons. Kelly tried to appear jealous, but couldn't, grinning madly. "You're a man of many talents, sir!"

"Why thank you," Hopkins grinned, bright black eyes sparkling through his spectacles. "Metallurgy isn't really good for drawing the chicks, see, so I had to develop some other skills."

"Yeah, but… that's amazing, man," Scott laughed, wiping his eyes. "Did you write that?"

"No, it's by Tom Lehrer," Stan enthused. "He was a math professor at my alma mater, and gave it up for the music-hall. Writes all his own stuff. When we're back in the States, I'll invite you gents to a show."

"We might just take you up on that," Kelly smiled.

Scott nodded, and Hopkins sealed it with a thump on the table. "You'll love it. His work is…"

"Ohhhhh, I thought your performance was simply amazing!" A brunette in a Flamenco costume pulled up a chair and seated herself at their table without asking, so close to Hopkins that she was practically in his lap. "I dance at seven every night – you simply must come and see me tomorrow!"

The little scientist beamed up at the beautiful brunette. "Well, I…"

"We're sorry," Robinson cut in wickedly, "but we're leaving tomorrow at seven AM."

"Party pooper," Scott muttered.

"Oh, then perhaps I can give you a private dance in your room before you leave. Here is my telephone number." She scrawled something on a slip of paper and slipped it into Stan's pocket, her hands lingering on his lapels. "Call me."

"Now let's get something straight here, Stanley," Robinson declared as the lovely lady sashayed away from the table. "I am the international playboy here, not you. You, sir, are the intellectual, the cultivated scientist, who spends his days languishing in a laboratory. And it looks extremely bad, you see, for my international playboy reputation to be eclipsed by a… Scotty, will you stop that giggling!"

"I am not giggling, sir, I am snickering."

"No, no, I am a seasoned judge of character, and I can tell that you were most definitely giggling—"

"Giggling is not manly. Snickering is manly."

"Well, Superman, giggling, or snickering, I'll thank you to cut it out."

Scott leaned back, folding his arms behind his head with an air of deep satisfaction. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That I should see the day when the fatal Robinson charm is eclipsed by a scientist. Just goes to show, sir, brains will win over brawn every time."

"I see," Robinson looked from Scott to Hopkins, "that the eggheads are sticking together."

The scientist laughed, clearly enjoying himself immensely. "Oh, don't feel bad, Agent Robinson…"

"Hey, I thought we agreed you were to call me Kelly."

"Hi there," lilted a blonde, seating herself into the chair vacated by the brunette. "I thought your performance was simply darling!"

Scott patted Robinson on the shoulder consolingly. Robinson buried his face in his hands.

The evening flew by, and it was with some regret that the three men retired to their respective rooms – a twin room for the two agents, adjacent to Hopkins' single. Rather than retiring to his room, though, the scientist lingered at the door. "Kelly," said Hopkins diffidently, "can I see you a minute?"

"Sure, Stan, what's on your mind?" The two agents made to accompany Hopkins into his room.

Stan stopped in the doorway, looking apologetically at Scott. "I'm really sorry, Scotty, the – uh, the Department, they told me to speak to Kelly alone."

The two men exchanged glances, and Robinson shrugged, stepping towards the door. Scott looked serious, but spoke lightly. "Ah, gonna give him some pointers on how to woo the fairer sex?"

The scientist grinned gratefully. "Something like that."

"Don't worry, I'll help you get a date next Saturday night," Kelly said encouragingly.

Scott snorted. "Only if Stan gives you one of his."

It was not too long before Robinson pushed open the door to their shared room. "What's up?" Scott asked neutrally from where he lay on the bed, reading.

Kelly shook his head, shucking his clothes at the bathroom door. "Wildest thing, man," he muttered. "He wanted me to know the formula."

Scott looked up at that. "What? What for? There's a copy in Madrid, isn't there?"

Robinson nodded. "Yeah. But he says he was told to do it." Discarded shirt in hand, he took a step closer to Scott, lowering his voice. "Scotty, you don't think his health is worse than he says it is, do ya?"

Scott's brow furrowed. "You mean they actually thought he might croak before we get to Granada?"

Robinson shrugged uncomfortably. "Maybe. Maybe they wanted me to be able to tell the lab guys there, just in case… his heart got worse."

"I guess so," Scott nodded uncertainly.

"I like him," Robinson said earnestly.

"So do I, man, but 'like' don't come into it when there's a formula to deliver."

"Always the way."

"The wonderfulness of their practical thinking."

Robinson frowned. "What kind of a business are we in, that a man's life is less important than the job he does?"

"The job you signed on for."

"Mm-hmm."

"Not so glum, chum."

"Mm-hmm."

"Kel, for cryin' out loud, nothing's gonna happen to Stan between now and tomorrow! We're the big strong agents assigned to protect him, remember? Tomorrow night we'll be in Granada and he'll be playing in the sandbox with all the other little scientists, happy as a clam."

"Yeah, I guess so." Robinson nodded, levering himself up from where he leaned against the doorframe. "You're right. He'll be someone else's problem." With that, he tossed his shirt to drape over Scott's head, and disappeared into the bathroom.

By the time Scott had extricated his head from underneath the shirt and thought of a suitably witty rejoinder, something about Robinson being somebody else's problem soon if he didn't stop using his faithful partner as a coat-hook, the man was long since lost to the shower.

Scott's head lay uneasily upon his pillow. Something about this was not right, although he couldn't tell quite why, right now. The thing was, it didn't make sense for the Department to have Stan make Kelly memorize the formula. He wasn't minimizing his partner's intellect in the least, but of the two of them, he, Scotty, with his chemistry background and eidetic memory, was the more obvious choice to entrust with memorizing a complex metallurgical process. He felt vaguely guilty thinking it, as though he were calling Kelly unworthy. It wasn't that he didn't respect his partner's intellect, it was just…

He shook himself mentally. Like all trained espionage agents, Kelly was perfectly capable of memorizing chemical formulae, more capable, in fact, than most other agents Scott knew, and Scotty was doing him a disservice by undervaluing his skills. It had to be one of them (and that was another thing; why only one, why not both? He turned over the problem in his head. Security, he knew, dictated need-to-know, so that must be the justification– at least, he couldn't think of any other logic) and so it was a fifty-fifty proposition. Most times it was Scotty; this time it was Kelly. So what? He wasn't jealous, was he? The notion of him being jealous of Kelly was laughable, and the fact that his superiors thought highly enough of his partner to entrust him with such a formula was a cause for pride and pleasure, nothing more. Certainly no cause for alarm!

Despite his iron-clad logic, he couldn't explain the sensation that lay heavy upon his heart. He dismissed it as silly nerves – they probably needed a vacation, was all. And if it was a little harder getting to sleep than usual, well then, it was a failure of self-discipline, nothing more.

The sun shone bright on the Spanish countryside as the sedan bumped lazily down the winding country roads. Scott was in the front next to Robinson, who was driving. Hopkins, leaning in between them from the back, was, like scientists since the dawn of time, nattering on about his work.

"…so the heating time isn't necessarily the catalyst so much as the reagent. I keep getting more and more convinced that there's another element involved that I'm just not seeing. Which is why… I mean, that last process I came up with – I felt there was some kind of basic flaw in there somewhere, in fact, just between you and me and the doorknob, I didn't think it was worth the paper it was written on. I'm not a modest man, fellas. I mean, I'll admit that the process before it, the one that won that prize, that one was reasonably error-free, I thought…"

Robinson and Scott exchanged amused glances. "You know," Kelly said solemnly, "just occasionally, those Nobel Prize judges do know what they are doing."

"Yes," Scott cut in gravely, "stranger things have happened."

Realizing he was being double-teamed, Hopkins barked a laugh. "Point taken, fellas. But really, your Department scientists must be better men than me, or else they know something I don't – because like I said, I was pretty sure it was worthless, I was all set to go back to the drawing-board, when your Seymour and your Anderson, they take one look at the formula and look at each other like I just gave them the best idea they've ever had, and they put their heads together and the next day they're beating down my door like I built a better mousetrap."

"Maybe you did?" Scott interjected.

"Nah, like I said, I'm not even sure what they see in it, but man, they're just going ape over the process. They want it as-is, without any revisions, without recalculations, just as it is now. No matter how much I tell them I have my doubts, they're all enthusiastic and…"

"You're just too modest, man," Robinson smiled, patting the little scientist on the shoulder.

"Yeah, he wins a Nobel Prize and calls it 'reasonably error-free'," Scott chimed in.

Stanley shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, but… I mean, your Anderson, he said that my formula was the key to finally winning the metallurgical race with the USSR, now why he'd say that about a process I'm not even sure would work under practical laboratory conditions given the right factors I just don't…"

"Well," said Scott bracingly, leaning against Robinson as the car slowed to turn a sharp corner, "that's why they're sending you to the lab in Granada, isn't it? Put your head together with all the other eggheads and make an omelet?"

"Three o'clock," Robinson rapped out.

That was all he had time for before the car was surrounded by gunmen. Scott drew his weapon, but Robinson laid a hand on his wrist. "It's suicide, Scotty."

"Yeah, I can see that." Scott lowered his weapon, defensive gesture stillborn as at least ten Spaniards, armed with pistols and machine-guns, came swarming out of the tall grass, some even dropping from the trees.

No words were spoken, but none were needed. The three men were gestured out of the car and waved to the front. They did as they were told, Stanley looking nervously at his escorts, Kelly holding him up as he stumbled in the tall grass. "S-something tells me this isn't the Andalusian Welcome Wagon," the scientist ventured, his voice shaking.

"Gentlemen, your tour guide is here," Scott managed to say before, like his companions, he was struck on the head and succumbed to oblivion.

Three unconscious men lay on the floor of a locked cell, sprawled on the flagstones.

Robinson was the first to stir. He made no sound, just blinked his eyes open, pressing his knuckles to his temples. He crawled over to Scott, slipping a gentle hand under his head, then gripping his shoulder with the other and shaking gently but firmly.

Scott made an inarticulate sound, but cut himself off at Robinson's "Ssh." Blinking and rubbing his head, he let his partner lever him up and prop him up against the wall. Kelly gave his shoulder a pat and crawled noiselessly over to the scientist at the other side of the room. He bent his head to him and nodded, appearing satisfied at what he heard. Without trying to wake Hopkins, he crawled back to Scott. "Any ideas?" he breathed.

Scott looked towards the door, then towards the scientist. "This is not good, Ollie," he whispered.

Kelly's quip was humorless. "He's Ollie. I'm Stanley."

Scott frowned, passing a hand over his eyes. "Be serious."

"I have never been more serious." Kelly's gaze was intense. "You think they know which of us is the scientist?"

Scott's face darkened, his eyes flint. "If you're thinking…"

"The guy has a heart condition, man," Robinson whispered patiently. "If we convince them that he's the agent, and I'm the scientist… we don't know how good their intel is, but…"

"Why not me? I could be the scientist."

"You don't know the formula, Jack."

Scott's eyes sharpened, and he was about to speak when the door swung open; three armed men stood in the doorway. "Do not move," one guard said in Spanish.

The agents exchanged glances. Whoever was running this, he was a professional; the boss was nowhere in sight, just hirelings. That meant no chance of speaking to anyone with the power to make decisions, be reasoned with, change the situation. Robinson stepped slightly forward, ahead of Scott. "Why have you kidnapped me?" he said in English, in a slightly whiny voice. "They may be agents, but I'm just a peace-loving man!"

Two men kept their guns trained on Robinson and Scott as the third went to the scientist and shook him awake. He rolled over. "Oh…"

"Wake up, Doctor!" came the admonition in Spanish.

Robinson grimaced as he saw Stanley's face morph from fuzzy sleepiness to stark terror, saw the little scientist look down at the floor and school his features into some semblance of calm. "And here I hoped to wake up with that cute flamenco dancer…"

"Come." The gunman grabbed Hopkins by the collar, hauling him to his feet. "The patron wants to speak to you."

Stan reached back, releasing his collar from the constraining grip and straightening it slowly. Then he looked over at Robinson and Scott, terrified eyes wide and resigned. "They're going to torture me, aren't they?" he asked quietly.

Scott met his eyes with a sad, affirming gaze, refusing to look away.

"Don't worry," the scientist said, finding his balance, stumbling, trying to stand on his own. "I won't tell them anything."

"Thought never crossed my mind," Scotty murmured, his face a mask of regret. "Stanley, man…" He pressed his lips together tightly.

But Robinson cut in with a shout. "Why do you think he's the scientist?" he snapped. "I'm the scient—" One of the men shoved him to the floor. He looked up, shaking his head. "Why won't you listen…"

"Cut it out, Kel," snapped Scott, wearily. He stood motionless as Hopkins was dragged out of the room, and the door slammed behind him.

Robinson scrambled to his feet even as Scott bent to him, shaking off the assistance, striding to the door. "Why'd you say that?" he hissed, wrenching at the unyielding handle. "I could have…" He trailed off helplessly, grabbing the metal knob with both fists and pulling and pushing violently, his body shaking with the force of his attempts.

"Could have nothing," Scott muttered. "They had us made from the get-go. Knew which road we were taking, knew Stan was the scientist…" He covered his eyes with one hand. "They've been one step ahead of us from the…"

"Plagiarize!" came Hopkins' rather desperate song from behind the door, his voice reedy and agonized. "Let no-one else's work evade your eyes…"

Scott stilled, listening; Robinson rested his forehead against the door, shaking his head helplessly, miserably.

But then Stanley's song faltered, and a second later, his voice rose in a scream.

Scott stiffened, growing rigid as Robinson jerked, then raised his hand, slamming his palm repeatedly against the door. "Let him go!" he yelled. "I know the formula! I'm the agent, let him go!"

Scott joined him at the door. "The man has a heart condition, you'll kill him!"

Another scream, and Kelly's pounding redoubled, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. "Take me, for God's sake! Don't do this to him!"

"Shut up!" Scott glared at his partner. "Just shut up, okay?"

Robinson glared right back, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes. "I'm the agent, he's the innocent—"

"I know that—"

"So just shut up—"

"You can't—"

The screaming was continuous now, and Kelly whirled away from Scott, slamming his palm again and again against the thick wood, yelling threats and obscenities over the noise. Scott shook his head, turning his back on the door, and clenched his fists, closing his eyes and breathing deeply; but he flinched whenever Hopkins drew breath and shrieked again.

They both heard it when a new note crept into the man's voice, a thin, cracked note of desperation, and Kelly yelled louder. Scott turned to add his voice to his partner's, but stopped dead when Stan's scream cut off abruptly.

The agents exchanged wide-eyed glances as the voices came clearly from behind the door. "Se muere," said a guard.

"No se muere!" came an angry voice, the voice of a boss perhaps. There was a torrent of rapid Spanish, and rustlings and scufflings. The agents held their breath. Then a harsh question: "Está muerto?"

Not waiting for the confirmation, Scott turned to Robinson urgently. "Kelly," he hissed. "Tell me the process."

Still facing the door, Robinson snorted. "Dream on."

"I'm not fooling around, Jack! Tell me the process!"

"Neither am I, and the answer is no!"

"Kelly," Scott gentled his voice with a visible effort, "come on."

"Not a chance, Jack."

The other agent reached out and gripped his arm, nearly shaking him. "Tell me the process."

Robinson set his jaw. "Was it not clear to you when I said no?"

Scott stepped closer, turning, forcing Robinson to look at him. "Kelly, tell me the process now! There isn't much time!"

Robinson looked at him impassively, though his eyes held a certain understanding. "I said, no."

"Kel—"

"What do you want it for?" Kelly challenged.

"I—" Scott broke off. "Somebody else should know the process," he said very fast, "just in case of emergency."

Robinson's face was hard. "There's a copy in Madrid."

"Kel…"

"No."

Scott grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around, his tone an outraged, frantic whisper. "You want it all to yourself, don't you? You wanna be the only one in the room who knows the formula? You wanna be the only one they work on—the only one who can stop—"

Kelly wrenched his arm out of the other man's grip violently, and spat out his next words. "Lay off me, Jack—like I don't know what you're trying to—"

"I'm not letting you—"

"Está muerto," came the confirmation from behind the door.

The two men fell silent, their eyes meeting in a long, shocked stare.

Their grief was cut short by the opening of the door to admit the armed trio. "Viene," grunted one of the guards, gesturing to Robinson.

Scott positioned himself in front of his partner. "I know the process," he said firmly in Spanish. "I'll come with you."

Robinson shouldered him aside. "Outa the way, Jack—"

"Hey, sir!" called one of the guards in Spanish to someone outside. "The black agent says he knows the formula! Which one should we take?"

"He's lying," came the voice of an older man. "Take the white one."

Scott gritted his teeth, stepping in front of Robinson again. "You'll have to go through me."

His partner shouldered him aside again, more roughly this time. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Jack!"

"Not letting you—"

"Get outta my—"

"They are fighting, senor! What shall we do?"

"Knock the black one out and bring him, too; we shall secure them both. Hurry up!"

The main guard clicked back the hammer on his weapon. The agents stilled, and the men converged on Robinson and Scott, separating them. One of them motioned Robinson away from his partner, towards the door. As he stepped away, the third guard stepped up behind Scott, and raised his pistol high in the air, bringing it down in a long, wide arc to crack against the base of the agent's skull. He dropped like a stone.

Kelly flinched as though he had been struck, but said nothing as he was led out of the room.

He took in his surroundings as they emerged into a castle hall – a torture chamber with a vaulted ceiling. Stanley Hopkins, named after the police constable in Sherlock Holmes, lay quite still on the wooden bed of a medieval rack, shrunken and pathetically small in death. Four foot eleven-and-a-half, but he always stood on tiptoe because how embarrassing was it for a fella to be under five feet?

Kelly blinked back the sudden burn in his eyes as the guards hefted the slight, broken body off the rack, tossing it aside. He looked desperately round for Scotty, being manacled against some kind of bed of nails – not lying upon it, thank God, but hanging limply by his wrists, not moving at all – he couldn't see how bad the head injury was, please let it be OK—

The gunman motioned him onto the rack, and for the first time he saw the boss, the one running the show: a moustachioed man with a toothpick. Slowly he worked the metal spike between his teeth, heavyset face impassive and immobile as he watched the proceedings. "So Mr. Robinson," the man said. "Are you going to be as stubborn as your scientist, or shall we bring you a pencil and paper? If you write down the process for us, this can be over before it starts."

Robinson watched Scott's limp figure swing, saw Stan's small body lying dead on the floor, and gave himself over to the hatred rising from within, ponderous and implacable, letting it turn his limbs to lead, his soul to stone. "Go jump in the lake," he said evenly. "You can wait 'til the cows come home before I'll tell you anything."

"We will see," said Toothpick.

The manacles clicked shut on Kelly's wrists. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn't talk; he wouldn't make a Goddamned sound. He wouldn't give these sons-of-bitches the satisfaction. Wouldn't panic Scotty, if he woke suddenly, either.

He wouldn't let these bastards break him, if it was the last thing he did.