A Snowball in Hell
by Periwinkle

"Boy, that Russian is frosty," the agent sitting at Solo's lunch table complained.

Napoleon took a bite of his sandwich, cursing himself as he masticated for not having the foresight to have eaten in his office. "How so?" he mildly inquired.

"Well, shaking hands with him is like holding an icicle. People are already starting to call him the 'Ice Prince'."

"You know," Napoleon said conversationally, "I've been thinking we ought to start an exchange program. Would you be interested in going to Moscow?"

"You're kidding!" his lunch companion exclaimed. "No one there would trust me or speak to me. I'm an American, remember? I'd have as much chance of fitting in there as a snowball would in..." His voice trailed off. Then he looked at Napoleon and smiled wryly. "Okay, point taken."

Napoleon took another bite of his his sandwich, chewed and then nodded. "Do let the other agents know I'm looking for someone to send, will you?"