I could see it all. Birchites launching millions of missiles against Russia, starting at last the war we’d avoided so long. Racists suddenly become omnipotent. The persecuted manufacturing impossible revenge. Cops really stamping out crime. Kids getting even with grown-ups. Mental patients striking back at the world. Sadists getting infinite kicks. The weak grown powerful beyond endurance. Lovers crushing all things under love…

And not just the city, no. The lobsters underestimated us. The whole world in flames, at the very least. And back of it all the blond Abaddon, Laszlo Scott, leading twelve blue lobsters to the Croton Reservoir.

And only I could stop it. I felt ill.

Why me? I never volunteered to save the world. I wasn’t even very good at saving myself.

But there it was, my job, whether I liked it or not, and time was running short. I reinstated yesterday’s rock-n-roll festival chorus and orchestra. “Untie the spy,” they played and sang, “Untie the spy,” over and over again, “Untie the spy,” in B flat, a domineering key.

Ktch weakened. His argument began to run down, to falter, and his gestures grew sloppy. He took one tentative step forward, then another. The argument petered out and stopped. He moved around behind me. I could feel the small pincers he used for delicate manipulation working at my ankles.

The other lobsters had stopped what they’d been doing and were standing frozen in their tracks like polyethylene-extruded monster models, paralyzed by my music, I presumed. Just to be on the safe side, I changed my text to, “Let the spy go home.” It had a catchy Latin beat.

There! My left foot was free. I wiggled it gratefully. Ktch was working on my right.

Then, “What’re you Doin’?” a shriek, and the whole thing fell apart. Laszlo had arrived.

Ktch backed away, gibbering percussively. The other lobsters took up defensive positions around me. One of them, ignoring my most vigorous kicks, retied my left foot. Phooey!

All the lobsters were clattering like up-tight teletype machines, and, “You was lettin’ ’im Go!” Laszlo complained. “You was gonna let ’im Go!” It was all very noisy.

“Shut up!” I yelled.

It didn’t work this time. That is, the lobsters shut up, but Laszlo didn’t. He stomped over to me like an angry gob of mayonnaise, screaming, “He was gonna let you Go!” while Ktch scurried out the door.

That blew it. When Ktch returned, his carapace was covered with a silvery blanket-like affair that evidently shielded him from my musical assaults. Ignoring me altogether, he concentrated on directing the other lobsters’ work.

That left me to Laszlo. “You know what I’m gonna Do to you?” he said, among other things, taking care no lobster overheard. “What I’m gonna do, soon’s all these Blue cats split, man, I’m gonna Take Care of You, baby. Real dirty an’ slow-like, you dig?”

He went into it in whispered detail, drooling over every indignity and pain he had in store for me. I’d never realized that Laszlo had such a fertile imagination. He must’ve been working on this for years. I was worried.

Then the loft fell silent. Laszlo shut up. The lobsters were gone, all but Ktch, who stood, glimmering in his silver safety suit, by the door.

“We are ready now,” he said.

“That’s boss,” said Laszlo, his little eyes twinkling.

“Come along, Laszlo Scott. Your services will be required Come. Now.”

“Me? But, man,” distress, “don’t you want, like, someone oughtta Look Out for this guy? I mean…”

“No. He will be all right here. Come.”

Laszlo slowly wilted and went.

“Downstairs now,” the lobster told him. “Hurry.”

Then, as Laszlo thudded down the stairs, “Farewell, Spy,” Ktch said. “I hope you will not be harmed in the disturbances tonight. You have been a brave and worthy opponent. Now farewell,” and he was gone, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

I had failed. I was still a prisoner, still attached to the torture machines (they were lit and humming, but I didn’t feel anything, so they were probably on standby), still absolutely helpless. So much for saving the world.

Aside from the hum in front of me and a clocklike ticking behind me somewhere, the place was deathly still. Not even traffic noises could be heard. Time passed.

Bang! from downstairs suddenly, the street door opening. Heavy feet started up the stairs.

Laszlo! I thought. I began to tremble. I tried to brace myself against the trembling, but it wouldn’t stop.

The feet came closer, moving slowly and deliberately, and still closer. They were on the landing one floor down. They came slowly up the stairs. They were on this floor. The door flew open. I screamed!

THIS IS how Mike told me it happened, but I suppose it’s close enough for jazz:

Michael awoke at half-past seven, after less than four hours’ sleep, in the grumpiest mood imaginable. Swearing muddily, he turned off the three alarm clocks that’d been trying to rouse him since seven and clumped out to the living room to answer the vidiphone.

He stabbed fiercely at the Accept button, cutting the poor phone’s whistle off in midtweet. Colors swirled briefly on the screen, and then a pretty face appeared.

“Seven-thirty, Mister Cowland,” she said sweetly, “rise and shine.”

“Rise and Shine?” Mike was offended.

“This is the Midtown Wake-up Service,” she said primly, “and you placed a call for seven-thirty.”

“I did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I must’ve been crazy.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you about that. Here’s your card.” She held it up to the screen.

Mike read the card in total disbelief until he came to the space marked Special Instructions, where the words, “Find Anderson,” were printed in big block letters.

“Oh,” he said. “Why didn’t you say that?”

“You mean, ‘Find Anderson’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it seemed rather silly…”

“Rise and Shine isn’t silly?”

“Please, sir, I have other calls to make.” She hung up.

Michael was now awake. Not particularly happy about it, but awake.

He burst into Sean’s room, interrupting something, yelled, “Find Anderson!” and dashed off to the kitchen to brew a pot of maté.

Sean stumbled into the living room, looking bewildered. Behind him, still in bed, Sativa yelled, “What’s happening?”

“Hey, man,” Sean complained, “find Anderson?”

“Right.” Michael scurried off to shave.

By eight-twenty they were strolling down Avenue A toward Laszlo’s midden. “Man, this is Stupid,” Sean was saying for the severalth time. “Laszlo, he ain’t even Up yet.”

“Cool it! Duck.”

They ducked into a doorway. Sean started to say something, but Mike pressed his hand over Sean’s mouth. Sean bit Michael’s hand (there’d been no time for breakfast). Then Laszlo walked by, looking as displeased with the time of day as everybody else, and Sean let go.

“Oh,” he whispered.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Mike snarled, rubbing his abused paw. “C’mon.”

Laszlo was ridiculously easy to follow that morning. In fact, Mike told me, he and Sean could probably’ve walked right beside him without being noticed. He seemed to be two-thirds asleep, which made Mike feel considerably better.

The chase paused for fifteen minutes at a dingy diner where Laszlo presumably took on some breakfast, then went on in a relatively straight line to a century-old loft building at 239 Canal Street. Laszlo went inside, Sean and Michael waited outside. It was nine o’clock.

At nine-fifteen Sean became impatient. “C’mon,” he urged, “let’s go in.”

“Cool it. They may have a whole army in there.”

“So what? We gotta help Chester, man. C’mon.”

“We won’t be much help if the Commies catch us, too. Listen to me, Sean. We wait another fifteen minutes, see? Watch who goes in or comes out. Right? Right. And if nothing happens before then, okay, we’ll go over and take a look. But we’ve got to be Careful, you understand? These Reds are tough.”