So at nine-thirty they ducked and dodged across the street and, very cautiously, into the building. They stood in the lobby for a moment, catching their breath and listening. From above somewhere they could hear, faint but unmistakable, the sound of small arms fire.

“Oh wow!” said Mike.

“Too late?” Sean asked.

Then they heard the elevator painfully descending. They dashed to the door and out, just in time to see a large green turbo-truck pull up to the curb and park.

Sean said, “Wow!” and Mike agreed. There was nobody driving the truck.

Then the elevator reached the ground floor.

“C’mon! We’ve got to hide.” Mike grabbed Sean by the arm and dragged him away.

In front of the building next door there were half a dozen empty plywood barrels, about five feet tall, all dirty and battered, one or two with small holes punched through them. Mike scrambled into one of these, Sean into another.

They regretted it at once. Somewhere along the line, the barrels had harbored fish, and the memory was still fresh and vigorous. But it was too late to find a less fragrant hiding place.

The front door of the loft building creaked open. Mike, holding his nose, crouched down and watched through a conveniently placed hole.

First a long, segmented stalk, cobalt blue, with a bulbous swelling at the end that Mike thought might be some kind of camera, snaked out and turned slowly to the left and right as though surveying the sidewalk. Then another stalk joined it and did the same. Then the side door of the truck slid open and a ramp extended itself to the sidewalk. The two stalks retracted themselves.

Then Michael gasped, inhaling an unhealthy lungful of essence of fish, as six huge blue lobsters emerged from the building. Two of them stood guard while the others formed a bucket brigade from the door to the truck. Fifty-gallon oil drums passed from claw to claw while Michael goggled.

After the oil drums came four large crates. Then the lobsters themselves, plus five more from inside the building, went into the truck.

The, ramp stayed down and the door remained open, otherwise Mike would’ve run for the nearest phone booth to get help. Instead, he remained in his fishy hideaway until ten o’clock. The hot July sun beat down on him, the stench of ancient fish conspired to turn his stomach inside out, and the cramped position he was forced to maintain began to hurt his legs. He was an increasingly unhappy Theodore Bear.

At ten o’clock, Laszlo came out of the building, looked around nervously, and went back inside. Michael forgot his discomfort.

A few minutes later, Laszlo reappeared, scouted the sidewalk again, and said, “It’s cool, man.”

Out came yet another lobster, this one wearing a fetching little silver jacket.

“Youthful Laszlo,” it said, “you shall ride in the driver’s seat.” It started up the ramp.

“But, man, like, I can’t drive!”

“No matter. Get in.”

Walking as though he were hypnotized, Laszlo got into the cab. He didn’t look at all pleased, which comforted Michael slightly.

The ramp slid back into the truck and the door slid shut. The turbos started with a loud whine. Laszlo looked scared. Then the truck pulled smoothly away from the curb and drove off.

Mike and Sean exploded from the barrels, saying “Phew!” and, “Did you see That?” interchangeably.

“Lobsters,” Mike said, unbelieving.

“That’s good. I was scared it was me.”

They dashed for the door, trailing clouds of glory as they went.

“GROOVY!” I screamed when they burst in, and then went on more quietly: “You sure as hell took your own sweet bloody time about it, mister. What kept you?”

“Later.” Michael Superspy was casing the joint, standing in the doorway looking very hot and paranoid.

Sean didn’t bother. He plunged in like the puppy he was, yelping, “You okay, baby?” without waiting for an answer. “I did a Things at The Mess last night an’ they really Dug it, man. What’re these things?”

He’d reached the torture machines. Michael was beginning to enter the room.

“Torture machines,” I explained. “Leave them alone.” I had plans for those gadgets. If they could just be stolen, I could make narcotics obsolete in Greenwich Village.

“Hmm. They’re turned on.” Michael had arrived. “How do you turn ’em off?”

I said, “God knows. Just leave ’em be, will you? I want to save them if I can. How about untying me?”

“Torture machines, you say?” Michael eyed them with a hungry look I didn’t like at all.

“Come on, Michael, turn me loose.”

“Maybe this red button here…”

“No! Cool it! Don’t touch any…”

ZAP!

“…thing.”

Sparks — green, blue, scarlet, quite electrifying — flew from machine to machine, a depressingly gaudy display. The room suddenly stank of ozone. Sharp popping noises and loud bubbling hisses issued from the depths of the machines. Wisps of plaintive blue smoke rose into the air.

“No,” Mike said, backing off, “I guess not.”

I had nothing to say.

It was Sean who finally untied me. Mike was too engrossed in watching the machines destroy themselves to move.

I’ll admit it was quite a show. As the rainbow sparks continued to fly and the smoke grew thicker, the machines began to glow dully, then to sag, and then to melt. Liquid metal gathered in small pools under the machines, and then ran slowly across the room, setting the ancient wooden floor afire.

My boots and briefcase were up against the rear wall, beside an open barrel half full of those well-known little blue pills. Impulsively, I filled the briefcase with pills. “Evidence,” I explained to myself. Then I grabbed my boots and cut for the door.

Sean was there before me, looking just about as puzzled as usual, but Mike was still involved with the machines. “C’mon,” I yelled. “Let’s split, man.”

The smoke was getting thicker, the ozone was stinging my nose and eyes, and the fires were beginning to crackle a lot. I didn’t really want to stick around much longer. “Kurland!” I yelled again, but still Mike didn’t move. Dropping my boots, I ran over and shook him. Hard.

“Oh,” dazedly. “Sorry ’bout that.”

He came peacefully.

Halfway down the stairs I remembered my boots, Too late. The fire was already roaring, and the fourth floor didn’t seem to be a healthy place to visit anymore. Those boots’d always been too tight anyhow.

When we reached the street, Mike said, “Torture machines?” He was still pretty dazed.

“When I tell you about it, you’ll cry,” I promised. “Sean, why don’t you hail us a cab?”

Once he’d caught a whiff of us, the cabby didn’t want our business, but it was too late. We were already aboard and in motion. He turned his air conditioner up as high as it’d go and drove on, muttering Brooklynoid curses.

“Hey, you stink,” I told Mike. He was coming out of his trance.

“That’s cool. So do you. What happened?”

“When I tell you,” I repeated, “you will weep.” Then I told him.

I was still telling him when we pulled up in front of the pad. I gave the cabby a five without interrupting my report and didn’t linger for the change. All the way up the stairs I talked and into the living room. Still talking, I tore off my stained and fragrant clothes and ran for the shower.

“Yeee!” Sativa screamed.

“Sorry.” I jumped in. She yelped and jumped out. “My need is greater than thine,” I explained. Then I went on with the report.

Mike took a shower next, and then Sean, so I remained in the bathroom, talking a blue and lobster-ridden streak.

When, mod-ishly garbed in paisley towels, we returned to the living room, I was still talking.

“Hmph!” Sativa snorted. “Men!” She stomped off to finish her bath. We sat down and I continued to talk. It was a long story.