I shook my head. But I still seethed. One way or the other, I would get the better of him yet!

Heller was fiddling with some connection terminals in the overhead. He had a small wire from the viewer-phone leading up to some clips and he was shifting it from one clip to the next, looking back at the unit whose mate he had given to Izzy.

"Come on, Izzy," he said somewhat impatiently. "I don't think there's anything wrong with these exterior beam antennas, but I better check."

He went to the area where he'd emptied out some items and came back with a portable Earth TV set. He hooked up a wire from it to the overhead clips and turned it on. It was an evening talk show. Senator Twiddle was being interviewed.

"So you see, the increase in the price of gasoline," said Senator Twiddle, "is a very good thing for the American economy. It encourages sitting home and watching TV and so will restore American family life."

"I understand," said the interviewer, "that Octopus Oil is raising its price at the pump again. How will this benefit people, Senator?"

"Make them more industrious," said Twiddle. "They will have to work overtime to afford enough gas to get them to work. Sloth is the enemy of the American Dre–"

Heller had turned it off. "Hm. The antenna is all right even if the message isn't." He transferred the lead from the viewer-phone to another exterior antenna clip.

And there was Izzy! "Oh, dear, I hope I haven't broken this thing."

The cat jumped up on the ledge and studied the screen alertly. Izzy's horn-rimmed glasses had slid down on his beaked nose.

"Meow," said the cat.

"Oh, dear, yes," said Izzy, "I have broken it. Now I'm connected to the cat. Mr. Hopjoy, are you sure Mr. Jet told you the right buttons to push? First we got an abstract painting done with wires and now we've got the cat."

He was talking to agent Raht, whose face was visible over his shoulder. "No, he said that button there, Mr. Epstein."

Heller sat down in the local-pilot seat. "Hello, Izzy."

"Oh, thank heavens. It's Mr. Jet. I'm afraid I'm having a lot of trouble with this new invention of yours. It seems it can call anybody but you."

"It needs more developmental work," said Heller. "Listen, Izzy, I couldn't talk to you very openly from the plane. I had to have a better means of communication."

"Well, I am awfully glad you called, Mr. Jet. Mr. Hopjoy here delivered about seven million dollars' worth of gold. It's very odd gold: it doesn't have the smelter proofings stamped on it."

"Throw it in a vault," said Heller. "Use it if you need to."

"Where are you, Mr. Jet?"

"I'm just flying around," said Heller. "Izzy, did our Wonderful Oil for Maysabongo, Incorporated, acquire options to purchase all the oil reserves of the United States?"

"Oh, yes," said Izzy. "Every oil company granted them very easily. We even got options signed on all the army, navy and air-force oil reserves from the secretary of defense. They all made the final deal very quickly: It gave them extra money and they had no idea anyone would ever exercise such options. They thought the Republic of Maysabongo must have gone crazy. Nobody could afford that much money. Yes, Mr. Jet. We have tied up options to buy every drop of oil stored in the United States. All we have to do is exercise the options and Maysabongo owns every smear of it."

"Very well done," said Heller. "Now listen, Izzy. Get your ballpoint ready. I want you to acquire options to sell every share of stock of every oil company in the world."

"WHAT?"

"Don't you think you can get them?"

" Izzy looked dazed. "Oh, we can buy the options to sell all right. Any big brokerage firm can write them and the Securities and Exchange Commission will enforce that they be honored. But you're talking about an awful lot of oil company shares, Mr. Jet."

"Figure it out."

Izzy grabbed some reference books and began to look up things and write:

Octopus current shares: $30.7 billion

Octopus Oil of Indiana: $19.6 billion

Octopus of California: $15.4 billion

Immobil Oil: $14.7 billion

Atlantic Bitchfield: $13.7 billion

Octopus Oil of Ohio: $13.7 billion

Smell Oil: $13.6 billion

British Crude: $13.5 billion

Foil Dutch: $11.8 billion

Hexaco: $10.5 billion

Gulp: $ 7.2 billion

Fillups: $ 7.0 billion

Disunion Oil of California: $ 6.6 billion

Bumoco: $ 6.4 billion

Betty: $ 5.9 billion

He continued to write down figures and then looked up. "This adds up to over 190.3 billion dollars. That's a lot of money, Mr. Jet."

"How much will options to sell it cost?"

"Oh, just a tiny fraction of that. But if these shares go up, we'll just have thrown our money away."

"If they all went down ten dollars a share, what then?"

"If the options got exercised, we'd make about nineteen billion dollars."

"Those shares are going to drop more than that," said Heller. "Can you do the deal?"

"Oh, yes. I can buy July options to sell. If we don't exercise them before that time, they just expire. That's only a few weeks from now. How do you know all the oil shares of every company in the world will go down, Mr. Jet?"

"I guarantee it," said Heller. "Now, listen, you let me know when you've got all that in hand. Meanwhile I have a project. Good luck, Izzy."

"Good luck, Mr. Jet."

Oh, Gods, what was I looking at? What had I just heard? This was a direct attack to ruin poor Mr. Rockecenter! Oh, Gods of Gods, was I in trouble!

I hadn't the least idea what Heller was going to do. Bomb the oil nerve center of the world, Rockecenter Plaza?

Heller disappeared into his quarters for a while. The cat watched me carefully. We didn't see eye to eye. I couldn't stand to look into those baleful orbs. Did the cat know I had killed the Countess Krak? It certainly was just waiting its chance to murder me.

When Heller came back he was dressed in the fatigue uniform of the Voltar Fleet: powder blue and form-fitting—his name, Jettero Heller, Combat Engineer, above his left breast pocket. I could see that suppressed grief had put him under strain but he was somehow carrying on. I felt that he was very dangerous to me. He was far from his usual smiling self. He was all business, an officer going to work.

He unlocked my wrist cuffs and then chained me round and round to a pipe behind the seats. "I've no place to sit down," I said. "Is this any way to treat a prisoner?"

"Would you like to go back to New York?" he said, pointing straight down. "Just say the word and I'll open the airlock for you."

I didn't have any more to say to that.

He closed the viewports, dropping their metal shields. Then he went through the ship, closing doors by speaking to them, and I could hear the clangs and grates of more metal plates shutting down.

Fear began to rise in me. Pilots closed ports against radiation belts. Was he going to depart from the planet itself? That would attract the assassin pilots!

He came back to the star-pilot chair and threw a lever. I knew what that one was: It turned the whole ship silver on the outside to repel ray bombardment.

He went back aft and returned with the other time-sight. He fitted it into place in the crutch and tube in front of the star-pilot seat. HE WAS GOING TO LEAVE THE PLANET!

"Whoa!" I said, feeling the sweat break out on my forehead. "The instant the assassin pilots see you turn silver they'll be on to you like hawks."

"Oh, them," he said.

And then I knew what I was up against. He really didn't care anymore. He had turned suicidal!

I felt small screams struggling to rise in my throat. One shot from one of those flying cannons and this tug would smash like a stamped-on tin can!