Heller turned to the Countess. "That was Doctor Crobe," he said. "What's he doing yelling and screaming and running?"

"The spearmint Bavarian Mocha is a new kind," said the Countess Krak.

"What was Crobe doing here?" said Heller. "Why did he run away?"

"Oh, Crobe? Well, he just brought these formulas to give you. He saw no need to stay. He had another appoint­ment."

Heller looked at the open door to the hall. He took the papers from the Countess and glanced over them.

"Dear," he said, "you look like you've been up to something."

"Me? Jettero," she said.

Doctor Crobe had gone by the guards so fast they had not been able to grab him.

He raced into a stairwell and instead of going down, went up!

The chief guard was on the radio as he ran. "What the blast happened?"

"He saw an enemy!" I cried. "After him, after him! Don't let him escape!"

"He's going down the stairs!" cried the guard.

"He's going UP the stairs!" I disputed. "UP, UP, man!"

Crobe burst out into a hall two floors above. An ele­vator was open. He dived in.

"He's in elevator number five!" I cried. "He's going down. No, he's going UP!"

The guards were invisible to me. But Crobe wasn't. His elevator stopped. The door opened. He raced out and got to the stairwell again. He was going UP once more. Good Gods, was he trying to get back to Voltar using the Empire State Building as a launching pad?

"Go up to the fiftieth floor, quick!" I told the guards. "And then start running down the stairs!"

They did.

But Crobe darted back into a hall, grabbed an ele­vator and went up again!

I sent the guards up again in an elevator. They got to the top floor. Another elevator door opened.

Crobe rushed out. And right into their waiting clutches!

"We got him," said the chief guard.

They had him all right. Crobe was looking wildly about. "They're after me, they're after me," he was say­ing in Voltarian.

The elevator operator, a girl, said, "I'll phone for the building police!"

I told the guard with the radio, "Tell her something, quick."

"It's all right, miss," the chief guard said. "He's just a nut that thinks he's from outer space."

"Oh, one of those," the operator said.

Crobe's screen letters were reading:

TRIPLE TERROR

He was struggling. His eye suddenly focused outside the building and he thought, apparently, he was falling, for he abruptly slumped. The letters shifted to:

OUT COLD

"What do we do?" the chief guard asked me.

THAT was the question. If they brought him back to the base in Turkey, Faht Bey would scream and rant and try to get me to pay for the wasted air passage and maybe even shoot Crobe. A destructive person like the doctor was far too valuable to be shot. In the Apparatus we value a planet-wrecker. Crobe must be saved!

Suddenly, inspiration came to me. There was only one other person I knew who was as potentially destructive as Crobe: Madison!

Only Madison would know how to use this lethal weapon in the war to destroy Heller.

I told the guards to collect Crobe's bag and get him to 42 Mess Street.

That (bleep), (bleep), (bleep) Krak had ruined my first plan but there was still hope.

It was early. There were only the remains of the night watch when they carried Crobe into 42 Mess. The reporter on duty offhandedly told them to wait in Mad's office. They went in and began to fan Crobe with press releases. He revived, possibly from the stink. One of the guards got some hot coffee from a machine, found a bottle of whiskey in Mad's desk and put some of it in the coffee. This further revived Crobe.

There was a roar outside. The Excalibur. J. Walter Madison had arrived.

"Now, put your radio to your ear and tell him what I say," I told the chief guard.

Crobe looked at Madison. The public relations man was all groomed and sleek, the perfect example of the sincere, honest and appealing young American executive.

Repeating what I said, the chief guard addressed Madison. "Mr. Smith has sent us. We are here to present you with a perfect weapon in the war against the Whiz Kid."

"War?" said Madison. "Oh, no, you have it very wrong. We are engaged in the purest possible public relations and our motives are far beyond reproach."

Acting on my orders, the chief guard said, "May we introduce Doctor Phetus P. Crobe, the eminent psychi­atrist."

"Who's talking on that radio?" said Madison. And before the guard could grab it back, he took it. "Hello. Who is this?"

"Smith," I said.

"You must be awfully nearby to be using such a little walkie-talkie," said Madison. "Why didn't you come in yourself?"

I realized I had to think fast. It was awfully close to a Code break. All he had to do was look at the nameplate on that radio to read:

Voltar Communications Industries

"I'm using Miss Peace's equipment," I said. "I have to be quick because it's in heavy demand. Look over the credentials of Doctor Crobe and I am sure you will be able to use him."

Madison sat down at his desk, laid the radio on his blotter and put out his hand for the credentials. He inspected them.

Unfortunately, Crobe got in the act. He reached across the desk and tapped Madison on the nose. He said, "Deed eet effer oggur to you dat you voot book moch butter rnit a libido instad of a nose dare? Or maybe a bellybutton? Unt your hands. Dey voot loook nicer mit fish flippers." And he got out an electric knife! A guard grabbed him from behind.

Madison stared at him. Then he snatched his telephone. He push-buttoned very fast.

I raised the sound volume on Crobe's viewer. The answering voice came through from the phone, "Bellevue Psychiatric Section," and then in a musical, lilting voice, "Good morning."

"This is J. Walter Madison, 42 Mess Street. Send a wagon quick."

The guard had retrieved his radio. But he wasn't listening to it. The other one was holding Crobe back from the desk, trying to get the electric knife away from him.

Madison pointed at the outer office with a quivering finger. "You hold him down at the foot of the stairs until the wagon comes!"

There was nothing I could do.

The Bellevue loony wagon shortly came, with all bells clanging. Two white-uniformed attendants leaped out and grabbed Crobe.

The guards, (bleep) them, handed Crobe's suitcase in. They pushed Crobe in. The doors closed.

In a terribly smug voice, the chief guard said into the radio, "Well, that's that, Officer Gris."

"Quick, quick," I said. "Follow that wagon! You've got to rescue him."

"As I was saying, Officer Gris. That's that. Those attendants looked pretty competent. One even had a blackjack handy. Our charge has been delivered into safe hands."

"WAIT!"

"I'll hand this radio over to Agent Raht at the office. If you want to discuss this further, you can talk to him. We're coming home. End of transmission." The radio gave a final emphatic click and went dead.

I mourned.

Bitter in my defeat, I wandered out into the yard. The day was very cold. The sky was gray. A wind was snarling through the bleak shrubs like a hunting wolf. And it was after me.

I saw Ters. I walked over to him and said, "Where is the taxi driver?"

He gave his evil laugh. "I think he giving Utanc new car a test drive."

"New car?"

"Just deliver this noon. Mercedes-Benz. Brand-new. Very nice. Taxi driver have friend who sell."

I frowned. I suddenly realized that Utanc had not come crawling on her knees to me for money as expect­ed. And here she was with a new Mercedes-Benz! They cost a double fortune! Where was she getting any money? Credit cards? A surge of rage raced through me. I would have it out with her!