Front matter (continued 2)

The picture that followed was lurching madness. Somehow a body had appeared, balanced upside down on its elbows, in the very center of the basement floor. And if that wasn't enough, the head had apparently been severed and placed, for the sake of pure frightfulness, between the knees.

George, now that the body was complete, recognized the error at once. With a blush, he dissolved the head from between the knees and concentrated it down towards the shoulders. The scene instantly became more sane. Now there was a complete and perfectly formed man standing on his elbows in the center of the basement. For a moment he remained rigidly upright, then he wavered and fell flat on his back.

George gazed elatedly down his long length for a moment, then laughed and sat up. Of course! Now everything was just as it should be. He didn't know how he had come to be clothed, and he had no idea that he was wearing an exact duplicate of the suit Marc was wearing, but he considered himself to be a rather natty specimen. All in all, George couldn't have been more pleased. He got to his feet, saluted his new existence with a rather expertly executed jig step, and looked about....

After a casual search of the basement, just to make sure that the corpse of Marc Pillsworth was no longer kicking around anywhere, George directed his attention to the wine bins. If he noticed the floating debris on the ceiling he didn't know that it constituted a condition that was in any way unnatural. He selected a bottle from one of the shelves, opened it, and took a swallow. Immediately, he was overcome with a feeling of enormous disappointment; this couldn't possibly be that whiskey stuff that mortals seemed to miss so much in the upper world. Whiskey, according to report, could cause a poor man to be rich, a peasant to be king. Certainly this drab liquid was far too pallid for that kind of magic. George replaced the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced around at the stairs across from the bins and went over to investigate.

He stopped at the foot of the steps and listened. Distantly, there were voices above—and, therefore, mortals. George decided that now was as good as any other time to plunge into things; perhaps he could pick up a few pointers. He started up the steps, then stopped thoughtfully.

Perhaps it would be better not to burst in upon these mortals in a state of complete materialization; it might just a bit too much for them. Maybe it would be better to break the news of his arrival gradually, let them just suspect for awhile and give himself time to grow on them. That was the ticket; he was sure that even the High Council couldn't find anything wrong with that idea.

George held one foot out before him and dissolved it. Then taking the next step, he repeated the process with the other foot.

Causing himself to disappear a bit at a time he rose slowly toward the world of the mortals....

"There's no use hiding in your handkerchief," May Springer said. "The sooner you talk to your lawyer, the sooner you'll stop crying."

Julie looked up uncertainly. "Maybe you're right," she said. "But I don't know. Oh, I don't know anything!"

"What you need," Jewel said emphatically, "is a drink to give you courage. We all do." She turned to May. "Run out to the bar, pet, and bring us a bottle. This damned tea isn't doing any of us any good."

May, accustomed to acting on Jewel's command, followed instructions. She left the room in the direction of the study and in a moment was back with a bottle and three glasses.

"That's the stuff," Jewel said heartily. "Clear out those tea things and put 'er down. I'll pour."

With everything arranged to her satisfaction, Jewel filled the glasses with a quick and lavish hand. She handed brimming glasses to May and Julie, then raised her own glass to propose a toast.

"To divorce!" she boomed. "And the damnation of husbands!"

Julie raised her glass, but only half-heartedly. Then without even tasting the drink, she placed it on the table in front of her.

"There's nothing like whiskey to open the mind and the pores so that the poison can get out," Jewel announced loudly. "It's wonderful stuff."

It was just at this moment that the invisible George drifted expectantly into the room. He stopped short and pricked up his ears. Whiskey! The very thing he was looking for, and here were mortals fairly wallowing in the stuff. He observed the ladies with an eye mainly to the glasses in their hands. Then he noticed Julie's glass, languishing on the table. It was a circumstance that plainly wanted mending. George drifted quickly forward.

For a moment George only stood regarding the drink covetously. Then he turned to observe the ladies. Since this was to be his first manifestation before an audience he felt he should make the most of the materials at hand. Considering the ladies in turn, he decided that he disliked Jewel Drummer the most. He waited carefully until that turret-faced matron was looking in his direction, then lifted the glass with a broad flourish. Even to George the effect of the drink suddenly flying from the table and into the air seemed rather arresting.

To Jewel the effect was downright terrifying. Her glass raised to her lips, she suddenly started, misdirected her aim and poured the entire drink into her yawning bodice. With horrified reflex she jolted out of her chair and hurled the glass from her. As the glass crashed against the opposite wall, George tossed off his drink and replaced the glass on the table.

In unison, Julie and May turned puzzled eyes on the palpitating Jewel.

"The glass!" Jewel blurted in tones of terror. "The glass!" Then suddenly she gulped and sat down again as the bottle, like the glass, leaped lightly from the table, upended itself over the glass, filled it, then replaced itself.

"The bottle!" Jewel boomed.

"She wants the bottle!" May told Julie. "God, what a thirst that woman's got! Did you see her knock off that drink? And now she's yelling for the bottle. She's fairly lusting for the stuff. Give her the bottle, dear, before she starts breaking the furniture."

Julie quickly snatched up the bottle from the table and held it out to Jewel.

"Here, dear," she said, "take it."

Jewel pressed herself frightenedly against the back of her seat.

"Take it easy!" she screamed. "Don't bring it near me!"

"She fights the stuff all the time," May told Julie confidentially. "Of course I've never really been sure before, but I've suspected all along."

"I must cling to my reason," Jewel babbled desperately to herself. "I mustn't give way!"

"What's that, dear?" May asked soothingly.

"Maybe we should pretend nothing's happened," Julie suggested anxiously. "You know, just go on talking and pay no attention to her."

"It might help," May agreed.

For a moment the two ladies engaged in frenzied and meaningless conversation, cautiously watching Jewel from the corners of their eyes. Jewel, her eyes riveted with terrible fascination on the table, seemed to have gone into a trance.

In the meantime, George, for his part, was suffering the pangs of disappointment. To all intents and purposes, except for a certain feeling of inner warmth, he was feeling much the same as always. The liquor had failed to perform the miracle he had expected. But perhaps that was only because he hadn't had enough. Once more he reached out toward the glass and lifted it from the table.

With a final bellow of madness Jewel heaved her bulk from the chair and bolted from the room.

"God in heaven!" she roared from the hallway. "Let me out of here!"

May rose unhurriedly. "I guess the struggle was too much for her," she said mildly. "You just stay where you are, dear. I'll take her home. Poor Jewel. She'll need someone to talk to, to confide in, and I'm her best friend." Then in an undertone: "I've always thought she belonged in an institution anyway. I'll call you later."

When they had gone, Julie relinquished her spirit to the quiet atmosphere of the room. She had worried and cried, she felt, until she hadn't any emotion left in her. Now she only felt numb. Then she started slightly as a muffled gurgling sound briefly broke the quiet. She glanced around quickly, but there was nothing. Then the doorbell rang. She turned her attention toward the hallway as Marie passed through to answer the door. After a moment the maid returned to the living room.

"There are a couple of gentlemen," she reported. "They say they're from the government and must see you."

Julie was pensive for a moment; she couldn't imagine why anyone from the government should want an interview with her. She shrugged.

"All right, Marie," she said. Then she glanced at the bottle and the glasses on the table; not quite the proper fittings for a chat with the government. "I'll see them in the study."

She rose and started from the room. Then suddenly she heard a small scraping noise and turned back quickly. For a moment she stood still, staring at the table. Could the bottle actually have been moving just as she turned around? But of course that was silly.

Just nerves, she told herself, and continued into the hallway.

After introductions, Julie led the men to the study, gave them seats and took a place opposite them. She would have known they were from the government even if she hadn't been told; with that careful, unrevealing look, they only needed an official stamp of certification on their foreheads.

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked.

"Well, we're not exactly sure," one of the men said. "However, we have reason to believe you can." He cleared his throat. "To get directly to the point, we are interested in an explosion which we believe took place on these premises last night."

"Oh, dear!" Julie said. "Have the neighbors complained?"

"No, Mrs. Pillsworth, nothing like that. You see, we have mechanical means of knowing about explosions. There is a device in existence which records the precise time, location, magnitude and nature of even the slightest explosion anywhere on the Earth's surface. One was recorded here last night. The nature, however, was undetermined and that's why we decided to investigate."

Julie nodded. She told them of Marc's basement laboratory and his experiments to make heavy substances lighter than air. She explained about the explosion.

"The experiment was a complete failure, I guess," she concluded.

"I see," the man said. "Would you mind, though, if we took a look around in the basement anyway?"

"No, I don't mind," Julie said. "But judging from what I saw down there last night you won't find anything but a lot of rubble."

"Of course," the man said. "But we can't take a chance on a possible new type of explosive. It might be of military interest. Just in case, Mrs. Pillsworth, do you know where your husband kept his notes on the experiment?"

Julie thought for a moment. "In a little black book, I believe," she said. "He just left it lying around loose down there."

The man nodded and got up. "We'll have the maid show us where it is," he said. "Thank you very much."

When they were gone, Julie leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was so weary, just from talking to people. Then she sat up quickly. She could have sworn she'd heard something out in the hall, a furtive noise, as though someone had cautiously let himself in the front door. She got up and went to the doorway of the study.

"Marc!" she called, then suddenly froze where she was.

Never had she seen two uglier customers than the ones that were now cowering before her in the shadows of the hallway. Two very dark little men with gross black beards, thick-lensed glasses and derby hats. They seemed to be exact and very dreadful duplicates of each other, as though the same awful mistake had happened twice. Their eyes shifted nervously before Julie's horrified gaze. They looked precisely like a pair of spies.

"Who are you two?" Julie asked uneasily. "What are you doing here?"

The two shifted uncomfortably, glanced at each other. Finally the one closest to Julie spoke.

"I'm Gerald Blemish," he said, and nodded toward the other. "This is my twin brother, Cecil. Of course those names are entirely fictitious, but we haven't used our real ones for so long we've forgotten them. Then, on the other hand, maybe those are our real names only we just don't know it. We came with the men from the government."

"Oh," Julie said, relieved. "You're with the government too."

"Oh, no," Gerald Blemish said. "Heavens no. We just followed them in. We're spies."

"Spies?" Julie said incredulously. "Oh, dear! With government men right in the house?"

"Oh, we followed them everywhere," the brother called Cecil said. "We find things out faster that way."

"I can see where you would," Julie said. "Haven't they ever caught you?"

"Oh, yes. They catch us all the time. That's one reason they like to have us around; we're handy in case they want to arrest someone and don't know who to arrest." He glanced at his brother and sniggered noisily. "They think we're harmless."

"We've been arrested in so many shake-ups," Gerald offered, "we're known as the Double Malts to some people. We photograph very well in the newsreels. You know, being taken into custody with our hats over our faces. That's why we wear hats, just for pictures."

"Oh, yes," Cecil put in. "As a matter of fact, we used to be in the movies professionally. We played spies exclusively. Because we look so awful. In fact that's how we got started as spies. After seeing us as spies on the screen all the time, everyone got to believe we really were spies. No one would come near us."

Gerald nodded. "When we went to call on anyone, people refused to answer the door."

"It sort of depressed us at first," Cecil said. "And then, on top of that, the movies stopped using us. The vogue in spies turned to beautiful women. They said we were old hat. That put us out of work. But there wasn't anything else we knew how to do. No one would believe we weren't spies so we just had to go on being them."

"I see," Julie said, feeling that she had wandered into a world of complete madness. "What country do you spy for?"

The brothers glanced quickly at each other, then lowered their eyes to the floor. "That's just the trouble," Gerald said in saddened tones. "We don't work for anyone. We're unsponsored. No country will hire us because we look so much like spies. Other spies refuse to be seen with us."

"I don't wonder," Julie said. "With faces like yours. I wouldn't want to be seen with you, and I'm not even a spy."

The dreadful brothers looked up with unexpected happiness. They smiled on Julie crookedly from the corners of their mouths.

"Oh, I'm so glad you said that," Cecil said. "We were afraid we were beginning to lose our looks. Do you think we're really vile? You're not just saying that?"

"I think you're perfectly horrible," Julie said with a feeling of delusion. "And I mean every word of it."

"You're wonderful to say that," Cecil drooled unattractively. He reached inside his coat and drew out a soiled piece of paper. "Would you like the secret to the atom bomb? I know it's kind of old stuff, but maybe you'd get a kick out of just having it to show your friends. We've had it for years now, only no one would take it from us; they wouldn't believe it was real. Take it as a token of our appreciation."

Julie backed sharply away. "No, thank you."

"We've stolen all kinds of plans and formulas and things," Cecil said. "Even secret recipes. But everyone acts like you do; they won't let us give them a thing. Our room is filled with secret papers. We could overthrow any government in the world just like that, if someone would just take us seriously."

"That's too bad," Julie said.

"The trouble is we've got no reputation; we've never done anything terrible enough to get a break."

"Yeah," Gerald slurred. "That's the trouble. But we'll make it yet. We'll do something perfectly monstrous one of these days and then we'll be in. We've got ambition and talent."

"I'm sure you have," Julie said.

"You're very nice to encourage us like this," Cecil said. "And we won't let you down either. We're very good at our trade. Would you like to see us skulk?"

"Skulk?" Julie said. "How do you mean?"

"Oh, just skulk. You know, slither and sneak around and things like that." He turned to Gerald. "Let's show her, huh?"

"All right!" Gerald said. "I'm ready."

"Now wait...!" Julie began, but before she could say anything more the two had disappeared into the shadows, and suddenly the hallway and the room behind her were filled with strange furtive scurrying sounds. As she turned to look behind her in the study, she saw one of the frightful brothers dart soundlessly from beneath the desk and disappear behind the drapes at the window. The other peered at her momentarily from behind a chair. They moved around the room with a rapidity and stealth that was maddening. They were everywhere.

"Stop that!" Julie cried. "For heavens sake, stop it!"

Instantly the two brothers returned before her, grinning breathlessly.

"Isn't it sinister?" Cecil asked. "Doesn't it just make your spine crawl?"

"I think mine has already crawled," Julie said. "I wouldn't be surprised to see it scuttling out the door under its own power at this very moment."

"We could skulk all day and never get tired." He held out a sheaf of papers. "I got these out of the desk."

Julie took the papers timidly. "Don't you think you ought to spy on the gentlemen down in the basement now?" she suggested. "They're probably wondering what's keeping you."

"That's right," Gerald said. "Well, we'll sneak along now. It's too bad we haven't more time. We'd show you how we lurk. Everyone says we're the best lurkers in the business."

And suddenly the two were gone, faded into the shadows. Shaking her head, Julie turned back to the study to replace the papers in the desk. Then she stopped as a sharp scream of terror came from the kitchen; the awful brothers had evidently discovered Marie.

Julie was just returning from the desk when the telephone rang. Without waiting for Marie, who was probably in no condition to talk at the moment anyway, she continued to the hallway and answered it herself.

"Mrs. Pillsworth?" a male voice inquired heavily. "This is the police."

"Police?" Julie said. Her first thought turned instantly toward Marc. "My husband! Has something happened to Marc?"

"I'll say, lady," the voice replied. "He's been arrested."

"Arrested? What for?"

"Well, I don't know how to tell you, lady. It sounds silly, and you ain't going to believe it, but he was run in for attacking a statue."

"Attacking a statue!"

"That's what the description says. That an' a lot more that I can't repeat on the telephone. It seems like him and this little redheaded hell-cat...."

"Oh!" Julie broke in frigidly. "So she's mixed up in it, is she!"

Then suddenly the look of anger faded from Julie's face and became one of pure astonishment. As she had been talking, her attention had been drawn to the living room doorway by a movement there. Now, her eyes wide, she stared at a bottle suspended in thin air. Even as she watched, it moved a bit, tilted inquisitively, almost as though it were eavesdropping.

Julie closed her eyes tightly and turned away. She had to get a grip on herself before her nerves gave way completely. She tightened her hold on the telephone.

"You tell my husband," she said, "that he can rot in jail for all I care. I'm going to Reno."

She hung up, passed a trembling hand over her forehead. For a long moment she stood perfectly still. Then, slowly, she turned and forced herself to look at the doorway. As she stared, her face draining white, the bottle tilted smartly and emptied the slight remains of its contents into thin air. There was a moment of electric silence, then the hallway resounded from end to end with the rumblings of an unrestrained burp.

With a smothered cry, Julie sank limply to the floor....

CHAPTER VI

"Oh, my word!" the judge said, lifting haunted eyes from the report. "Do you mean this Pillsworth fellow actually did all that to a statue? Before witnesses? It fairly makes my hair stand on end."

"He did that and more," the prosecuting attorney said. "Pillsworth is no ordinary man."

"Either that," the judge said, "or that statue is no ordinary statue. Where is this fellow? I can hardly wait to get a look at him."

"No, Your Honor," the attorney said. "I didn't mean that. Actually, nothing happened to the statue."

"Put up a good fight, did she? Good for her."

"What I mean to say," the attorney went on patiently, "is that the statue is perfectly all right."

"Stout girl," the judge nodded. "I give that statue real credit. There aren't many women, stone or otherwise, who could go through a siege like that and come out on the right side of things. That statue has got guts. If she were here now it would give me great pleasure to shake that statue's hand."

The attorney cleared his throat dryly. "Can't we drop the statue, Your Honor?" he suggested.

"After everything else she's been through!" the judge exclaimed. He narrowed his eyes indignantly on the attorney. "Really, sir, do you think that's the human thing to do?"

"I don't mean drop her literally," the attorney protested. "I mean couldn't we just sort of lay her aside for a bit? What I'm getting at is...."

"I know perfectly well what you're getting at," the judge broke in hotly. "You can just forget it. I'm beginning to wonder if you're any better than this Pillsworth fellow."

"That's what I wanted to tell you about," the attorney said quickly. "Pillsworth claims he had to grab hold of the statue to keep from floating away into space. He says he's lighter than air."

As Marc held desperately to the statue, Toffee took hold of his leg and pulled....

"My word!" the judge said, thoroughly scandalized. "Does he really? I'm surprised he has the nerve to try to pull a thing like that in court. And the girl? What about her? I understand she was swimming around without any clothes on."

"Well, actually, she had on a sort of shift affair. But it looked like she was naked when she was wet. At best, she's a wild citizen. Seems to regard this whole affair as a sort of picnic. I understand she broke out of her cell last night."

"Oh, dear!" the judge said. "I hope it doesn't leak out. How did she manage it?"

"No one knows," the attorney said. "The girl won't tell. The door was still locked and everything was in order. When they found her this morning she was romping around in the wardrobe and had rigged herself out in a dress from one of those burlesque strippers who were brought in."

"A pretty taste in clothes, eh?"

The attorney nodded. "When the burlesque girl saw her in it, she told her to keep it; said she looked so much better in it than she did herself, she was throwing in the sponge."

"Sponge?" the judge said. "Throwing it in where? Do you mean this stripper threw a sponge at her?"

"I was speaking figuratively," the attorney said patiently.

"I understand that," the judge said with an air of testiness. "You have to speak figuratively when you're going on like this about strippers and such." He laughed foolishly. "I get it; I'm not so old. But about this sponge, was it wet or dry when the girl threw it?"

"I don't know," the attorney said desperately trying to cling to some small thread of logic in the conversation. "It wasn't mentioned when I heard about it."

"Well, I don't suppose it really matters," the judge said. "A sponge doesn't constitute a deadly weapon either way."

Just at that moment one of the doors across the room opened and Toffee appeared before the court. She was followed at a safe distance by an extremely harrassed-looking police matron. The redhead was a study in glitter and pink flesh. Three sequined butterflies garishly highlighted the strategic portions of her anatomy without running any grave danger of obscuring them entirely. A vaporish material dusted with spangles provided a skirt of sorts. It was a dress that fairly begged for blue lights, slow-rhythmed music and unrestrained whistles. Toffee presented herself to the court with a spectacular flourish, then turned peevishly to the matron.

"You make another grab at me with those horny talons of yours," she warned, "and I'll flatten you down even with your arch supports."

The matron backed away, afrighted. "Then you keep your hands off those zippers," she said. "They don't allow monkeyshines in the courtroom. And just you wait till the judge hears about you breaking out of your cell."

Toffee smiled enigmatically. She knew the matron would be deviled with that mystery for the rest of her days. And even if the wretched woman ever discovered the truth, she'd never believe it, though the explanation was simple enough. Being a product of Marc's consciousness, Toffee naturally could not exist when he was asleep. So, as she had promised, when Marc had finally fallen asleep, Toffee had disappeared from her cell to return to the valley of Marc's mind. However, when Marc awoke in the morning, she had instantly reappeared. She had simply chosen to rematerialize in the wardrobe rather than her cell.

To Toffee's mind there was really nothing so terribly mysterious about that. Choosing to ignore the matron altogether, she turned her attention to the judge. She waved a hand to the august person of the bench and started forward.

"Here, you...!" the matron began.

Toffee swung around menacingly. "Stand your ground, Bertha," she said. "You may wind up wearing those false teeth of yours as a necklace." She turned back to the judge and smiled. "Well, here we are," she greeted airily, "wild-eyed and bushy-tailed!"

The judge made an indignant choking sound. "Now, look here...!" he said.

"I am looking there," Toffee said. "And it's a great disappointment to me."

"Young lady!" the judge roared. "Do you want to be charged with contempt of court?"

"Maybe I'd better warn you, judge," Toffee said coolly. "Don't bully me; I may forget myself and pull a zipper. That would crab your act something awful. Besides, if you charged me for all the contempt I've got for this court there wouldn't be enough money to pay the bill."

"Well!" the judge snorted. "Of all the...!"

"You're turning purple, son," Toffee observed mildly. "It's not half becoming, either."

The court audience became tensely hushed as the judge reared back in his seat and opened his mouth. But the eruption failed to come.

Just at that moment the door at the far end of the room opened and Marc, accompanied by a guard, stepped into view. His progress to a position before the bench was not marked with any noticeable tendency toward levitation. Toffee, the judge, the court spectators regarded him with undisguised interest. Marc directed his gaze self-consciously toward his toes.

Only that morning Marc had made a remarkable discovery: that food tempered his buoyancy and made it possible for him to remain secure to the floor without clutching to anything for anchorage. Whether this was a permanent condition or not, he didn't know, but still it had been a relief to know that he would be able to make his way before the court without appearing on the ceiling.

However, though mightily relieved, Marc was not as elated at this development as he might have been; there were other things to plague him. Julie's message that she was going to Reno, for instance. And the court's probable decision; they were bound to conclude that he was either a criminal or insane or both before they were through with him. He felt that he might just as well drift off into eternity and have it over with as spend the rest of his life locked up, separated from Julie. He raised his head and glanced apprehensively at the court audience.

Julie wasn't there. But he hadn't really expected that she would be. However, a number of people involved in the affair at the Wynant were in attendance, including the manager and the clerk. Also, there were a pair of the most evil-looking male twins Marc had ever set eyes on. Heavily bearded, wearing thick-lensed glasses, they looked to him like nothing so much as a pair of those spies you used to see in movies. Marc shuddered and turned back to the judge, which was no improvement over the unattractive twins. The judge lifted his gavel.

"The court is now in session!" he thundered.

"And high time, too!" Toffee sang out in reproving agreement.

The judge leaned on the gavel and brought it down solidly on his own hand.

"Damnation!" he bellowed.

"Such low talk for such high places," Toffee commented dryly, turning to Marc.

Marc glanced down at her brief costume and a look of pain assailed his already troubled features.

"Be quiet," he said, almost pleadingly.

"Yes!" the judge said, nursing his hand. "You be quiet!" Then he turned and gazed malevolently at the gathering in general. "The air of insanity which has crept into this court will dissipate itself instantly or I'll clear the hall. I'll clear out the whole kit and kaboodle of you, even the defendants." He turned back to Toffee. "I may clear out the defendants anyway."

The court settled into a state of heavy quiet, and though the air of madness which the judge had spoken of with such great passion had abated, there was the feeling that it was only holding itself in abeyance, that it might reassert itself at any moment with a vengeance. The judge cleared his throat and settled his glasses on his nose.

"Your Honor ..." the prosecution began.

"Shut up!" the judge snapped peevishly. "I want no lengthy speeches from you. This case is plain enough without any highfalutin' verbage from any legal eagles."

The judge elaborated, going on at some length about the degree and quality of the silence he wished from all concerned. No one noticed that the door to the courtroom had quietly opened, permitted the passage of a quantity of what appeared to be merely fresh air, then gently closed again.

It had been a cruel night for George; the ways of earthly civilization had dealt with him without temperance or humanity. The poor ghost, having eavesdropped on Julie's telephone conversation, had begun to have a horrible suspicion that Marc Pillsworth was still alive and that he, George, was on earth under false pretenses. George had been distressed at this; here was a set of circumstances that the High Council wouldn't even begin to approve.

Gathering that the mortal in question was in the hands of the police, George had finally ... and with all the best intentions in the world ... decided to check this appalling piece of information for himself on the bare hope that there might have been some mistake.

Placing himself, rather invisibly of course, in the hands of the rapid transit system, George had received the ride of a lifetime. He had covered the length and breadth of the city several times over without ever arriving at his destination. It was all too much for George's powers of comprehension. He had been shoved, stepped on, pushed and sat on by humans almost beyond the limits of his endurance. Now, bruised and beaten, he had finally arrived at the place he sought. He gazed on the courtroom without enthusiasm, sighted Marc and drifted disconsolately forward, his hopes withering as he moved.

"Of course," the judge was saying, "this case, on the face of things, is so silly I blush to be trying it in this court. Actually, it belongs in an asylum." He fixed Marc with a cold stare. "Do you still contend, Pillsworth, that you were clinging to that statue solely for reasons of security? In other words, do you persist in the mad delusion that you were floating through space?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Marc said earnestly. "You see, I have been engaged in an experiment...."

"Enough!" the judge snorted. "Don't go on about it. It's too disgusting." With a forefinger he pressed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. "That settles it. The only thing for you to do, Pillsworth, is to prove your point to the court. In other words, demonstrate that you really are ... uh ... buoyant. Briefly, either you float, here and now, for the court or you go to the pokey and wait for a mental examination. And let me warn you against any mechanical devices."

"But, Your Honor!" Marc protested. "Only this morning I discovered that...."

"Float!" the judge demanded. "Go on. Float!"

An expectant quiet ensued as Marc stood miserably before the bench. Several photographers moved quietly forward, shifting fresh bulbs into their cameras. Toffee turned to Marc anxiously.

"Go on!" she hissed. "Show the old goat!"

Marc looked at her unhappily. "I can't!" he whispered.

During this interval, looking remarkably haunted for a ghost, George arrived at a position between Marc and Toffee. He gazed on Marc's face and frowned; there was no question about it, his mortal part had played him a foul trick; Marc was still alive. George was undecided as to how to meet the situation. His inclination was to stick around just for revenge, but there was the warning from the Council. Then, too, there was the possibility that Marc might tick off at any moment; after all, living in this earth world was an extremely perilous business from all that George had seen of it. In that case, everything would be all right. Weighing the pros and cons of the matter. George turned to regard Toffee for the first time. Instantly his mood brightened.

There was hardly anything that George could see about Toffee that he didn't like, and he could see virtually everything. Particularly, he admired her taste in clothes. Clearly, here was a girl who had a bit of flair and imagination. However, the small piece of metal sticking out untidily at the waist offended George's sense of perfection. That didn't belong there, he was sure of it. As George reached out to pluck away the offending blemish he had no idea that with the mere flick of a finger he was about to touch off a roaring panic.

In the moment that followed there was a small zipping sound which was instantly followed by a startled gasp, as Toffee, to the electrification of all present, suddenly stood before the court bereft of two of her most valuable butterflies and all of her skirt. There was a bit of silence after that, followed by a sudden flash of a camera, a sprinkling of half-hysterical applause, and one small scream.

The judge, starting from his chair to lean across the bench for a better view of the performance, reverted to his former shade of purple. His face bloated with rage, he was rendered incapable of anything more coherent than a furious sputter. Amazingly, Toffee seemed to share the judge's feelings in the matter. She whirled on Marc with eyes that glittered.

"Of all the shabby stunts!" she stormed. "Trying to stall for time by making a show out of me! You lousy sensationalist!"

"What...?" Marc began innocently.

But it was too late. Already Toffee had doubled her fist and wound up for the pitch. The next thing Marc knew he had been dealt with harshly in the vicinity of his nose. He lost his footing and sailed backwards.

Toffee watched the results of her handiwork with satisfaction. However she was somewhat astonished at how heavy Marc had been in the felling. The truth of the matter, though, was that she had knocked down not one Marc Pillsworth but two. George, caught at the side of the head by Toffee's elbow staggered backwards, tripped over a chair, and fell sprawling on his back.

Marc landed heavily on the floor, skidded crazily out of sight under the table, struck his head smartly against a leg and lay inert. In the same second, the matron reached a restraining hand toward Toffee, then started back with a cry of fright; the girl had suddenly vanished. Simultaneously, George, in a fit of confusion and surprise, fully and completely materialized himself.

All this happened in the flick of an eyelash.

As far as the court was concerned the incident was fairly simple: Toffee had knocked Marc to the floor, then fled the room. All eyes turned toward George under the misapprehension that he was Marc.

The judge beat out a deafening thunder with his gavel.

"Order!" he screamed. "Order!"

The court quieted. The matron ran forward to the bench.

"She's gone!" the harried woman cried. "She just disappeared!"

"Good!" the judge said. "And for heaven's sake don't go looking for her. I hope I never set eyes on that girl as long as I live." He turned to look evilly at George. "Get to your feet," he commanded.

George looked up at the judge and blanched; for a moment he was afraid he'd been recalled to the chambers of the High Council. He got quickly to his feet.

"All right now," the judge said with deadly steadiness. "Float!"

"Float?" George asked.

"Yes, of course, float," the judge snorted. "That's what we're all waiting for, isn't it? Are you going to float or aren't you?"

George shrugged. There was certainly no accounting for the tastes of these mortals. He couldn't imagine why this man was so insanely anxious to see him float; it seemed to mean the world and all to the poor devil. However, George supposed it would be best to humor him. He settled himself squarely on his feet, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Slowly he began to levitate from the courtroom floor.

When he had risen to a height of about eight feet, he stopped, opened his eyes, and looked down. A sea of widened eyes and opened mouths gaped up at him. An excited murmur went through the court. The judge rose up out of his seat like a great gulping porpoise, then fell back heavily.

"Lord love a lobster!" he gasped.

George gazed on these reactions with amazed satisfaction. Obviously these mortals were pathetically easy to please; if a simple demonstration of levitation could cause this much concern, just think how they'd react to some of his other accomplishments! The ham bone popped out in George's restrained soul like an internal rash.

With a small formal bow, first fore, then aft, the self-dazzled spook sat down with a flourish, placed his hand comfortably behind his neck, and stretched out with suspenseful deliberation. Then, dangling one foot lazily in space, he dissolved his head.

George threw the courtroom into an uproar as he suddenly dematerialized his head....

As a low moan issued through the courtroom, one of the photographers nearest this dreadful scene turned to another of his kind.

"You know, Harry," he said in a controlled voice, "I've been thinking. You and me, we've been in this racket an awful long time now."

"Yeah," said Harry. "An awful long time."

"Yeah. Maybe too long. It's no kind of a life for a man with any kind of sensitivity, you know. It's liable to take a bad effect on a guy after a while."

"I know what you mean," Harry said thoughtfully. "You get around too much, see too many screwy things. It might begin to give you a sort of distorted view like."

"Sure. It could even get so bad you could get kind of unbalanced. Maybe it would start with you seein' things that aren't real."

"Uh-huh," Harry nodded. "Maybe like guys floatin' around in the air without they've got their heads on. Or something like that. Not that I've ever seen no such thing, mind you."

"Of course not. Who would see a crazy thing like that unless it was somebody goin' bugs or somethin'?" The photographer laughed falsely. "It's funny to think a thing like that could happen to a guy."

"Yeah," Harry said. "It's a real laugh. What say we get the hell out of here?"

"You bet! Let's run like the devil!"

Together, the men dropped their cameras to the floor, turned, and ran as fast as they could out of the court room.

Meanwhile, a new groan of horrified amazement had gone through the room. George, in an effort to demonstrate to his audience the very last measure of his paralyzing talent, had introduced a new and even more arresting wrinkle to his performance. Alternately dematerializing and rematerializing in rapid succession, he was blinking on and off like a neon sign.

The judge took one look at this nerve-twisting innovation and rallied to a final effort. He reached for his gavel and brought it down feebly on the bench.

"Dismissed!" he whizzed. "Dismissed! I dismiss everything. For the love of Hannah, dismissed!"

Suddenly the court broke into pandemonium. The traffic to the doors was disordered and chaotic as the members of the audience trampled each other to be out of the place. In front of the bench George perceived regretfully that he had lost his audience, dissolved himself for one last time and sank slowly down to the floor.

Beneath the table, Marc roused himself and sat up to rub his head. As he did so, Toffee instantly appeared beside him.

"What happened?" he asked vaguely.

"How should I know?" Toffee asked tartly. "Just when things were getting interesting you passed out and dissolved me." She glanced from beneath the table. "Now it's all over."

She crawled out from beneath the table and gathered the scraps of her costume which had remained abandoned on the floor. As she quickly zipped everything into place, she looked around.

"The judge went away without even saying goodbye," she said injuredly.

CHAPTER VII

Marc and Toffee swung quickly out of the courtroom and started down the corridor. They were not entirely certain that they were officially allowed this break from the smothering embrace of the law, but since it was a love that was totally unrequited they felt perfectly justified in nipping it off as cleanly and quickly as possible. Besides, neither was in a mood to ask questions.

Marc frowned deeply. The future, in view of past events, was not reassuring. He wondered what night it was that he had lain awake and felt a happy anticipation at strange and wonderful things about to happen. It didn't seem possible that it could have been only night before last; it must have been years and years ago in view of all that had happened. Certainly, in a most disturbing way, the strange and wonderful things had come to pass, but the feeling of happy anticipation had been shot to hell in its very beginnings.

How could things possibly have gotten themselves into so incomprehensible a snarl in just the space of a few short hours? Only a day and a night had passed and now, here he was with a divorce, an irresponsible redhead, a criminal record and several volumes of unfavorable publicity on his hands. And to top it all off, though he was subject to the laws of gravity at the moment, he had taken to floating about in the air like a demented balloon. Also, he had the forbidding feeling that he might revert to a condition of buoyancy at any given moment.

Marc sighed heavily and cursed the day he conceived the idea of the basement laboratory. If there was any small comfort remaining to him at all it came only from a patently comfortless cliche: things couldn't possibly get any worse. He didn't see the courtroom door swing mysteriously open behind him, waver for a moment, then swing shut again.

Neither did Marc see the horrible Blemish twins following behind him and Toffee in the corridor shadows. His attention, instead, had been drawn to the two men in double-breasted suits who were shoving their way toward him through the crowd. Though Marc was certain that the two, regardless of what their business might be, could be the bearers of only bad tidings, he hadn't the will left in him to try to avoid them. One more worry, added to the multitude he already had, would hardly be noticed. Taking Toffee's hand, he stopped and waited resignedly for the two to catch up to them.

"Mr. Pillsworth?" the first man nodded.

"Could there be any doubt?" Toffee said dully.

The man glanced at Toffee, startled a little at her costume, then returned his gaze firmly and resolutely to Marc.

"We are with the Federal Government," he said. He nodded toward the courtroom from which Marc and Toffee had just departed. "I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner; we could have saved you all that trouble."

"Now it's the Feds," Toffee murmured. "More cops ... more courtrooms ... more judges ... more questions ... wurra, wurra."

No one paid any attention.

"We've been to your home, Mr. Pillsworth," the man went on. "We've gone over your laboratory very thoroughly, and it's our opinion that you've turned up something that could be of great interest to the government. In a military way. Your wife explained to us that your intention was to facilitate construction, and I suppose, in a way, you've succeeded. However, in the process, you've also discovered an explosive of most extraordinary properties."

"How was Julie when you saw her?" Marc asked.

"Mrs. Pillsworth was most cooperative," the man said, acknowledging the interruption. "However, she was quite busy while we were there. I gathered she was closing up the house, taking a trip somewhere."

"Did she say when she was leaving?" Marc asked anxiously.

"I believe she said this evening," the man said. "I supposed you knew all about it. Anyway, to get on—in our opinion you have stumbled across a new type of bomb that is so advanced as to make the A bomb completely obsolete. Briefly, it is easily possible that a bomb could be made of your formula and constructed in such a way as to be detonated by the final chemical. It could be used to wipe out whole cities, to wipe them off the face of the earth without a trace. Every stick, stone, human being and piece of mortar could be made to simply rise and disappear from the earth's surface within a matter of minutes. That's rather a terrifying secret to hold entirely in your own possession, Mr. Pillsworth."

"Yes, indeed," Marc said absently. "Terrifying."

"In other words, for the sake of national security, the government cannot possibly allow you to have your discovery all to yourself any longer. I'm sure you can understand that. We would like to talk to you and go over your formula in private. Your notes are still intact, aren't they?"

Marc's hand went automatically to the inner pocket of his jacket where he had secured the notebook. He nodded.

"Oh, yes," he murmured.

"Good. Then suppose we go to one of the...."

"I'd like to go home first, if I may," Marc broke in. "I have to see my wife before she leaves. It's very important. And there are a few extra notes in my room at the house. I could get them all together...."

The man hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded. "All right," he said. "After all we're the only ones who know about this. Only let me caution you not to talk to anyone."

"I won't say a word," Marc said, and nodded toward Toffee. "She couldn't say anything; she doesn't understand any of it."

"Fine," the man said. "Then will it be all right if we come to your house this evening?"

"That'll be fine," Marc said quickly, anxious to be free of them. "I'll see you then."

Marc and Toffee watched the two men disappear down the corridor and up a stairway.

"Terribly morbid pair, aren't they?" Toffee said. "It's enough to make your flesh crawl, all this talk about wiping out cities and people and things."

"It's their business," Marc said.

Toffee glanced behind her. "I don't like to mention it," she said in an undertone, "but there are a pair of perfectly loathsome little men back there, and I think they're following us. For my money they look exactly like spies. They seem to skulk, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Marc said. "I saw them in the courtroom. Probably they're perfectly harmless. Anyone who looked like that would have to be. Anyway, I haven't time to worry about any skulking; I've got to get home. Let's get out of here."

"Am I going with you?" Toffee asked.

Marc nodded. "I've decided it's the best way. We'll just sit down and tell Julie all about you."

"She'll never believe it," Toffee said. "If she does, she's a lot crazier than I think she is."

"She'll have to believe it," Marc said earnestly. "If worst comes to worst, I'll knock myself out and she can see you vanish and reappear for herself."

"We could ask the neighbors in too," Toffee observed wryly. "We could serve punch and do it as a sort of parlor entertainment."

"Don't be silly," Marc said. "Come on."

"I'm game," Toffee murmured. "I just wonder if Julie's up to it, that's all."

"Maybe I should call her first," Marc said, catching sight of a row of phone booths at the end of the corridor. "Just to make sure she's there."

"You might check on the condition of her heart, too," Toffee said. "Just as a precaution."

They started forward and had nearly reached the booths when Marc suddenly stopped short.

"Now what?" Toffee asked.

Marc inclined his head to listen. "Do you keep hearing footsteps?" he asked.

"Sure," Toffee said. "All over the place. With these marble floors...."

"No, not those," Marc said. "Right behind us. I keep hearing someone walking right behind me, but there's no one there."

"Well," Toffee said slowly, "I didn't want to be the first to mention it, but...."

Suddenly, they were both silent, their eyes intent on the floor and a cigarette stub that had begun to behave with shocking abnormality. Still alight, as it had been dropped, it suddenly crushed itself out flat against the floor and ceased to smoke. It was for all the world as though someone had stepped on it to put it out, and yet there wasn't a human foot within yards of the thing.

"Oh, my gosh!" Toffee breathed. "Do you suppose that thing realizes what it can do to a nervous system with a trick like that?"

"What do you suppose it is?" Marc asked.

"It's a cigarette stub," Toffee said. "And it's gone mad. It's completely out of its head. Let's just pay it no mind, treat it with complete contempt. Maybe it'll crawl away and do its odious little stunt for someone who likes that sort of thing."

"You may be right," Marc said without the slightest tone of belief. He turned away, but his gaze remained furtively on the flattened stub. Since there was no further disturbance, he pulled himself together and started toward one of the phone booths. Toffee watched after him with careful intensity.

But if either of them thought they'd had the last of madness from inanimate objects, they were woefully mistaken. The phone booth was next to become possessed. It was as though the hulking enclosure had been waiting in prey for Marc. No sooner did Marc stick his head inside the booth than the doors, without any visible guidance, snapped shut, caught him by the neck, and held him fast. Toffee started back with a cry of pure surprise.

"Help!" Marc wheezed from inside the booth. "Help!"

It was a moment before Toffee was capable of action, but she did her best to make up for lost time. She started forward to the attack with a vengeance. But no sooner had she come within reaching distance of the booth and the door than she was mysteriously and invisibly thrust back. She renewed her efforts but was only repelled for a second time. She paused to consider the door, the booth and her own emotions, rapidly approaching a state of blind rage.

It was just as she had braced herself and hunched angrily forward for the third attack that the woman came out of the booth next to the one in which Marc was trapped. She took one look at the determined redhead and drew her own conclusions.

"Hold off, honey!" she screamed. "You can have the booth! I'm through!"

But Toffee had already hurled herself forward in a headlong, firm-jawed lunge. The woman screamed shrilly and departed the booth and the vicinity with the speed of a deer in season. In the next split second Toffee collided with Marc's invisible captor. There was a dull thud, a small skirmishing, and then Toffee, apparently bearing her opponent to the floor with her, went down in tangled triumph. The door of the telephone booth flew open and Marc dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

George, thoroughly humiliated at having been bested by a mere whisp of a girl, became emotionally confused, lost control, as before in the courtroom, and completely materialized. He looked up at Toffee sprawled untidily across his chest, and flushed.

"You didn't have to knock me down," he murmured woundedly.

Toffee glanced down at her defeated adversary and started with amazement.

"Marc!" she cried. "How did you get down there?"

At the phone booth Marc was still panting for breath. "Did you expect me to come out of there dancing a rhumba?" he asked peevishly.

Toffee whirled about. "Marc!" she yelled.

"Stop screaming my name at me," Marc said. "All I want is...!"

His voice retreated down his throat with a gurgle of surprise as he caught sight of George.

"Wha...!"

Toffee turned from one to the other. "Which one of you is which?" she gasped confusedly.

"I'm me," Marc murmured vaguely. "Who's he?"

Toffee sprang away from her perch on George's chest.

"Oh, mother!" she cried.

"Well," George said resignedly, getting to his feet. "I suppose that I might as well admit it, now that you've found me out." He turned to Marc. "I'm your ghost."

"Ghost!" Marc and Toffee sang it out together. As Marc sprang to his feet, they both closed in on George, crowded him back defensively into one of the phone booths.

During all this, the incident had attracted several innocent bystanders who were now looking on with baffled interest.

"What have they got in there?" one official-looking gentleman asked another. "Did you see?"

The other shook his head. "I think they said it was a goat."

"A goat? What on earth are they doing with a goat in there? Do you suppose they have the beast talking to someone on the phone?"

"If they have," the second replied, "it had better yell for help. They were crowding the poor thing something awful. On the other hand, maybe they just wanted to milk it. If it's a modest goat it might be reluctant about being milked right out here in the middle of the hall."

"I know I would," the first gentleman said, "if I were a goat. I wouldn't blame it a bit. It's shocking, just the thought of it."

"They're doing the best they can," the second gentleman reminded. "I can see where a reluctant goat wouldn't be the easiest thing in the world to get along with."

"Just the same, I don't approve," the first man said. "Not even a little bit. If the goat is shy, they shouldn't bring it out in public to milk it like this."

"Maybe they're trying to teach it social poise," the second man suggested.

"I don't care," the first said. "Livestock should be left at home. Someone should speak to the Health Commissioner about this!"

The second man shook his head with mild amusement. "That shouldn't be difficult for you," he said. "You are the Health Commissioner. Or did they get you in the last clean-up?"

The first man looked at him sharply. "The devil you say!" he exclaimed. He thought about it for a moment. "By heaven, you're right. Sometimes I forget. I thought I was the Water Commissioner. Haven't been to my office for weeks to see what it says on the door." He started away, then turned back. "Why don't you come in and complain to me about this goat? It wouldn't look right if I complained to myself, would it? My secretary would think it was odd."

Meanwhile Marc and Toffee had wedged themselves into the doorway of the telephone booth and were staring incredulously at George.

"Well," George said uneasily, "haven't you ever seen a ghost before?"

"I should hope to tell you I haven't," Toffee said fervently. She looked at George with suspicion. "How do we know you're a ghost? Can you prove it?"

"Do I have to?" George said unhappily.

"It would help clear things up considerably," Marc said. "Personally, I don't believe a word of it."

George stared at them for a long moment, then sighed. "Oh, all right," he murmured. "If you insist. Of course this is terribly corny, and you probably won't like it, but it should give you an idea."

As Marc and Toffee watched, George carefully controlled his ectoplasm, dissolved his head down to a grinning skull, and issued a low moaning sound.

"Mother in heaven!" Toffee said, closing her eyes. "Stop doing that!"

George, only too happy to do so, quickly rematerialized his head. "I told you you wouldn't like it," he said.

"But how could you be my ghost?" Marc said shakenly. "I'm not dead."

"Are you sure?" Toffee said. "Personally, I feel quite dead and gone to hell after looking at that."

"But you're supposed to be dead," George said with sudden self-righteousness. "If you were any good at all, you'd be mouldering in your grave at this very moment. You were supposed to have been blown to bits in an explosion. That's why they sent me."

"Who sent you?" Marc asked.

"I'd rather not discuss them, if it's all the same to you," George said.

"Well," Marc said, "I'm alive. So you can just go back to them, whoever they are, and tell them they're mistaken."

"But I don't want to go back," George said unhappily. He looked at Marc speculatively. "Couldn't you just sort of kick off?"

"I beg your pardon?" Marc asked incredulously. "Do I understand you right? Are you asking me to kill myself just to accommodate you?"

"Oh, you wouldn't have to do it all yourself," George said. "I'd be very happy to assist you."

"So!" Toffee cried. "So that's what you were up to! You were trying to strangle him with that phone booth!"

George shrugged sheepishly. "I didn't think I should pass up any opportunity. I'll admit it's not a very fancy way to die...."

"You fiend!" Marc said. "You horror!"

"Oh, please, no!" George objected woundedly. "You just aren't looking at the thing right, that's all. Fair's fair, you know. After all, I've been waiting years for you to pop off, and...."

"And you're going to wait a great many more years as far as I'm concerned!" Marc said.

"I was afraid you'd be narrow about it," George said dejectedly. Tears came to his eyes. "I've always had to take your left-overs. Your second name, even. I couldn't call myself Marc, because that was the name you wanted. I had to take George. It's unjust."

"Well, don't go on about it," Toffee said. "There's no use blubbering."

"You might just as well go away," Marc said firmly. "I'll be damned if I'm going to pop off, as you so picturesquely put it, just to please a spook with criminal tendencies." He glanced heavenward. "This, on top of everything else!"

The tears welled larger in George's unhappy eyes. He looked at Toffee and Marc and flushed at making such an open display of his emotions. To hide his feelings he sadly dissolved his head. The thin air above his shoulders echoed with a moist snuffle.

"Oh, Lord!" Toffee moaned. "He's up to his tricks again! Would you listen to that?"

"I wouldn't if I could help it," Marc said.

"Let's get away from this snivelling shade before he drives us crazy," Toffee said urgently. "I'm so upset I wouldn't be surprised if I walked out of here on my hands."

"The way he is right now," Marc agreed, "he's the most haunting ghost I've ever seen. I'll certainly never forget him."

Together, they turned and moved away from the phone booth and quickly down the corridor.

"He'll have to shift for himself," Marc said. "I've got other things to worry about."

As they moved away, out of the entrance of the building, several of the more curious spectators converged on the phone booth and glanced cautiously inside.

It was empty.

Outside, an officer showed Marc and Toffee to the green convertible which had been delivered there by the government men. Marc helped Toffee in, then crossed around and slid in under the wheel. With a look of determination, he shifted the gears and directed the car into traffic.

The sound of the shifting gears obscured the muffled snuffling sound that emanated briefly from the back seat.

CHAPTER VIII

Marc braked the convertible to a stop at the signal and glanced worriedly in the rear-view mirror.

"They're still there," he said.

Toffee swung about in the seat and stared without subterfuge at the black sedan and it's occupants.

"It's those filthy twins," she said. "Even their car looks subversive."

Marc turned his attention again to the mirror. "They may be with the government," he said. "They've probably been assigned to watch us." He shrugged a dismissal. "Anyway, they're the least of my worries."

He released the brake and started forward again on the light. He did not mention the greatest and most immediate of his worries; an overwhelming attack of weariness had come over him in the last few minutes and it was alarmingly reminiscent of the one he'd suffered yesterday just before he'd begun to float. If he was about to become buoyant again he wanted desperately to reach home and Julie before it happened. He narrowed his eyes on the blur of the traffic ahead and tightened his grip on the wheel. He knew as he did it, however, that he was never going to make it.

Marc managed the next block without incident, and the next, but in the middle of the third, he swung the car sharply to the curb and brought it to a quick stop. In the next instant, just as he switched off the ignition, his head slumped heavily to the steering wheel. It happened so suddenly that he didn't notice the irony of his location; he had parked almost exactly in front of the Wynant. Neither did he see the black sedan pull up behind.

Toffee swung quickly toward him and gripped his shoulder. "Marc!" she called, shaking him. "What's wrong?"

There was a moment of tense silence and then, just as before, Marc revived as quickly as he had succumbed. He lifted his head from the wheel, and looked dazedly around.

"What happened?" he asked.

But Toffee was not concerned with the events of the past. "Oh, golly!" she wailed. "Look! There you go again!"

Marc glanced quickly down at the seat and suffered a thrill of horror. Toffee had spoken the truth; indeed, he was going again with all anchors cast off. He had already risen, still in a sitting position, to such a height that his knees were resting snugly against the steering wheel.

"Grab me!" he yelled. "Pull me down!"

"I am grabbing you!" Toffee cried, renewing her efforts on his shoulder. "Hang on to something!"

Marc bent forward and took hold of the wheel. The action threw him into a curious doubled-up position, so that he seemed to have braced himself against the device with his knees so that he might pull at it with both hands. To the casual passerby on the sidewalk it presented a rather intriguing problem in logic. A pair of shop-girls turned away from a window, started away, then stopped to observe the activity in the convertible with baffled interest.

"Why do you suppose he's so anxious to get that wheel off?" one asked, turning to the other.

"I can't imagine," the second said thoughtfully. "He seems terribly mad about something, though. I pity his girl friend."

"I should say. I wouldn't go out with a fellow with that kind of temper for a million dollars."

Meanwhile the state of affairs in the convertible was swiftly becoming crucial. Marc was beginning to realize that the upward pull on his body was even stronger than before.

"Don't let me go!" he told Toffee. "Out here, it'll be the end of me!"

Then suddenly both he and Toffee looked around as a cough of expectancy issued ominously from the back seat. Before their apprehensive eyes a heavy flashlight swiftly raised itself from the floor of the car and darted menacingly forward. A chuckle of malevolent intent sullied the charged silence in the car.

"Go away!" Marc yelled. "Beat it, you homicidal haunt! George!"

But the flashlight continued forward, swung upward over Marc's clutching hands, and poised itself for a smashing blow.

"No!" Marc yelled. "No!"

Then, as the flashlight started swiftly downward, Marc closed his eyes and let go. Instantly, he popped upward out of the car and continued going. The flashlight shattered against the wheel and dropped dully to the floor. George promptly went about the business of materializing himself at Toffee's side. No sooner, however, did his face appear than Toffee dealt it a stinging blow.

"You low-living spook!" she grated. "I ought to scramble your ectoplasm for you!"

George blinked at her woundedly. "Why do you always blame me?" he asked. "I'm only trying to do my job. You're being a terrible sport about all this."

"And I'm going to get worse," Toffee said hotly. She glanced frightenedly after Marc who had already risen beyond the elegance of the Wynant canopy and was closing in rapidly on the second floor.

"He'll never stop!" she cried. "He'll go up into space and explode!"

The crowd, gathering quickly about the convertible, watched Marc's ascent with stunned silence. In back of the convertible, the door of the black sedan swung open and the Blemishes, like a pair of soiled moles, arrived on the sidewalk. They forced their way to the front of the crowd.

As the brothers looked upward, their unlovely faces, as nearly as they ever would, expressed true anxiety.

Above, Marc passed the second floor and rose swiftly to the third. He seemed to be gathering momentum on his upward journey. The fourth floor drifted by. His thoughts churned. He wanted to scream, but somehow there wasn't time. And then, miraculously, he was caught in a strong draft of wind, and thrown roughly toward the face of the building. He reached out frantically, grabbing, clutching for something to hang on to. And then his hand slapped against a window ledge, caught, and held.

Marc brought his other hand down to the ledge, found a hold and clung. He drew in a breath of relief and his whole body throbbed with the beat of his heart. As he hung there, his body continued upward, however, upending him crazily against the wall of the hotel.

Down on the sidewalk, the Blemishes were instantly inspired to action.

"Come on!" they yelled. "Let's fish him in!"

Toffee looked at the two men. She was in no mood or position to question any source of aid at the moment, no matter how questionable it appeared. She turned to George with cool hostility.

"You make a move out of this car," she threatened, "and you'll be only a ghost of a ghost when I get through with you." Then, swinging the car door open, she joined the dark Blemishes in a streaking dash toward the entrance of the hotel.

On the fifth floor of the Wynant, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds sat rigidly in her bathtub and stared with fixed horror at the face which had just appeared upside down at her bathroom window. An old belle of the old South, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds had ventured into the North expecting only the worst. Now the worst had happened.

The shaken lady gripped the sides of her tub and tried hard to prevent herself from sinking to a watery grave. She closed her eyes and reasoned sternly with herself; it was all a trick of the imagination; even a damnyankee head couldn't do the disgraceful thing this crazy head was doing. And then her eyes flew wildly open as the room suddenly dinned with a shouted plea for help.

At this point Mrs. Hunter Reynolds had a plea of her own to shout. "God in heaven, sir!" she said, trying desperately to maintain some last shred of dignity now that all decency was gone. "God in heaven, stop invadin' my privacy this way. I ask it in the name of the South."

"Help me!" Marc panted. "Come pull me in!"

Mrs. Hunter Reynolds started in her tub. "You're speakin' to a lady, sir!" she gasped. "Please go away. My water's gettin' cold."

"I can't help your water," Marc said unhappily.

"Sir!" the southern lady cried. "I'm not askin' you to help my water. I'm askin' you to leave my water entirely alone."

"Delighted," Marc wheezed. "I wouldn't touch your water with a ten foot thermometer, I'll close my eyes if you'll just give me a hand."

"If I give you a hand, sir," Mrs. Hunter Reynolds said coolly, "it will be across your insultin' damnyankee mouth. If you don't leave instantly I'll call my husband, the Colonel."

"For heaven's sake, call him!" Marc implored. "He can help me."

"It's more likely he'll whip you within an inch of your life." Mrs. Hunter Reynolds said stoutly. Swirling about in her suds, she faced the doorway, prepared to scream, then turned back to Marc.

"First, sir," she said. "Would you do me the pleasure of tellin' me if you are a whole damnyankee or only a damnyankee head?"

"I'm a whole damn ... I'm whole," Marc said.

"Thank you, sir," Mrs. Hunter Reynolds said with a slight bow. Then she opened her mouth wide and screamed with unbelievable feeling and vigor.

"Hunter!" she shrieked. "Hunter! There's a whole damnyankee invadin' my privacy!"

Even before she had stopped screaming the door to the bathroom burst open and Col. Hunter Reynolds charged into view, obviously prepared to defend southern chivalry to the end, if necessary. Needing only a julep in his hand to complete the picture, he was a fair caricature of all southern colonels.

"Damnyankee, did you say!" he thundered.

"There!" his wife said, agitating her bath water. She pointed dramatically to the window.

"Gad!" the Colonel snorted. "That's the damndest damnyankee I've ever seen. He's upside down, isn't he? Gave me quite a turn for a second there. But it looks like he's had quite a turn himself." The Colonel chuckled foolishly at his own pleasantry.

"I'm the one who's had the turn!" his wife snapped. "Stop that silly gigglin' and titterin', you old fool, and do something."

The Colonel considered. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "I suppose I'll have to shoot the dog; there isn't enough of him to flog."

"My water's getting cool," Mrs. Hunter Reynolds mentioned fretfully.

"Good," the Colonel said absently. "Good. Keep it that way." He started from the room.

"Help!" Marc yelled.

The Colonel whirled about at the doorway.

"Not a word out of you, sir!" he said tartly. "Not a word!"

He left the room and almost instantly was back bearing a pair of ominous bone-handled dueling pistols. These he cocked carefully and aimed in Marc's general direction.

"Make your peace, sir," he said. He turned to his wife. "Close your eyes so you won't see this."

"No!" Marc yelled.

"Just a moment, dear," Mrs. Hunter Reynolds interrupted. "I don't like to interfere in the affairs of menfolk, you know that, dear, but don't you think we ought to keep in mind that we still have southern blood in our veins even if we are in the North?"

The Colonel observed his wife scowlingly. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"It isn't southern courtesy to shoot a man when he's a sittin' target."

The Colonel turned it over in his mind. "You're quite right, dear," he said finally. He turned to Marc. "Sir, would you mind movin' about a bit out there so I can shoot you in honor?"

"I can't!" Marc gasped. His arms were so tired, and his head so thick with blood, that he didn't care much at this point whether he was about to be shot or not. "Shoot me in cold blood," he said. "To hell with your honor."

The Colonel turned questioningly to his wife. "Should I?" he asked. "You heard what he said about my honor."

Mrs. Hunter Reynolds was hesitant. "Suppose the news got out around back home?" she said. "Folks would say you weren't a real southern gentleman anymore. They'd say you'd been tainted by the North. You'd never be able to hold up a julep in public again."

"For the love of heaven!" Marc moaned. "Either help me or shoot me, only make it snappy."

"Better not risk it," the Colonel decided. "I've got to have a moving target."

The bathroom became quiet with the heavy stillness of impasse. Then there was a ripple from the bathtub as Mrs. Hunter Reynolds brightened.

"I know!" she cried. "If the target can't move, why don't you? Wouldn't it be all right that way? You could rush about a bit and when you've got up your speed turn and shoot him."

The Colonel was silent for a minute, seeming to picture his wife's suggestion in his mind. Finally he nodded. He turned to Marc.

"Is it all right with you, damnyankee?" he asked.

"Anything's all right with me," Marc said hopelessly. "Go ahead. I don't even give a damn anymore."

The scene that followed established a new and fascinating high in sheer insanity. Girding his rusty loins against the first physical effort they had been forced to in years, the Colonel busily began to cavort about the room like a bloated rhino. Clumsily loping through an obstacle course of plumbing appliances, the old boy found it rough going at best. As for the Colonel's lady, she languished calmly in her cooling tub, soaped her arms, and watched her laboring husband with nodding approval. Marc, even beyond the point of mere resignation, closed his eyes and waited.

"Well," the Colonel wheezed, rushing once more to the end of the room and starting back again, "this is it!" As he ran, he trained the pistols loosely in Marc's direction. "Here I come! Ready ... aim...!"

It was at this climactic point in the bathroom drama that the door burst open and Toffee, closely followed by the two Blemishes, rushed into view.

"Stop!" Toffee screamed.

In mid-gallop, the Colonel turned sharply to observe the intruders, tripped over a clothes hamper, and descended to the floor in a deafening roar of gunfire.

As a cloud of smoke billowed up around the gallant man from the South, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds turned, looked briefly at Toffee and the Blemish brothers and sank into the depths of her bath with only a small gurgle to mark her departure.

Toffee ran to the window, motioning the brothers to follow. She emerged through the rising screen of smoke just in time to see Marc's fingers, white with tension, slip from the sill and disappear out of view.

"He's gone!" she screamed. "He's gone!"

The Blemishes crowded beside her at the window and leaned forward. They were just in time to catch the last glimpse of Marc floating serenely out of sight beyond the rim of the building as they watched.

"Come on!" Toffee yelled. "Up to the roof!"

"What for?" Gerald Blemish said bitterly. "He's gone, now."

"Well, at least we can wave goodbye," Toffee said. She started rapidly toward the door.

"My!" Cecil Blemish said, picking his way carefully over the prone figure of the Colonel. "Look at all the water in here. The old gaffer got the water pipes, two out of two."

It was barely seconds later when the skylight door at the top of the hotel flew open and Toffee and the matching Blemishes ran out onto the roof. They scanned the distant sky as they moved.

"He's gone!" Toffee cried despairingly. "He's clear out of sight!"

The brothers stopped and looked at each other without hope.

"Well," Cecil muttered. "There goes everything."

Then suddenly the trio straightened as a small voice called Toffee's name. It might have come from anywhere and it might have been any voice, it was so weak. Toffee whirled about, and instantly her gaze darted to the flag-pole at the other end of the roof. There, like a flag unfurled, Marc was clinging to the top ornament for dear life.

"Marc!" Toffee screamed and ran to the pole. "Grab the rope and I'll pull you down!"

Cautiously, Marc took hold of the ropes, first one hand, then the other.

"Hold on tight!" Toffee cautioned and slowly began lowering him toward the roof. As she did so she glanced around at the twins. The two, in what seemed a rather pretty but confused tribute, were holding their hats stiffly over their hearts.

Toffee turned back to the pole, renewed her efforts, and brought Marc safely to ground. Then as he clung to the pole for security, she removed a couple of metal weights from the ropes and slipped them into the pockets of his jacket. Briefly, she kissed him on the forehead.

"You damned floater!" she breathed with relief and affection.

Gingerly, Marc released his hold on the pole and smilingly discovered that he was again stationary. With Toffee's help, he made his way to where the twins were standing, their hats still clasped to their chests.

"Retreat's over," Toffee said. "You can put the lids back on."

In unison the twins swung their hats up to their heads and held out the revolvers they had been holding under them.

"Get 'em up!" they snarled in chorus. "You're coming with us."

CHAPTER IX

Even the elevators of the Wynant, and the procedures attendant thereto, had a tone of delicate breeding about them. As the doors parted, ever so smoothly, the mechanism emitted a sigh of unmistakable refinement, like a great lady giving vent to a genteel yawn of boredom behind an ivory fan. In the foreground was revealed a uniformed and finely drilled operator who always stood at rigid attention on the occasion of his passengers' debarkation. Thus it was, with all good taste, the Wynant guest was given every opportunity to arrive before the general public and the management with his best foot extended well to the fore. It was one of those small touches that contributed so much to making the Wynant the Wynant, and vice versa.

Now, however, the procedure of the elevators, like the best laid plans of mice and mollusks, suddenly went amuck. Eyes turned and widened sharply as the elevator doors flew open with an exclamatory rasp, and not the passengers but the operator quitted the conveyance. Putting one foot forward of the other with all the earnest haste of a scared wombat, it was evident that the poor devil didn't know or even care which of them was the best; he skittered across the foyer and around the edge of the desk with the speed and directness of a well-aimed shot.

"It's him!" the wretched man jabbered, cowering beside the clerk. "He's come back to get even with that statue!"

Meanwhile a scene of rather complex agitation had been revealed within the narrow confines of the elevator. It seemed that Marc, still increasing in the degree of his buoyancy, was no longer afforded any particular measure of security from the weights in his pockets. Even during the brief interval which had transported him from the roof to the foyer, he had levitated to the height of about a foot and was still inching upward.

Marc's companions were inclined to take a sour view of the whole procedure. Indeed, the Blemishes felt called upon to express their displeasure with firearms. Cecil Blemish aimed his gun at the small of Marc's back and sighted tensely down the barrel.

"Come down," he threatened. "Stop doing that or I'll shoot. I will, too."

"Stop that," Toffee said agitatedly. "Look where you're aiming. He's risen another four inches. There's no need to be vulgar about it."

"Oh, excuse me," Cecil said, and aimed the gun higher.

"If you two don't put those guns away and stop waving them about," Toffee said, "I'm going to snatch them away from you and beat your brains out with them. I'll admit it'll be something like hunting butterflies with a sledge hammer, but I'm willing to have a go at it. How about it?"

The twins paused in their activities and looked at each other.

"I'll bet she would at that," Cecil said.

"Those poor defenseless butterflies," Gerald nodded. "I shudder."

"And well you should shudder," Toffee put in.

Together the brothers turned to her with undisguised admiration.

"You're really mean," Cecil said. "Have you ever thought of being a spy?"

"Have you ever thought of being a dead spy?" Toffee said waspishly. "Now stop that nonsense and help me get him down. Find something to weight him down with."

Marc, already beginning to crouch to keep his head away from the ceiling of the car, looked down imploringly. "Just get me something to eat," he pleaded. "I'll be all right if you'll only feed me."

"You see," Gerald Blemish said. "He's just being stubborn. This is all just a childish trick to get us to feed him." He raised his gun again in Marc's direction.

"Don't be silly," Toffee said. She explained to the Blemishes that food reacted chemically to temporarily relieve Marc's condition of buoyancy. "Just help me get him down, and we can get him something to eat in the hotel dining room."

The brothers were thoughtful.

"I suppose we'll have to take her word for it," Cecil said. "Anyway, he's not much good to us up there."

"I suppose so," Gerald agreed, "but personally I think he's just the flighty type."

Cecil went to the door of the elevator and looked out. Then he stepped outside and called back to Gerald to come and give him a hand.

Absentmindedly, Gerald started to hand his gun to Toffee, but at the last moment he thought better of it and put it in his pocket.

"It's hard to tell who's captured whom sometimes," he said sadly, and went outside.

In a moment the brothers were back, progressing slowly under the weight of a tremendous sand-filled cigarette urn. They shuffled to the center of the car and laboriously hoisted their cumbersome burden up to Marc.

"Here," Gerald panted. "Take it."

Marc regarded the thing without enthusiasm. "Good grief!" he said. "That thing'll break my back. Can't you just get me something to eat?"

"Take it," Toffee said shortly. "You can come and get your own food. And don't drop it. Personally, I don't intend to go galloping up to the top of this hotel again after you. Next time you take off, I'll just forward your mail to the moon and let it go at that."

With a sigh of hopeless resignation, Marc took hold of the urn, and the Blemishes let go and stepped back. Instantly Marc and the urn crashed to the floor with a tooth-rattling thud.

"Ugh!" Marc said.

"There, you see," Toffee beamed. "It works beautifully. Now, come on, let's eat."

And so it was that a moment later the diners in the Wynant dining room were suddenly shocked into silence by the arrival of the most bizarre dinner party ever to venture forth in quest of food. It was not enough that a combustible-looking redhead, garishly clad only in a few precarious sequins, had arrived in their midst, this had to be followed by a tall, anguished gentleman bent double under the weight of an enormous cigarette urn. Why either the girl or her grimacing escort had chosen to arrive at dinner in their respective conditions was beyond comprehension. With this mystery to brood over, hardly anyone even noticed the duplicate, derby-hatted, bush-bearded horrors in the background. With great unconcern the party arrived at the head of the short stairway leading to the dining room and paused grandly in full view of the entire room. No one was more stunned at the sight of this questionable quartet than the maitre d'hotel. If the circus had come to town this elegant and formidable gentleman had not heard of it. He hastened forward to correct what was obviously a gross mistake.

"I'm terribly sorry ..." he began in private tones.

Toffee recognized the attitude instantly. "If you think you're going to put us out of here," she said, "you're going to be much more than sorry." She nodded toward Marc. "This gentleman needs food. He's weak as a kitten."

Marc looked up at the maitre de and bared his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The maitre de glanced away with a pained expression. Then looked quickly back.

"Isn't that one of our urns?" he asked sternly.

"We only borrowed it for a moment," Toffee explained. "You can have it back when we're through with it."

"I suggest that the gentleman put it back where he found it right now," the maitre de said coolly.

"I can't put it back," Marc gritted breathlessly. "For the love of Mike stop bickering and give me something to eat. I'm feeling weaker by the second."

"If you'd put that urn back," the maitre de said with growing hostility, "you wouldn't feel so weak." He turned to Toffee. "Does the gentleman fancy himself as an ash tray? Is that it?"

"Of course not," Toffee snapped. "Give him a table."

"If I give him a table to carry will he put down the urn?" the maitre de asked confusedly.

"Not to carry," Toffee said. "Give him a table to sit at. And food to eat. Stop talking like an idiot."

The maitre de became petulant. "I won't give him a table until he gives back that urn." He turned to Marc. "Give it back."

"I won't," Marc said. "I can't."

The maitre de stepped back a pace, then glanced wretchedly at the silent diners behind him. All eyes were trained incredulously on him and the unwanted foursome. He cleared his throat self-consciously.

"Please," he said, lowering his voice imploringly. "Please give back the urn and go away. Just set it down and turn around and walk out. You'll ruin me if you don't. I have a reputation to maintain. I've been known to send royalty back to their rooms for neck-ties before I'd give them service. A vice president fairly groveled before me once. These people are expecting something from me, and I can't let them down. Please, please go away!"

The party of four remained unmoved, either emotionally or physically. They stayed where they were, staring at the man with stoic calm and determination. The unhappy man turned desperately to Marc.

"For heaven's sake," he said, "have you developed some sort of fetish for that urn? Do you imagine yourself to be in love with it? Is that why you're hugging it in that awful way?"

"I'm not hugging it," Marc wheezed. "I'm carrying it."

"Where?" the maitre de asked bewilderedly.

"Anywhere," Marc said. "Just so long as I get something to eat. Please give me a table and some food."

The maitre de's jaw squared with sudden determination. "No," he said. "Flatly, no! I owe it to the Wynant dining room and these people here to stick to my guns. I'll give you till ten to take that urn and leave this room."

"I'd love to," Marc said weakly. "But I can't. Don't you understand?"

"Then just give the urn to me," the reluctant host said. "I'll see that it gets back where it belongs."

"No," Marc said. "Flatly, no."

The maitre de's face turned vermilion with a flush of rage. "Then suppose I just take it!" he said hotly. And with that he stepped boldly forward, wrapped his arms resolutely around the urn and began to pull. "Give it to me now," he grunted. "No use being stubborn, you know, it's not yours."

"Oh, good grief!" Toffee cried with exasperation. "Just look at them. Like a couple of crazy school kids with a dead mouse!" She turned to the Blemishes. "Do something!"

With dittoed expressions of perplexity, the brothers regarded Toffee, each other, and the problem of the besieged urn. Clearly it was time for them to take steps, but they didn't know in which direction. Simultaneously they moved forward to opposite sides of the urn, secured a hold on it, and began to pull against each other. The spellbound clientele of the Wynant looked on in confused wordlessness; no one could guess why the cigarette urn had become so furiously important to these struggling men all of a sudden; obviously it contained nothing more wonderful than a lot of sand and a few stubs. One gentleman, staring in entranced rapture, carefully lifted a sizeable portion of steak on his fork, lifted it upward, and with preoccupied care, deposited it, complete with mushroom sauce, in the depths of his breast pocket.

Meanwhile the insane contest at the head of the stairs had arrived at a state of complete impasse. Four different energies pulled in four different directions, one balanced just enough against the other to hold the urn perfectly motionless. Other than a rapidly deepening blueness in Marc's face, there was no evidence that the men had not simply joined together to provide a grotesquely decorative stand for the urn. That this constituted a condition of utter absurdity, Toffee was the first to realize. She placed herself impatiently at Gerald Blemish's side and raised her hands to her hips.

"Just what do you think you're doing, you nincompoop?" she hissed. "Let go."

Gerald looked up at her unhappily, considered, then let go. The three remaining contestants staggered drunkenly aside, still clinging doggedly to the urn.

"Show him your gun," Toffee directed.

Gerald thought about it, then bestirred himself. He went over to the maitre de and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The maitre de looked around.

"Look," Gerald said, taking his gun from his pocket and shoving it under the poor man's nose. "See?"

The maitre de knew when he was licked. Instantly, he let go of the urn and backed away. A look of great disillusionment came into his eyes. With a soul-searing sob he turned and sat down heavily on the steps.

"You've ruined me," he blubbered. "You've deliberately come in here and ruined my reputation. And I know who's behind it all; Felix of the Gaylord!"

"Oh, dear!" Toffee said. "Please don't do that. Don't cry. I just can't stand to see a man cry."

Cecil Blemish relinquished his hold on the urn and joined his brother at the ruined man's side. In the background, Marc sagged limply under the sudden weight.

"What's the matter with him?" Gerald asked.

"We've ruined him," Cecil explained briefly.

The maitre de shuddered with a new convulsion of self pity.

"Now, look here," Toffee said kindly. "There's no reason to go on like this. I'll tell you what. Why can't we all cooperate in this thing? We want food and you want to throw us out. Why don't we just compromise? We'll take a table and eat and then we'll let you throw us out. You can make a terrible scene, and we won't say a word." She turned to the Blemishes. "That's fair, isn't it?"

"Oh, very," Cecil said enthusiastically. "We're wonderful at being thrown out. We act cowardly as anything, we snivel."

"Oh, we snivel beautifully!" Gerald confirmed.

"Fine," Toffee said. "Why don't you do a little sniveling right now? Just show the gentleman what he can expect. It's bound to cheer him up."

Together the Blemishes descended to their knees beside the sobbing maitre de. Then, contorting their faces into expressions of despicable self-abasement, they began to make small damp sounds of cowardly beseechment. Tears began to course down their faces and into their beards. Slowly, the maitre de raised his head and looked around. Then with a cry of purest horror he leaped to his feet and bolted from the room as though pursued by a thousand devils.

"I quit!" he screamed as he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "I go back to the automat!"

"Poor man," Toffee murmured. "Definitely the ulcerous type." She turned to the sniveling Blemishes. "Stop that awful noise and get up."

Marc struggled forward under the weight of the urn. "I can't hold out much longer," he said.

Supremely unaffected by the horrified silence which had fallen over the room, Toffee turned, surveyed the table accommodations, and sighted a place in the center of the room.

"Follow me, men," she said.

As the strange party made its way to the middle of the room in sedate silence, heads turned everywhere to follow its progress. Marc just made it to the edge of the table. Toffee and the Blemishes seated themselves as though their arrival had been accomplished in a completely orderly manner. The Blemishes, in a formal mood, didn't bother removing their hats.

"What about me?" Marc gasped. "Am I supposed to hold this thing in my lap?"

Toffee studied his predicament through thoughtful, half-closed lids. "No," she murmured, "you couldn't do that." She glanced around, at the Wyman's markedly heavy silverware. She promptly picked up her own place setting and dropped it in Marc's pockets. The Blemishes quickly followed suit.

A moment later Marc's pockets fairly bulged with purloined silver. The other diners looked on with awed fascination.

"Have you ever seen anything so flagrant?" a woman at an adjoining table whispered. "I've heard of people stealing a knife or fork for a souvenir, but ... well ... cleaning out the whole table!"

"Even the salt and peppers," her companion observed, half with admiration. "Before they get through there'll be nothing left of this hotel but the hollow shell."