And almost at the same moment, a voice commanded from behind them,
"Break to either side, everybody."
Phil obeyed the command and so did all the others.
Dave Greeley was standing at the head of the stairs. The representative
of the FBL was looking both knowledgeable and competent, though even
more gray haired and anxious than last night.
He nodded quickly at Opperly, said, "Pardon me, doctor," then leveled
his stun-gun between the ranks of men crowding the wall and punched the
trigger. But his nerves couldn't have been as good as Phil thought they
were, for instead of the green cat collapsing, Miss Ames pitched over
on her face, gasping wonderingly, "My leg--I can't feel it!"
Greeley grimaced and re-directed his stun-gun, as the dust mushroomed
up from the carpet around Miss Ames. But at the same moment Phil felt
the golden wave billowing out from Lucky. Greeley's face turned red and
his fingers stiffly uncurled from the gun, as if invisible hands were
prying them away, and it dropped to the floor.
At that moment another voice behind them, languorous and scornful,
said, "Stay where you are, gentlemen. It would be dangerous to move
your hands."
Dora Pannes stood at the head of the stairs. The violet blonde was
simply dressed in a gray frock, while a large handbag swung carelessly
from her shoulder, but she looked rather more beautiful than last
night. In her slender hand was a great big ortho.
Phil didn't feel at all frightened, although a vague memory nagged
momentarily at his mind. He knew she couldn't hurt anyone while Lucky
was there. He was more interested in the reactions of the others.
But with one exception there weren't any reactions.
The exception was da Silva. He was staring at Dora Pannes with a hungry
adoration.
Meanwhile the violet blonde was walking forward in a most business-like
way. She didn't even glance at da Silva. As she passed Greeley, her
free hand snatched sidewise like a lizard's tongue for the stun-gun,
snatched again at a larger one inside his coat, dropped them both in
her handbag, and kept going straight for the cat.
Now she'll begin to feel it, Phil told himself.
But she kept straight on. Lucky seemed to be studying her casually.
Abruptly he sprang back onto the window sill, his green fur rose, his
muzzle lengthened, and from it came a prolonged, spitting hiss.
The next moment Phil felt such a formless terror as he had never known
before, as if all reality were about to be crunched in a single fist,
as if the blackness between the stars were lashing down to strangle
him. Dimly across the hall, he saw the waves of white wash along the
ranked faces. He gazed fearfully at Lucky, as if the green cat had
turned into a devil, and saw Dora Pannes coolly stooping to grab him.
The cat started to streak past her, but Dora's hands were faster. Then
the cat sprang straight at her face, claws raking, but Dora calmly
detached him and shoved him in her handbag and shut it and started
back. She looked quite as beautiful and composed as she had at the
stair head. The blood hadn't started to flow from the scratches in her
face.
As she passed da Silva, he looked up at her groggily. In his expression
there was still the ghost of desire.
"You jerk," she said to him and walked on and went down the stairs.
Phil felt his heart hammering ten, eleven, twelve times, like a clock
striking, and then he was racing downstairs and someone was pounding
along after him.
He caromed off the open front door and stumbled down the steps in time
to see a dark car roar off. Greeley was beside him now, barking orders
into a pocket radio. From the other end of the street, another car shot
in. Red plumes shot forward from under its hood as it rocket-braked to
a heaving stop. Greeley piled into the back seat. Phil scrambled in
after him.
"You can still see them," Greeley yelled at the driver. "Take all
chances. Rockets!" Then he turned to Phil. "Who are you?"
"Phil Gish of the U. S. Newsmoon," Phil replied recklessly, but the
last word was lost in the rocket's roar.
The other car had been about five blocks away when they had taken off.
As Phil untwisted himself with difficulty from the huddle into which
acceleration had thrown him, he saw that its lead had been reduced to
almost one block.
"Douse the jets," Greeley ordered. "We can curb them on our regulars;
but watch out they don't shift. They may have rockets. Where do you
stand in Project Kitty, Gish?"
"Sort of special observer," Phil improvised gaspingly, still hanging
on with both hands. "My section has decided the green cat may not be
dangerous."
"What?" Greeley demanded, peering ahead.
"Didn't you feel it up there?" Phil asked.
"Feel what?" Greeley said, his eyes measuring the lessening distance
between the two cars. "You mean the horror?"
"No," Phil said. "Peace. Understanding--"
But just then the car ahead of them slowed a bit and something green
flashed out of it, rolled over half a dozen times, and darted toward an
alley.
"Brakes!" Greeley yelled and Phil almost tumbled into the lap of the
man beside the driver as the forward rockets jetted and the back of the
car lifted and slammed down. Then he realized he was the only one left
in the car and scrambled out.
"The alley's blind; there's no way for it to get out," Greeley was
calling. "Advance abreast. Gish, back us up!"
"Don't hurt him," Phil warned.
"We know enough for that!" Greeley yelled back.
By this time Phil was behind them, and saw the green cat crouching
defiantly in the narrow alley's blind end, some twenty feet away from
the advancing men.
The distance lessened to ten, and then the green cat darted forward,
dodged this way, that, and dove between Greeley and the man on his
right, straight into Phil's outstretched hands.
"Lucky!" Phil said blissfully, lifting the cat closer.
Five claws raked his chin painfully, while fifteen others dug into his
hands.
He looked at the little face. Except for its color, it was a most
ordinary, though spittingly furious cat face. In fact, it was a most
ordinary cat.
And he could smell the dye.
"Here," he said calmly and handed the animal to Greeley.
"Lucky?" Greeley yelled as the claws sank into his hands. "It's a
dye-job, or I'll eat it! They had it all ready and threw it out to
misdirect us. Come on! Here, take it, Simms, we've got to keep it to be
on the safe side."
And presumably a third man's hands got clawed as they sprinted to the
car.
But Phil was not with them. He hadn't the heart. As the rockets roared
again, he simply stood halfway down the alley, scratched and weary.