"It's my business," the stocky man persisted.

"The man who told you, he might be the man I'm searching for," Francis said.

The stocky man shook his head. "Screw you," he said. "I'm not helping you with anything."

For an instant Francis stood directly across from the stocky man, not willing to move, thinking only that he was close to something and that it would be important for him to find it out, because it would be something concrete that he could take to Lucy Jones. And, in the same moment, he saw the machinery of the stocky man whirling faster and faster, anger, frustration, all the ordinary terrors of being mad coalescing, and in that volcanic moment, Francis suddenly realized that he had pushed something just a bit too far. He took a step backward, but the stocky man followed him.

"I don't like your questions," the man said low and cold.

"All right, I'm finished," Francis replied, trying to retreat.

"I don't like your questions and I don't like you. Why did you follow me in here? What are you trying to make me say? What are you going to do to me?"

Each of these questions hammered forth like blows. Francis glanced right and left, trying to spot somewhere to run to, somewhere he might hide, but there were none. The few people in the dayroom had shrunk away, concealing themselves in corners, or else staring at walls or ceiling, anything that might help them to will themselves mentally to some far different place. The stocky man pushed his fist into Francis's chest and knocked him back a stride, slightly off-balance. "I don't think I like you getting in my face," he said. "I don't think I like anything about you." He pushed again, harder.

"All right," Francis said, holding up his hand. "I'll leave you alone."

The stocky man seemed to tighten in front of Francis, his whole body growing taut and stretched. "Yeah, that's right," he said, growling, "and I'm going to make sure of it."

Francis saw the fist coming and managed to just lift his forearm enough to deflect some of the blow before it landed on his cheek. For a moment, he saw stars, and he spun back trying to keep his balance, stumbling slightly over a chair. This actually helped him, because it threw the stocky man's second punch astray, so that the left hook whistled just above Francis's nose, close enough so that he could feel its heat. Francis thrust himself backward again, sending the chair slamming across the floor, and the stocky man jumped forward, this time landing another wild blow that caught Francis high on the shoulder. The man's face was red with fury, and his rage made his attack inaccurate. Francis fell back, hitting the floor with a breath-stealing crash, and the stocky man leapt onto him, straddling his chest, looming above him. Francis managed to keep his arms free, and he covered up, and started kicking ineffectually, as the stocky man started to rain wild, freewheeling blows down onto Francis's forearms.

"I'll kill you!" he cried. "I'll kill you!"

Francis squirmed, shifting right and left, doing his best to avoid the flurry of punches, aware only peripherally that he hadn't really been hit hard, knowing that if the stocky man took even a microsecond to consider the advantages of his assault, he would be twice as deadly.

"Leave me alone!" Francis cried, uselessly.

In the narrow space between his arms, deflecting the attack, Francis saw the stocky man rise up slightly, gather himself, as if suddenly realizing that he needed to organize the assault. The man's face was still flushed, but it suddenly took on a purpose and rationale, as if all the fury collected within him had been channeled into a single flow. Francis closed his eyes, yelled, "Stop it!" one last helpless time, and realized that he was about to be hurt severely. He shrank back, no longer aware what words he was screaming to make the man stop, knowing only that they meant nothing in the face of the rage steaming toward him.

"I'll kill you!" the stocky man repeated. Francis had little doubt that he meant it.

The stocky man let out a single, guttural cry and Francis tried to avert his head, but, in that second, everything changed. A force like a huge wind slammed into the two of them, crashing together in a frenzied tangle. Fists, muscles, blows, and cries all gathered together, and Francis seemed to spin aside, aware suddenly that the weight of the stocky man was suddenly off of his chest, and that he had been cut free. He rolled over once, then scrambled back to the wall, and saw that the stocky man and Peter were suddenly entwined, knotted together in a pile. Peter had his legs wrapped around the man, and had managed to pin one hand with his own gripped around the man's wrist. Words disappeared in a cacophony of shouts, and they spun together like a top on the ground and Francis saw Peter's face set in a fierce rage of his own, as he twisted the stocky man's arm toward some breaking point. And, in the same moment, another pair of missiles suddenly flashed into Francis's vision, as the white-jacketed Moses brothers launched themselves into the fray. For a moment, there was an orchestra of screaming, shouting anger, and then Big Black managed to grab the stocky man's other arm, while at the same time throwing his own massive forearm across the man's windpipe, while Little Black pulled Peter away, slamming him awkwardly against a couch, while the larger brother wrapped the stocky man in a stifling embrace.

The stocky man screamed obscenities and epithets, choking, spittle flying from his lips, "Fucking nigger goons! Let me go! Let me go! I ain't done nothing!"

Peter slid back, so that his back was against the couch, his feet out in front of him. Little Black released him, and sprang to his brother's side. The two men expertly twisted the stocky man, so that he was beneath them, hands pinned, legs kicking for a moment, until they, too, stopped.

"Hold him tight," Francis heard coming from his side. He looked up and saw that Evans, brandishing a hypodermic syringe, was hovering in the doorway. "Just hold him!" Mister Evil repeated, as he took a bit of alcohol impregnated gauze in one hand, and the needle in the other, and approached the two attendants and the hysterical stocky man, who resumed twisting and struggling and shouting angrily, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

Mister Evil swiped a bit of skin and plunged the needle into the man's arm, in a single, well-practiced motion. "Fuck you!" the man cried again. But it was the final time.

The sedative worked quickly. Francis wasn't sure how many minutes, because he had lost track of the steady passage of time, replacing it with adrenaline and fear. But within a few moments, the stocky man relaxed. Francis saw his wild eyes roll back, and a loose-fitting sort of unconsciousness take over. The Moses brothers relaxed as well, letting their tight grip loosen, and they moved back as the man lay on the ground.

"We'll need a stretcher to transport him to isolation," Mister Evil said. "He's going to be out cold in a second." He pointed at Little Black, who nodded.

The man groaned, twitched, and his feet moved like a dog's that dreams of running. Evans shook his head.

"What a mess," he said. He looked up, and saw Peter where the Fireman was still lying out on the floor, catching his breath and rubbing his own hand, which had a red bite mark on it. "You, too," Evans said, stiffly.

"Me, too, what?" Peter asked.

"Isolation. Twenty-four hours."

"What? I didn't do anything except pull that son of a bitch off C-Bird."

Little Black had returned with a folding stretcher and a nurse. He maneuvered over to the stocky man and started to put the drugged patient into a straitjacket. He looked up, as he worked, toward Peter and he shook his head slightly.

"What was I supposed to do? Let that guy beat the shit out of C-Bird?"