"Is there something else wrong?" said Heller.

Izzy twisted around. Heller pressed. Izzy finally said, "The IRS won't wait. They're demanding everything we have. I wasn't able to make enough on arbitrage. Word just came in from the IRS District Office.

They're going to impound every corporation whether it is legal to do it or not. I didn't want to tell you. I saw your morning press. But that's not all of it, I'm afraid. When IRS finds they are not going to be paid, they'll turn their public relations people loose, smear these corporations all over the media. It's ruin. Unless a miracle happens, we won't even have this office in another month."

He left mournfully.

Heller sat down at the desk.

The cat had been following him around from the moment he had come in. It jumped up now and took its place underneath the desk lamp. It sat there studying him.

Heller said to the cat, "You picked the wrong guy to be responsible for." He sounded beaten.

VICTORY!

I had won!

PR!

What a totally effective assassin's tool! And how painful, too!

And better: nobody, neither the victim nor the public, ever knew where the bullets had come from!

Suddenly, I understood the power controls of Earth. So this was how even empires were broken and made. By the PRs. And then the PRs even wrote the history books!

In one deadly blast, Madison had stopped the mighty Heller cold. With a few lines of ink, based only on his imagination, Madison was directing the destinies not only of Earth but of Voltar! No wonder Bury considered him so dangerous!

The PRs were the true Gods of this planet! Gods of wrath and misery. But Gods nonetheless! What a weapon they wielded! What destruction they wrought! Magnificent!

I had been so fascinated with the glorious weapon, PR, that I had not realized that time was passing, every instant of which might spell deadly danger to me. After all, I had not turned up at Miss Pinch's last night. Also, Bury would not be pleased at all and might even send another phone-call team: I was in no condition to withstand the U.S. Army Signal Corps, much less a flank attack by snakes.

It was getting on toward noon. I painfully dragged myself out of bed and tottered in the direction of Utanc's room.

The suite's side door was open! This had never happened before.

Scenting a new disaster with an experienced nose, I peered in.

Her room was empty!

No trunks. Nothing in the closet or drawers.

She was gone!

I didn't know what plane!

I didn't have a ticket!

I had only eighty or ninety dollars! Nowhere near enough to get me out of New York.

Then I realized she would probably call when she had picked up the tickets. Of course, that was it.

My hands were bandaged. So was much of my body. It hurt to move. But I knew I had better pack. Struggling and fumbling, I went to work, screaming slightly every now and then.

It was very exhausting. Before I could strap anything up, I had to rest. I sank down in a chair.

There were newspapers scattered about the floor. My jaded eye landed on a news story. I was surprised that the paper contained any other news than the Whiz Kid's capers. The story said:

IRS SUSPECT COMMITTED

Arginal P. Pauper was today committed to Walnut Lodge Nut House by Internal Revenue Service routine desk-agent order.

Pauper is alleged to have failed to file an income tax return.

The IRS order also required that Pauper be electric-shocked, given a prefrontal lobotomy and thereafter tortured for life in the institution.

"He needed professional help," the IRS spokesman said, "and only our psychiatrists can give him that.

"He claimed he had spent the sixty cents in question on stamps to mail his return." However, all returns not sent by registered mail and delivered by a Rolls Royce painted blue with yellow stripes are, of course, waste-basketed, so the defense is preposterous."

Pauper's widow and orphans have been ground into meatballs to pay the tax penalties.

IRS N.Y. District Chief Stoney T. Blood issued a public statement: "IRS uber alles! And let that be a lesson to you, you dumb suckers!"

Over 300,000,000 Americans are said to be tax delinquent each year.

I knew it was PR. I knew it was simply a planted story to frighten people into paying their taxes. But in spite of knowing all that, it scared me spitless!

Having already seen that day the havoc PR could wreak, it stood my hair on end!

I had no more than finished reading it when the phone rang.

Thank heavens! It must be Utanc to tell me what plane. I answered.

A gruff voice said, "Inkswitch?"

I was so startled, I said, "Inkswitch."

"Good. This is the IRS New York Delinquency Office. Just a routine verification that you are there." He hung up.

My hair was not only standing up, it was crackling!

Oh, I had to get out of here! Three years in a Federal pen with homos even worse than Miss Pinch would make a brain operation welcome!

I locked all my suitcases. Then I noticed that I had forgotten to get dressed. I didn't have the energy to unstrap everything. Lying in the wastebasket was the suit I had worn at the last visit to Miss Pinch. Frantically, I pulled it on.

I sneezed!

It stunk violently of red pepper, Tabasco and mustard!

There was no time. I would have to take what clue I had. Utanc had said a four o'clock plane. I would flee to the airport!

I called down for a bellboy and a cart and told them to get a cab at the door. This might be a close thing. Police always verify if you're in before they knock down the place with battering rams, so IRS would of course do even worse!

The bellboy piled my luggage on his hand truck. He pushed it to the front of the elevator door, waiting for the car to come up. Somebody must be coming up in that lift!

Some sixth sense told me to be cautious. The stairwell door was close to hand. I faded into it, holding it open a crack.

The elevator arrived and the door opened.

Two of the toughest-looking men I have ever seen stepped out into the penthouse foyer! They had black hats, gray overcoats, huge shoulders and great, black mustaches! Mean!

They knocked like thunder on the sitting-room door!

Oh, thank Gods for Apparatus training! I fled down the stairwell, unmindful of the agony every movement caused.

Speeding, I went down all thirty stories of the hotel!

I burst into the lobby.

The doorman recognized me. He beckoned. The cab was sitting there.

My bellboy and baggage had already arrived. It was being put in the cab. So slow, so slow!

My eye was pinned on the elevator doors in the lobby.

In desperation, I waved a ten-dollar bill at the bellboy.

He stopped to make sure it wasn't counterfeit!

The manager was coming out. I thought it was to tell me the bill wasn't paid. Instead, he shook me by the hand and said, "Congratulations on your leaving, Mr. Inkswitch. Please use another hotel when you return." I was so relieved to realize Utanc had paid the bill.

The delay was nearly fatal.

The two tough guys came out of the elevator!

I leaped into the cab and screamed, "John F. Kennedy International Airport!"

The driver sped away.

I was looking back.

I had beaten them!

We battered our way through congested traffic. We plunged down into the Queens Midtown Tunnel. We emerged into the flowing traffic of Route 495. I looked back. For a moment I could see the UN fading. I was making it! What a relief!

Wait. Many cars behind us. A gray vehicle was threading its way closer! I stared with my face pressed more closely to the glass.

THE TWO TOUGH MEN!

Not only that, they seemed to have recognized me! One was waving frantically for us to pull over and stop.