Whamp! the TV screen went, and again the image died. A kaleidoscopic procession of colors, patterns, dots passed rapidly; from the speaker emerged squawks of protest, whines, squeals.

"... a tradition in the Streiter family. The Major's grandson is said to have expressed great preference for..."

Again silence. Then sputters, garbled visual images.

"... so I cannot over-emphasize my support of this program. The effects—" More confusion, sounds and flickers. A sudden roar of static. "... would be an object lesson as well as the contemporary restoration of boiled enemy to its proper place on—"

The TV screen gurgled, died, returned briefly to life.

"... may be the test one way or another. Were there others?"

Allen's voice was heard: "Several, supposedly now being rounded up."

"But they caught the ringleader! And Mrs. Hoyt herself has expressed—"

More interference. The screen showed a news announcer standing at the table with the four participants. Mr. Allen Purcell, the moderator, was examining a news dispatch.

"... assimilation in the actual historic vessels employed by her family. After tasting a carefully-prepared sample of boiled conspirator, Mrs. Ida Pease Hoyt has pronounced the dish ‘highly savory,' and ‘fit to grace the tables of—' "

Again the image died, and this time for good. Within a few moments a mysterious voice, not part of the discussion, became suddenly audible, declaring:

"Because of technical difficulties it is suggested that viewers turn off their sets for the balance of the evening. There will be no further transmission tonight."

The statement was repeated every few minutes. It had the harsh overtones of the Cohorts of Major Streiter. Janet, propped up on the couch, understood that the powers had regained control. She wondered if her husband was all right.

"Technical difficulties," the official voice said. "Turn off your sets."

She left hers on, and waited.

"That's it," Allen said.

From the darkness Sugermann said: "We got it over, though. They cut us off, but not in time."

Cigarette lighters and matches came on, and the office re-emerged. Allen felt buoyed up with triumph. "We might as well go home. We did our job; we put the japery through."

"May be sort of hard to get home," Coates said. "The Cohorts are hanging around out there, waiting for you. The finger's on you, Allen."

Allen thought of Janet alone in the apartment. If they wanted him they'd certainly try there. "I should go after my wife," he said to Sugermann;

"Downstairs," Sugermann said, "is a Getabout you dan use. Gates, get down there with him; show him where it is."

"No," Allen said. "I can't walk out on you people." Especially on Harry Priar and Joe Gleeby; they had no Hokkaido to lose themselves in. "I can't leave you to be picked off."

"The biggest favor you can do us," Gleeby said, "is to get out of here. They don't care about us; they know who thought this japery up." He shook his head. "Cannibalism. Gourmet's delight. Mrs. Streiter's own recipes. You better get moving."

Priar added: "That's the price you pay for talent. It shows a mile off."

Getting a firm grip on Allen's shoulder, Sugermann propelled him to the office door. "Show him the Getabout," he ordered Gates. "But keep him down while you're out there; the Cohorts are the wrath of God."

As Allen and Gates descended the long flight of stairs to the ground floor, Gates said: "You happy?"

"Yes, except for Janet." And he would miss the people he had assembled. It had been satisfactory and wonderful to concoct the japery with Gates and Sugermann, Gleeby and Priar.

"Maybe they caught her and boiled her." Gates giggled, and the match he held swayed. "That isn't probable. Don't worry about it."

He wasn't worried about that, but he wished he had planned for the Committee's prompt reaction. "They weren't exactly asleep," he murmured.

A herd of technicians raced past them, shining flashlights ahead along the stairs. "Get out," they chanted. "Get out, get out." The racket of their descent echoed and faded.

"All finished," Gates snickered. "Here we go."

They had reached the lobby. T-M employees milled in the darkness; some were stepping through the barricade out into the evening lane. The headlights of Getabouts flashed, and voices called back and forth, a confusion of catcalls and fun. The indistinct activity was party-like; but now it was time to leave.

"Here," Gates said, pushing through a gap in the barricade. Allen followed, and they were on the lane. Behind them the Telemedia building was huge and somber, deprived of its power: extinguished. The parked Getabout was moist with night mist as Gates and Allen climbed into it and slammed the doors.

"I'll drive," Allen said. He snapped on the motor, and the Getabout glided steamily out onto the lane. After a block he switched on the headlights.

As he turned at an intersection another Getabout rolled out after him. Gates saw it and began whooping with glee.

"Here they come—let's go!"

Allen pushed the Getabout to its top speed, perhaps thirty-five miles an hour. Pedestrians ran wildly. In the rear-view mirror he could make out faces within the pursuing Get-about. Ralf Hadler was driving. Beside him was Fred Luddy. And in the back seat was Tony Blake of Blake-Moffet.

Leaning out, Gates shouted back: "Boil, bake, fry! Boil, bake, fry! Try and catch,us!"

His face expressionless, Hadler lifted a pistol and fired. The shot whistled past Gates, who ducked instantly in.

"We're going to jump," Allen said. The Getabout was nearing a sharp curve. "Grab hold." He forced the tiller as far as it would go. "We have to stop first."

Gates pulled his knees up and wrapped himself head-down in a fetal posture. As the Getabout completed the curve, Allen slammed down on the brake; the little car screamed and shuddered, bucked from side to side, and then wandered tottering into a rail. Gates half-rolled, half-fell from the swinging and open door, struck the pavement and bounded to his feet. Dizzy, his head ringing, Allen stumbled after him.

The second Getabout hurtled around the curve and without slowing—Hadler was still the bum driver—struck its stalled quarry. Parts of Getabout flew in all directions; the three occupants disappeared in the rubbish. Hadler's gun skidded across the lane and bounced noisily from a lamppost.

"See you," Gates panted to Allen, already loping off. He grinned back over his shoulder. "Boil, bake, fry. They won't get us. Say hello to Janet."

Allen hurried through the semi-gloom of the lane, among the pedestrians who seemed to be everywhere. Behind him Hadler had emerged from the wreckage of the two Getabouts; he picked up his gun, inspected it, lifted it uncertainly in Allen's direction, and then shoved it away inside his coat. Allen continued on, and the figure of Hadler fell away.

When he reached the apartment, he found Janet fully dressed, her face white with animation. The door was locked, and he had to wait while she untangled the chain. "Are you hurt?" she asked, seeing blood on his cheek.

"Jarred a little." He took hold of her arm and led her out into the hall. "They'll be here any minute. Thank God it's night."

"What was that?" Janet asked, as they hurried downstairs. "Major Streiter didn't really eat people, did he?"

"Not literally," he said. But in a sense, a very real sense, it was true. Morec had gobbled greedily at the human soul.

"How far are we going?" Janet asked.

"To the field," he grunted, holding on tightly to her. Fortunately it wasn't far. She seemed in good spirits, nervous and excited, and not depressed. Perhaps much of her depression had come from sheer boredom... from the ultimate emptiness of a drab world.