«Jaunte him out, Sam.»

«After the way he tried to cross and scalp us?»

«We can't run out on him, Sam. You ought to know that by now. Jaunte him out. Caister's place!»

Jisbella helped Quatt haul Foyle to his shoulder. The temporal freaks seemed to fill the ward with shrieking streaks. The ward doors burst open. A dozen bolts from pneumatic guns whined through the ward, dropping the temporal patients in their gyrations. Quatt was slammed back against a wall, dropping Foyle. A black and blue bruise appeared on his temple.

«Get to hell out of here,» Quatt roared. «I'm done.»

«Sam!»

«I'm done. Can't jaunte. Go, girl!»

Trying to shake off the concussion that prevented him from jaunting, Quatt straightened and charged forward, meeting the uniformed men who poured into the ward. Jisbella took Foyle's arm and dragged him out the back of the ward, through a pantry, a clinic, a laundry supply, and down flights of ancient stairs that buckled and threw up clouds of termite dust.

They came into a victual cellar. Baker's zoo had broken out of their cells in the chaos and were raiding the cellar like bees glutting themselves with honey in an attacked hive. A Cyclops girl was cramming her mouth with handfuls of butter scooped from a tub. Her single eye above the bridge of her nose leered at them.

Jisbella dragged Foyle through the victual cellar, found a bolted wooden door and kicked it open. They stumbled down a flight of crumbling steps and found themselves in what once had been a coal cellar. The concussions and roarings overhead sounded deeper and hollow. A chute slot on one side of the cellar was barred with an iron door held by iron clamps. Jisbella placed Foyle's hands on the clamps. Together they opened them and climbed out of the cellar through the coal chute.

They were outside the Freak Factory, huddled against the rear wall. Before them were the Trenton rocket pits, and as they gasped for breath, Jiz saw a freighter come sliding down an anti-gray beam into a waiting pit. Its portholes blazed and its recognition signals blinked like a lurid neon sign, illuminating the back wall of the hospital.

A figure leaped from the roof of the hospital. It was Sam Quart, attempting a desperate flight. He sailed out into space, arms and legs flailing, trying to reach the up-thrusting anti-gray beam of the nearest pit which might catch him in midflight and cushion his fall. His aim was perfect. Seventy feet above ground he dropped squarely into the shaft of the beam. It was not in operation. He fell and was smashed on the edge of the pit.

Jisbella sobbed. Still automatically retaining her grip on Foyle's arm, she ran across the seamed concrete to Sam Quatt's body. There she let go of Foyle and touched Quail's head tenderly. Her fingers were stained with blood. Foyle tore at the bandage before his eyes, working eye holes through the gauze. He muttered to himself, listening to Jisbella weep and hearing the shouts behind him from Baker's factory. His hands fumbled at Quatt's body, then' he arose and tried to pull Jisbella up.

«Got to go,» he croaked. «Got to get out. They've seen us.»

Jisbella never moved. Foyle mustered all his strength and pulled her upright.

«Times Square,» he muttered. «Jaunte, Jiz!»

Uniformed figures appeared around them. Foyle shook Jisbella's arm and jaunted to Times Square where masses of jaunters on the gigantic stage stared in amazement at the huge man with the white bandaged globe for a head. The stage was the size of two football fields. Foyle stared around dimly through the bandages. There was no sign of Jisbella but she might be anywhere. He lifted his voice to a shout.

«Montauk, Jiz! Montauk! The Folly Stage!»

Foyle jaunted with a last thrust of energy and a prayer. An icy nor'easter was blowing in from Block Island and sweeping brittle ice crystals across the stage on the site of a medieval ruin known as Fisher's folly. There was another figure on the stage. Foyle tottered to it through the wind and the snow. It was Jisbella, looking frozen and lost.

«Thank God,» Foyle muttered. «Thank God. Where does Sam keep his Weekender?» He shook Jisbella's elbow. «Where does Sam keep his Weekender?»

«Sam's dead.»

«Where does he keep that Saturn Weekender?»

«He's retired, Sam is. He's not scared any more.»

«Where's the ship, Jiz?»

«In the yards down at the lighthouse.»

«Come on.»

«Where?»

«To Sam's ship.» Foyle thrust his big hand before Jisbella's eyes; a bunch of radiant keys lay in his palm. «I took his keys. Come on.»

«He gave them to you?»

«I took them off his body.»

«Ghoul!» She began to laugh. «Liar . . . Lecher . . . Tiger . . . Ghoul. The walking cancer. . .Gully Foyle.»

Nevertheless she followed him through the snowstorm to Montauk Light.

To three acrobats wearing powdered wigs, four flamboyant women carrying pythons, a child with golden curls and a cynical mouth, a professional duellist in medieval armor, and a man wearing a hollow glass leg in which goldfish swam, Saul Dagenham said: «All right, the operation's finished. Call the rest off and tell them to report back to Courier headquarters.»

The side show jaunted and disappeared. Regis Sheffield rubbed his eyes and asked: «What was that lunacy supposed to be, Dagenham?»

«Disturbs your legal mind, eh? That was part of the cast of our FFCC operation. Fun, fantasy, confusion, and catastrophe.» Dagenham turned to Presteign and smiled his death's-head smile. «I'll return your fee if you like, Presteign.»

«You're not quitting?»

«No, I'm enjoying myself. I'll work for nothing. I've never tangled with a man of Foyle's caliber before. He's unique.»

«How?» Sheffield demanded.

«I arranged for him to escape from Goufire Martel. He escaped, all right, but not my way. I tried to keep him out of police hands with confusion and catastrophe. He ducked the police, but not my way . . . his own way. I tried to keep him out of Central Intelligence's hands with fun and fantasy. He stayed clear . . . again his own way. I tried to detour him into a ship so he could make his try for 'Nomad.' He wouldn't detour, but he got his ship. He's on his way out now.»

«You're following?»

«Naturally.» Dagenham hesitated. «But what was he doing in Baker's factory?»

«Plastic surgery?» Sheffield suggested. «A new face?»

«Not possible. Baker's good, but he can't do a plastic that quick. It was minor surgery. Foyle was on his feet with his head bandaged.»

«The tattoo,» Presteign said.

Dagenham nodded and the smile left his lips. «That's what's worrying me. You realize, Presteign, that if Baker removed the tattooing we'll never recognize Foyle?»

«My dear Dagenham, his face won't be changed.»

«We've never seen his face . . . only the mask.»

«I haven't met the man at all,» Sheffield said. «What's the mask like?»

«Like a tiger. I was with Foyle for two long sessions. I ought to know his face by heart, but I don't. All I know is the tattooing.»

«Ridiculous,» Sheffield said bluntly.

«No. Foyle has to be seen to be believed. However, it doesn't matter. He'll lead us out to 'Nomad.' He'll lead us to your bullion and PyrE~ Presteign. I'm almost sorry it's all over. Or nearly. As I said, I've been enjoying myself. He really is unique.»