THE VENGEANCE OF TOFFEE

                          By Charles F. Myers

             The world was on the brink of atomic war and
               nothing, it seemed, could prevent it. But
            Toffee had a plan--and a little magic to boot!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             February 1951
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The bombs ticked--in remote places--behind locked and guarded doors.
The bombs ticked, and the terrible sound was distinct in the farthest
corners of the world--wherever a man picked up a newspaper, turned on a
radio--or paused to listen to the beating of his own heart. A Bomb ...
H Bomb ... X Bomb--the bombs ticked louder and louder with the growing
hours--and each man dwelt alone now with the dark spectre of his own
trembling fear.

"_Yesterday we perfected a new kind of totalitarian death...._" (It
was difficult to remember the pleasant, relaxed voice which had once
given the announcer his popularity, for now it seemed that his breath
passed over taut nerves rather than vocal cords. But no one noticed; it
was only what he said that mattered now, not how he said it. Fear fed
on fear with an avid, indiscriminate appetite--and flourished from the
diet.)

"_Today we can only be certain that the foreign powers will have caught
up with us within the next few hours._

"_Can you remember the Atomic Age, ladies and gentlemen? How long ago
that was! And yet how swiftly we have progressed from that to the Age
of Human Terror._

"_The X Bomb--the incomprehensible unit of power and destruction which
dwarfs the human soul and reduces it to a negligible fraction of
quivering fright--just one small fraction contributing to the monstrous
organism of terror which has lately become our modern civilization.
How wretched we are to be living in a civilization in which the word
'city' has been rendered obsolete by the word 'target.' The New York
Target ... the Chicago Target ... the Salt Lake and San Francisco
Targets. How wretched we are._

"_And is it strange that these targets which were once cities are being
deserted? Is it strange that men have begun to run from the bombs even
before they have begun to fall? That is the nature of terror._

"_For the first time in its history the nation looks upon a
nomadic society--largely that group of the working people who have
ceased working to wander aimlessly, seeking safety within our own
borders--living by thievery and lawlessness. Crime has increased so
rapidly of late that a comparative estimate is impossible. That, too,
is the nature of terror._

"_Today the government would force these erstwhile workers back to
the hearts of the targets--force them by law back to the factories to
engage again in the production of death and destruction._

"_'Necessary,' the statesmen say. 'Necessary to national safety.' But
with the statesmen's words comes the obvious question: Is there still
any national safety left for any nation? Does it exist anywhere, to be
preserved? Haven't the fleeing nomads asked themselves this question
already, turning their frightened eyes to the unprotecting skies?_

"_But the statesman must speak--and he must speak logic, even now
when logic has deserted us, and words can no longer save us. Every
man--statesman or otherwise--knows that it is no longer a question of
whether the bombs will drop--but when they will drop--and who will drop
them--we or they?_

"_It is true that no nation has declared war, but terror declares its
own war. Can we wait another day to take the initiative? Can they? The
undeclared enemy may destroy us tomorrow--or tonight--even within the
next few minutes. I may not live to finish this broadcast--and you may
not live to hear it...._"

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly there was a sharp click, and the voice stopped, silenced as
effectively as though a wire had been knotted about the speaker's
throat. Marc Pillsworth, startled at the sudden silence, snapped
forward in his chair and looked up. Julie, the lamp light slanting
sharply across her face, glared down at him with tense irritation. She
removed her hand significantly from the radio switch.

"I'm telling you, Marcus Pillsworth," she said menacingly, "I can't
stand any more of it. If you turn on that bloody instrument again--if
you so much as twitch your bony finger in its direction--one of us is
going to die of unnatural causes, and you may have read that the female
is notoriously more long-lived than the male."

Marc stared at her incredulously through the chill dimness of the
living room. Then he sighed heavily. This also was the nature of human
terror: every man was married to a shrew these days. Women simply
weren't up to it.

But Julie had been better than most--until now. He looked at the
tightly drawn lips, the circled eyes and tried to remember his wife's
cool blonde beauty as it had been only a month ago. The contrast was
disquieting. Well, these were harrowing times for her.

But they were just as harrowing for everyone else--for him. She ought
to realize that. Suddenly, unaccountably, Marc felt his self-control
slipping away from him with all the sleazy inevitability of a pair of
silk shorts with rotten elastic. Suddenly the distorted face across the
room was not at all the face of his wife, but the face of a vindictive
stranger who had invaded his rights and his privacy with definite
malice in mind. Reason left him, and, with a black sucking feeling in
the pit of his stomach, he felt the last measure of his reserve trickle
down the drain. Gripping the arms of his chair, he jutted his face out
into the light and deliberately leered.

"With the world coming down around our ears," he snarled, "I suppose
you expect me to sit here complacently simpering and snickering and
snapping my gum like an addled adolescent? Don't you care that we may
all go to blazes in the next few minutes?"

"No!" Julie screamed, fitting a direct answer to a direct question.
"No, I don't care. I'm tired of caring. I'm tired through with caring.
And I'm tired of you sitting there with those great elephantine ears of
yours hinged to that radio. You've been at it day in, day out, day in,
day out, day in...!"

"Stop repeating yourself like some idiot tropical bird," Marc snapped.

"Why don't you ever go down to the office any more?" Julie asked with
womanly logic. "Why don't you get out of here and leave me alone?"

       *       *       *       *       *

In heavy martyrdom Marc lifted his eyes to the ceiling. What was the
use? Why go through it all again? He'd explained to her a million
times that he no longer had any _reason_ to go to the office. The
advertising business had been one of the first to suffer. Who cared
what the advertising industry had to say at a time like this? Who
wanted to be beautiful or healthy or envied when there wasn't any
future in it?

"Turn the radio on," he said steadily.

Julie's eyes actually sparked flame. "_What?_ Do you really have the
grassy green gall to ask me to turn that thing on again? I don't
believe my ears!"

"I'm not asking," Marc said slowly, "I'm _instructing_ you to."

"Hah!" Julie snorted to some invisible spectator. "Listen to him!" She
eyed him nastily. "Ask me to shinny up the doorsill and do a swan dive
into my cocktail. I'll do that sooner."

Marc met her gaze for a moment and momentarily declined the challenge.
"I suppose you just want to sit here and never know what hit you?"

"Exactly," Julie said. "For heaven's sake what does it matter what hits
us after we're dead? At least I don't want to sit here chewing my nails
while some morbid-minded deficient drives me into a state of complete
nervous collapse."

Marc disengaged himself from his chair. She had a point there, though
he'd rot before he admitted it. With considerable unconcern he moseyed
across the room and glanced out the window. Then he stopped and leaned
closer to the pane. Across the street the world was already ablaze. The
night sky glowed red with flame.

"My God!" he cried. "The Fredericks are on fire!"

Julie moved to his side and stared out the window.

"Who are those people?" she asked. "The ones sitting on the lawn there?"

Marc directed his gaze to the right. He should have seen them sooner,
except that one's sense of logic, when one is witnessing a fire, does
not readily encompass a group of people lounging on blankets in the
glowing radiance--especially when those people are concerned more with
food, drink and cards than with the fire--and more especially when the
owners of the flaming dwelling are prominent among those present....

"Aren't those the Fredericks?" Julie asked.

"Do you suppose they've noticed the house?" Marc asked. "But I suppose
they must."

"Maybe not," Julie said. "They've been drunk for days. It started out
as a house warming party. Do you suppose this is their idea of a joke?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc turned away. "The papers are full of this sort of thing. The
anxiety has driven people mad." Then suddenly he stiffened. "Maybe
they've heard something! Maybe they've decided to burn their home
rather than let the enemy do it for them." He ran to the radio and
snapped the switch.

"_Beside every man stalks the black shadow of doom...!_" the announcer
groaned.

At the window Julie instantly snapped to a position of rigid erectness.
With cold fury she turned and regarded Marc's lank figure bent
attentively to the radio speaker. Her eyes rested on her husband's
impassive posterior, and glittering, unbridled madness flickered in
their depths.

"_When will the attack fall?_" the announcer inquired, and Julie
answered him without hesitation. "Now, brother," she murmured. "Right
now!"

Unaware of the declaration of hostilities from the rear, Marc hung on
the words of the announcer: "_We can only brace ourselves and hope...._"

It was a pity he did not have the foresight--or perhaps hindsight--to
follow the announcer's advice. In the next moment Julie's foot,
propelled so as to accomplish the same work as an iron sledge,
completed an arc that terminated in what might crudely be called a
bull's eye.

With a scream of mortal agony, Marc started forward, and jutted his
head forthwith into the speaker of the radio. There was a dreadful
splintering sound, and then with a squeal, not unlike Marc's, the
announcer fell silent.

Marc was unaware of this latter development; both his soul and body
were too consumed with throbbing pain to be concerned any longer with
such trivialities as the X Bomb and the demise of the world. The world
could go to hell in beach sandals and it would be as nothing to the
awful thing which had befallen him. Thrusting his hands forcibly to the
seat of his anguish, he dislodged his head from the radio and regarded
Julie from a crouching position. Clutching himself in a most unmindful
way he stared up at his mate with almost animal loathing.

"What a rotten thing to do!" he rasped. "And what a fiendish place to
do it! You ... you're ... you're _inhuman_!"

Julie laughed evilly. "I warned you, you reptile! I told you I couldn't
stand any more!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc grimaced as a new wave of pain surged upward through his body. "I
just hope you're proud, waiting until a man's got his back turned and
then kicking him in the...!"

"There's no need to be crude about it," Julie cut in quickly.

"That's funny, that is!" Marc snapped, baring his teeth. "_Me_--crude!
What about you? I suppose you've been the perfect little lady in this
affair? I'm not surprised you can't bear to face your crime!"

"Vulgar!" Julie yelled. "Vulgar, skinny man!"

Marc glanced at the radio. "You've ruined it!"

"You ruined it yourself. Though I will say that if you hadn't, I had
every intention of taking a meat axe to it."

"And to me, too, I dare say. A nice way for a wife to go on to a
husband who has cherished and protected her."

"Oh, stop it, you ninny," Julie said. "Stop carrying on as though I'd
murdered you."

"I'd have preferred to be murdered," Marc said, shuddering with pain.

"Stop crouching like that," Julie said. "And stop holding yourself
in that suggestive way. You look like a child with uncertain habits.
Straighten up."

Marc considered the matter of straightening up; never had he felt so
strongly the need to rise to his full height. He relinquished his
grip on himself and tried to unbend. Instantly he fell back into the
crouching position with a cry of pain.

"I can't!" he cried. "I can't straighten up!"

Julie's expression swiftly undertook a series of transformations
ranging from suspicion to chagrin to abject contrition.

"Of course you can," she said anxiously. "Try."

"I can't, I tell you!" Marc gritted. "And it serves you right. As a
matter of fact I hope I stay this way, and you have to spend the rest
of your days explaining to everyone how it happened. You've dislocated
my sacroiliac, that's what you've done, you brutish female!"

"Oh, no!" Julie gasped. "Oh, Marc!" She ran toward him.

"Get away from me!" Marc snarled. "Don't you touch me, you Judith
Iscariot!"

"Oh, dear!" Julie wailed. She held our a hand. "I'll get a doctor, the
one down the block. Don't do anything. I'll be right back." She started
toward the door.

"Tell him how it happened!" Marc called after her spitefully. "Tell him
how you kicked your own husband in the...!"

But the door slammed as Julie hurried out of the house and down the
steps.

Marc returned his hands gingerly to his pulsing bottom and stared
gloomily at the floor.

"Damn!" he said. "Damn, damn, damn!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The doctor strapped a final length of adhesive across Marc's back and
helped him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

"It may be tender for a day or two," he said. He helped Marc into his
pajama coat. "You'll be all right, though. You can have Mrs. Pillsworth
take that tape off for you at the end of the week."

"I'll wear it to my grave," Marc snapped, "before I'll permit that
woman to touch me again."

"Now, now, Mr. Pillsworth," the doctor temporized. "You'll feel better
in the morning." He turned and picked up his case. "I imagine those
sedatives will take care of everything for tonight."

"Thank you, doctor," Marc said gratefully, and sank back rigidly on the
bed. Lying down, held stiffly by the tape, he was forced to watch the
doctor from the corner of his eye.

"Goodnight, doctor."

"Goodnight." The doctor nodded from across the room and opened the door
to leave. Julie was revealed wringing her hands in the hallway. She
stepped forward.

"How is he, doctor?" she asked. "May I see him now?"

"Keep her out!" Marc growled from his pillow. "If she so much as sticks
a hand in here I'll bite it!"

The doctor took Julie's arm. "Don't worry," he said. "Everyone's a
little neurotic these days." He guided her back into the hall and
closed the door.

Marc shifted his gaze from the door to the ceiling. The laughter of
the Fredericks and their guests drifted in through the open window,
and he reflected on its quality: it was the laughter of desperation,
not abandoned. Then the scream of a fire siren sounded faintly in the
distance, and a woman echoed the cry weirdly from somewhere down the
block--another patient for the good doctor.

Marc closed his eyes and waited for the sedatives to work. An echo of
pain throbbed along his spine. He tried to shift a bit, but the tape
held him in place, and the pain was only worse for the effort. He
looked at the ceiling again and noted its singular blankness without
pleasure. Finally he decided to turn his mind to other things--to
the past and happier circumstances. Instantly, without any conscious
cooperation, Toffee's pert face stirred in his memory. The ghost of a
smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Not that the thought of Toffee was undilutedly pleasant. The gamin
creature of his mind had a strong predisposition for trouble as well as
pleasure--a sort of special magnetism that drew calamity to herself as
well as the hapless souls around her. And yet the basic feeling, when
thinking of Toffee, was one of distinct cheer. If trouble came to her
it was never altogether unmixed with a certain element of hilarity.
There was always a dash of excitement at least.

       *       *       *       *       *

Naturally Toffee had not been in Marc's mind at all these last few
months. For one thing he had been much too concerned with the perilous
state of the world, and Toffee, not a consistent inhabitant of this
world, or much of any other, was difficult to picture in conjunction
with truly worldly matters.

If it could be said that Toffee lived at all, it would have to be the
Valley of Marc's mind. Not that she wasn't quite real; it was just that
she did not exist materially unless she was projected into the material
world through Marc's imagination. After that she was as flesh and blood
as anyone--indeed, to an almost overwhelming degree at times.

If Marc had grown used to this strange circumstance--that his mind
could actually create a living, breathing perfect hellion of a
redhead--it was only by virtue of repetition. The human mind can adjust
to the wildest of impossibilities in time, if it is only subjected to
them often enough.

The smile grew on Marc's lips as he considered the provocative form and
features of Toffee. It was a vision to prod the sternest lips into a
smile.

Then the smile vanished as Julie's footsteps sounded outside in the
hallway. Marc listened to their approach, turning his eyes toward the
door.

He could almost see her standing there in the hallway beyond the closed
door. Desolated with remorse, she would be, undecided. A trickle of
compassion gullied the surface of Marc's resentment. After all, she
had really meant to hurt him. He would have called out to her, but the
footsteps sounded anew and retreated down the hall. A moment later a
door opened and closed. Marc sighed; tomorrow would be time enough to
make it up to her.

He closed his eyes as a slow drowsiness began to seep through his lean
body--probably the sedatives going to work. His mind wandered aimlessly
for a moment, then collided, quite forcibly, with a sudden realization;
during the last hour--for the first time in weeks--his thoughts had
turned away from the dismal state of the world and centered on himself.
For a whole hour his interest had been entirely absorbed in a simple
domestic crisis--a little thing like a fight over the radio!

Marc's mind spun with the thought. In the last few months things--the
matters of men's lives--had somehow gotten themselves all turned around
backwards. People had ceased to concern themselves with the really
important things--fighting over a radio, for instance--and had turned
to the childish business of blowing up the world.

Marc paused to sum up these thoughts. Somewhere they contained a very
great and very simple truth, though they were all snarled up. Somehow
his dislocated sacroiliac and the troubles of the world were subtly
related....

The drowsiness washed over his mind again, and the thought was carried
away on the crest. He reached after them, but couldn't quite make it.
There was but one last glimmer:

"What this world needs," Marc murmured, "is a good five ton kick in
the...."

His eyes closed, and instantly his chest began to rise and fall with
the deep, regular breathing of complete sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

A warm breeze dusted the edge of the curtain and set it rippling.
Somewhere in the night, in the distance across the city, a siren wailed
with inconsolable melancholy. A cat stalked the intersection, as silent
and intense as his leopard-long shadow. In his narcotic slumbers Marc
rolled a bit to one side and made a small whimpering sound as the
adhesive pulled at his back. He lay back and was still.

But Marc had dismissed all conscious memory of his injury some time
hence. In the same moment when he had fallen asleep he had left the
room of the rippling curtain and unhappy echoes and had passed into the
untroubled, all-black world of unconsciousness.

Now, however, he stirred again, and with that almost indiscernible
movement, leaped from the darkness into lighter regions; into the
secret, all-things-are-possible world of his subconscious--into the
world where dreams can become more real than reality itself. Marc
paused on the brink of this world for one tremulous moment, then
plunged forward....

Brilliant light shot up to meet him so that he had to close his eyes
against the glare. Then, slowly, he opened them again. Much like the
sensation of stepping onto cool lawn after having walked barefoot on
scorching concrete, pain was swiftly followed by almost unbearable
pleasure.

Before Marc's gaze a soft greenness stretched away from him into
graceful rising slopes and cool shadowed hollows--artfully like a
display of green velvet in a shop window. On the rise of the most
distant knoll stretched a forest of strange trees which held at once a
cathedral of stateliness and a feathery pliability. Weaving slightly
with the breeze they were mindful of nothing so much as a handful of
royal plumes stuck into the earth at the whim of a bemused child. The
Valley of The Subconscious Mind....

Marc knew instantly where he was; he'd been there often enough before.
He glanced around in search of some movement, some flash of animated
color. But there was nothing. He started up the rise, stretching his
long legs purposefully before him. Surely she would be there, probably
among the trees.

But she was not. Nor was there any sign of her. Marc moved to the crest
of the knoll where the trees were the thickest, but the far horizon
proved to be obscured by a blue mist that swirled and disported itself
in the way of something alive. He stood there for a long moment,
turning slowly, watching anxiously for any sign, but there was none.
Finally he sat down, braced his elbows on his knees and rested his
chin in his hand. Disappointment welled inside him--and hurt too;
always before she had been right there to meet him at the moment of his
arrival.

       *       *       *       *       *

He stiffened with a sudden, dreadful thought: what if Toffee wasn't
there at all? What if she had ceased to exist? Wasn't it possible
since she was only a product of his imagination? He stood up and again
scanned the horizon. He bent down to peer into the shifting frontiers
of the mists.

And then it happened. It was low and mean and sharply reminiscent of a
similar agony which had befallen him in another time and place that he
couldn't rightly remember. Grabbing himself uninhibitedly he doubled
forward and sat down heavily on the ground.

Then it was over as swiftly and surprisingly as it had begun. The air
rippled with musical, feminine laughter, somewhere behind him. Marc
swung around.

Lovely as ever, her mist-textured tunic only served to cast a cool
greenish tint on the flesh of the outrageously perfect body beneath
it. As she moved from beneath the trees, her flaming hair fell loose
about her shoulders, as free and wild as the spirit it adorned. Though
her full red lips quivered with laughter, the real laughter was in the
depths of her green eyes. She paused for a moment, then ran forward and
sat down lightly at his side. She eyed him with mischievous amusement.

"You dilapidated old despot," she smiled. "It's about time you showed
that simpering old face of yours around here again."

Marc, mindful of his recent discomfiture, returned her gaze with chilly
suspicion. But if Toffee noticed she pretended not to. With a quick
maneuver which was executed with the skill and precision obtainable
only through long and diligent practice, she twined her arms about his
neck and kissed him full upon the mouth. Marc received the kiss with
unblinking aloofness. His gaze remained hostile even as she leaned back
from him.

"You kicked me," he said injuredly.

Toffee's eyes widened with enormous innocence. "You've got it wrong. I
kissed you, that's all."

"Kicked," Marc said stubbornly. "You kicked me."

"Where?"

"Never mind."

"I was yards away from you at the time," Toffee said. "You saw me,
yourself."

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc reflected. It was true; she hadn't even been in sight. Still,
experience had taught him that she was capable of anything, perhaps
even a long-distance boot in the bottom.

"Well, somebody did it," he said sullenly.

"I swear it wasn't me," Toffee said stoutly. "I swear it on the old
bald head of my maternal grandfather."

"You haven't got a maternal grandfather," Marc said shortly. "Don't
talk nonsense."

"If I had a maternal grandfather," Toffee amended smoothly, "and he had
an old bald head, I would unhesitatingly swear on it."

"You would just as unhesitatingly lop it off with an axe, too," Marc
said, "if it served your purpose."

"Who wouldn't?" Toffee said. "Who wants an old bald head around all the
time? Even a maternal grandfather's?"

"You haven't got a grandfather," Marc reminded her sharply, "maternal
or otherwise."

"Certainly, I have," Toffee said stoutly. "I just swore on his old bald
head, didn't I? Or did I swear _at_ his old bald head? I wouldn't be
surprised. He's always whining around about how maternal he is, and I
know darned well he's never been a mother in his life. It's disgusting."

"Sometimes I wonder why I even listen to you," Marc said. "I only get
dizzy."

"Well, it's no wonder I'm flighty with that nasty old man under foot
all the time," Toffee said. "If you'd just speak to this maternal
grandfather of mine and tell him to stop sticking his old bald head
into everything...."

"Stop!" Marc cried. "If you go on any more about it I'll start foaming
at the mouth!"

Toffee lay back on the grass and stretched her arms thoughtfully above
her head.

"Anyway," she said. "I swear my foot has not so much as brushed the
seat of your pants." But even as she said it a smile played fleetingly
at the corners of her mouth.

Marc turned to her, prepared to the last inflection to inform her that
he would trust her only a little less farther than he could hurl a
steam shovel with his bare teeth, but he did not speak. His gaze went
to her left hand and remained there.

       *       *       *       *       *

In all the time he had known her Marc had never seen Toffee wear even
a single piece of jewelry: it was taken for granted that her charms
were sufficient unto themselves without any superficial ornamentation.
One might be silly enough to apply gilt to a lily, but never to a gold
piece. Therefore, he was surprised now to glance down and see quite a
large ring on her finger.

And the ring itself was quite as remarkable as the fact of Toffee's
wearing it. Marc had never seen anything like it before and was willing
to bet a tidy sum that no one else had either.

The metal part of the ring was neither silver nor gold, yet faintly
resembled both--with a strange translucent quality that seemed
altogether unreal. It had been fashioned into a design that was both
simple and beautiful. But it was really the stone which caught and held
Marc's eye.

Such a stone was simply not possible! It resembled an emerald of the
largest, rarest and most beautiful kind, and yet it was not an emerald.
No mere emerald, no natural chemical fluke, could possibly have the
life--the almost living vitality--of this stone. It gave off a light
that met the eye with something like an electrical shock. But that
wasn't all. It was the _feeling_ you got just from looking at it--that
the stone both absorbed from and contributed to the living atmosphere
around it. The thing actually assumed a personality as you stared at
it. Marc felt a shiver of apprehension.

"Where did you get that ring?" he asked.

"Oh, that," Toffee said negligently. "Just something I dreamed up out
of my head--the way you dream me up."

"You mean...?"

"Sure," Toffee nodded. "You aren't the only one around here who can do
cerebral somersaults. After all, I'm right here at the source. As a
matter of fact it was something you said that gave me the idea."

"What do you mean?" Marc asked. "What did I say?"

"Oh, I forget just how it went right now," Toffee said. "Besides
there'll be lots of time for all this dull conversation later. Right
now...."

"Are you trying to hold something back from me?" Marc asked
suspiciously.

"Nothing," Toffee said. She pulled herself closer, brushed her lips
playfully across his cheek. "Absolutely nothing." She slipped her arm
around his neck.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next few seconds were characterized with quiet struggle as Marc
disengaged himself from her determined embrace.

"Next time hold something back," he said confusedly. "There's just so
much that human flesh and blood can stand, you know."

"And you have so little of either," Toffee said. She gazed at him
reflectively. "Kissing you is like tying on your bib over a plate of
bleached bones."

"Leave it to you to paint a disgusting picture," Marc shuddered.

"Give me a good heaping plate of bleached bones any time," Toffee said.
"I'd prefer it."

"May I remind you," Marc said coolly, "that it was you who hurled
yourself into my arms? You seemed to be all for it at the time."

"Merely the touch of the artist," Toffee said archly. "Just fitting
myself into a part."

"Have I ever thought to tell you," Marc said, "that you are the most
unprincipled, low-minded...?"

Then suddenly his voice dried in his throat. His gaze darted away from
Toffee's face and swept frightenedly across the horizon.

"Oh, my gosh!" he cried.

Suddenly, like a slow dissolve in a movie, the little valley was simply
melting away into black nothingness. Already the distant trees had
disappeared. Marc jumped to his feet.

"Look!" he yelled. "Look!"

Toffee was instantly beside him. For a moment she gazed on the
horrifying spectacle, then tugged imperatively at his sleeve.

"Come on!" she cried. "Let's run!"

But as they turned in the other direction the blackness only rushed at
them anew; it was coming all around them. They stopped short.

"Will we drop away into nothing?" Toffee wailed, "or just melt away
with everything else?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Marc moaned.

And perhaps a bit sooner, it seemed, for even as Marc spoke, the
darkness swooped to within yards of them.

Toffee drew close to Marc, trembling a bit, and he placed his arm about
her shoulders. They stood in expectant silence for a moment, watching
the greenness disappear around them. Then, all at once, it was gone
beneath them.

It was just as they plunged downward into the darkness that Toffee
threw her arms about Marc's neck and held tight....

       *       *       *       *       *

The world reeled drunkenly through space ... whirled away with
egg-shaped lopsidedness ... and then there was nothing left anywhere
but the original dough from which everything had been made in the first
place ... messy, clammy stuff ... and you sank deeper and deeper into
it no matter how hard you struggled. Marc tried to cry out....

And then there was an answer, a scraping of metal on metal. A light
showed ahead, dulled and heavily diffused, but it came suddenly. A
voice spoke encouragement....

"Just a minute, and I'll dig you out. How you ever managed to get
snarled up like that flat on your back...."

The voice continued scolding him with affection, and a minute later the
doughy mass was pulled aside, and he could see that it was only the
perspiration-covered sheets. He looked at them, then beyond them to
Julie's gently smiling face. Morning was crowding into the room through
the windows behind her.

"'Morning," he said sheepishly. "Thanks."

In silence Julie handed him a glass of orange juice, and he boosted
himself forward to drink it.

"How's your ... your back?" she asked tentatively. "Is it better?"

Marc returned the glass to her, tried a few movements involving his
mummified spine. There was no definite pain, only a suggestion of
stiffness.

"Brand new," he said, and smiled.

"Oh, I'm so relieved!" Julie breathed. She sat down close beside him on
the bed. "I'm sorry, Marc."

For a moment they only looked at each other. Then, suddenly breaking
into laughter, they fell into each other's arms.

"Oh, Marc!" Julie cried. "I haven't been so happy in months. I don't
know why. Nothing's changed; everything's in the same old mess, and
considering what I did to you last night I ought to feel just awful.
But I don't, and I just can't explain it."

"Maybe I can," Marc said slowly. "I think ... just before I fell asleep
last night ... I think something very important occurred to me. I
think...!"

Suddenly his voice degenerated into a thin wheeze as the air rushed out
of his lungs. He looked as though nothing of even minor importance had
passed through his mind from the day of his birth. Julie looked up at
him with anxious surprise.

"What is it, dear?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

Marc didn't answer; he only stared--into the mirror across the room.
Even as he watched, the horrifying thing he had witnessed a moment
before repeated itself.

Across the room, almost exactly opposite the mirror was a small alcove,
just big enough to accommodate his desk and filing cabinet. When the
compartment was not in use a set of curtains concealed its existence.
It was the reflection of these curtains and their sudden curious
behavior which had set Marc's hair on end.

       *       *       *       *       *

For curtains which were meant only to hang blissfully on metal rods
and behave themselves, these were weaving about in a most distressing
fashion. In fact they were carrying on in such a loose-minded way that
it was a wonder Marc did not return his head to the cover of the soggy
sheets and leave it there just to be spared the sight.

As it was, Marc peered wildly into the mirror as the curtains suddenly
parted themselves, took on individual lives of their own, and began to
twist about in the air in a way that defied all reason. This continued
for several seconds, then matters got worse.

The curtain on the left retreated from the performance and hung
limp. Marc sighed a sigh of relief, only to catch his breath in a
new convulsion of horror. The curtain on the right, not content with
behaving like something human, had decided to look like something human
as well. Actually, in the manner of a close fitting dress, the thing
began to assume bumps and hollows of an extremely feminine and alarming
nature. It was then, and only a moment before a flash of red hair
showed around the edge of the curtain, that Marc realized the awful
truth of the situation; Toffee had materialized. She had materialized
in his bedroom, without any clothes, and was trying to fashion a dress
for herself from the draperies.

"Darling!" Julie cried. "Why are you looking like that? What's the
matter?"

Julie's voice suddenly reminded Marc of the real danger in the
situation. He glanced up, reached out and gripped Julie's shoulders
just in time to prevent her turning about to see what he was staring at.

"There's nothing wrong!" He laughed falsely. "Everything's wonderful!
Wonderful! Go get me some breakfast!"

"What?" Julie asked confusedly.

But Marc's gaze had again been captured by a movement in the mirror. As
he looked up Toffee's reflection smiled brightly at him and waved.

"Stay where you are!" Marc gibbered. "Go back!"

"What?" Julie asked.

Marc looked at her unhappily. "I'm starving!" he gibbered. "Get me
something to eat! I may start gnawing on the bedpost in a minute!"

"But you just said for me to stay where I was. Why?"

"Yes, yes, I know," Marc said. He smiled feebly. "What I mean is that
I'm hungry and want breakfast, but I hate to see you leave to get it
because ... because it's so nice to see you this morning...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Julie smiled uncertainly and patted his head. "I'll get you something
right away," she said. "But I'll hurry."

"Oh, don't!" Marc said. "Take all the time you want!"

Julie looked at him quizzically and started to rise from the bed.
Unfortunately for everyone's peace of mind Toffee chose that moment to
stick one shapely leg around the edge of the curtain.

"Don't!" Marc yelled.

Julie sat down quickly and reached a hand to Marc's brow. "But how can
I get breakfast if I don't leave?" she asked patiently.

Marc turned to her with an harrassed expression. "You can't!" he cried.
"That's just it! So leave! Go on! Go 'way!"

"What!" An expression of utter hopelessness came over Julie's face.

"Go!" Marc said desperately. "Hurry!"

Julie stared at him for a long moment. "Are you sure you aren't
harboring some sort of terrible grudge against me for what I did last
night?" she asked slowly. "I'll understand perfectly if...."

"No, no, no!" Marc broke in. "I was never more fond of you than I am
right at this minute. Go away."

"All right," Julie said. "I'm going. But don't call me back this time
the minute I make a move for the door."

"I won't," Marc said. "I'll be silent as the grave."

Julie leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the forehead, then started
across the room toward the door. "I'll be back practically instantly."

Quickly, Marc whirled around and stared in the direction of the alcove.
As he did so the blood in his veins was sorely put to it whether to
run hot or cold; Toffee, curve-some as a serpent and twice as fleshy,
had stepped from behind the curtains and, at the moment, had arranged
herself into a posture of highly seductive nature. This, judging by her
expression, she considered humorous in the extreme. Not so, Marc.

"No!" he cried. "Stop!"

Julie did not bother to turn around; she merely stopped where she was
in the doorway and placed her hands carefully on her hips. "Oh, no!"
she groaned. "I've married a man who fancies himself a traffic signal!"

"No!" Marc yelled. "Not you!"

"Then who?" Julie asked with threadbare patience. "The twenty-seven
little men with pointed heads sitting on the bureau? Is that who you
mean, dearest?"

"Just go!" Marc implored her. "Go!"

"Stop, go, stop, go, stop go!" Julie shrilled. "I am not operated
electrically. More's the pity!" Slowly she started to turn around to
face her ever-changing spouse and--eventually--the nakedest redhead
any wife ever had the sheer horror of discovering in her husband's bed
chamber.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc felt fate bearing down on him in a way that made him understand
the feelings of a deeply rooted daisy looking up at an approaching
steam roller. He turned away and closed his eyes in the cowering aspect
of one who expects to receive a load of brickbats on the nape of the
neck. He stood, his nerves alerted against Julie's cry. There was a
beat of silence--then it came.

But it was not the cry that Marc had braced himself against. This cry
was sharply out of character, not at all the triumphant cawe of a
wronged wife laying hand to definite proof of her husband's perfidy.
This was sheerly, unmistakably a cry of basic, physical pain.

Marc opened his eyes and turned around, then started back with a gasp
of surprise. Julie, the beauty who always walked in regal stateliness,
whose every move and gesture was a masterpiece of living poetry, was
suddenly squatting in the doorway, clutching at herself in a way which
was not only ungainly but downright repellent.

For a long moment surprise rendered Marc totally incapable of action.
Then with a burst of logic and simultaneous realization, he whirled in
Toffee's direction. Suddenly, this whole shuddering situation was all
too clear to him.

Toffee, now completely emerged from her place of hiding, turned and
smiled at him in a conspiratorial and knowing way. Marc noticed that
her left hand was raised significantly in Julie's direction, while the
right was held over the face of the curious ring, as though shading it.

He stared at her in horror; he couldn't imagine exactly what part the
unearthly ring was playing in Julie's unlovely predicament, but he was
absolutely certain that it was responsible to some degree or another.
He was stunned beyond caution.

"Stop that," he demanded angrily. "Stop that instantly!"

Julie, still crouching in the doorway, her back to the room, trembled
violently and turned her eyes to the ceiling.

"Do you think I'm doing this because I like it?" she gritted between
clenched teeth. "Do you actually imagine I wouldn't stop it if I could,
you beast?"

"Now, Julie...!" Marc turned about, held out an imploring hand to her
arched back.

"You shut up, you vindictive vermin!" Julie hissed, announcing her
sentiments through the length of the outer hallway. "So you bear no
grudge, huh? Hah! I'm only surprised you didn't break your back under
the load!"

"Julie...!" Marc pleaded. "You don't under...!"

"No!" Julie broke in. "Oh, no! Don't you dare say I don't understand!
And don't tell me I don't know when I've been brutally, wantonly and
vengefully kicked from and in the rear!"

"_Julie!_" Marc gasped. "I didn't kick you. I know it's hard to
believe, but...."

"You're darned tootin' it's hard to believe!" Julie sneered. "In fact
it's impossible to believe, you liar!"

"But...!"

"Well, aren't you at least going to call the doctor? As inhuman as we
both now know you to be, there must be some slim thread of decency
somewhere in the tacky fabric of that character of yours."

Marc turned beseechingly to Toffee.

"Please," he implored her. "_Please!_ You're not helping matters, you
know, in taking that attitude."

"Ohhh!" Julie groaned. "I didn't take this attitude, I was kicked into
it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

With a bland smile Toffee nodded to Marc. Then carefully she removed
her hand from the ring, and there was a bright glitter from its
surface. Toffee winked broadly and stepped back into the alcove. In
the doorway Julie straightened instantly and turned around, her hands
clenched tightly at her sides. She stretched her back tentatively.

"Well, I'm all right again," she announced heavily. "No thanks to you,
Mr. Wife Kicker!"

"Julie ..." Marc began, "you've got to listen to me!"

"Oh, no, I don't!" Julie corrected him emphatically. "I don't have to
listen to you. All I have to do is convince myself that I like that
lamp over there too well to shatter it on your skull." Calming herself
with an effort, she eyed him with controlled malevolence. She breathed
deeply. "I think I can trust myself now not to run to the kitchen for
the ice pick." She turned away. "Goodbye, Mr. Marcus Pillsworth!"

"Julie...!"

"And may your soul blister in everlasting hell!" Julie added as she
swept out of the room and into the hallway.

Marc stood undecided for a moment. He started toward the hall, then
checked himself and spun around in the direction of the alcove. Two
striding steps brought him to the drapes, and with a single sweeping
gesture of outrage, raked them aside. Toffee was disclosed sitting on
the edge of the desk, one leg crossed casually over the other, blowing
on her nails. She glanced up and smiled innocently.

"Lo," she said.

"Why you slithering little reptile!" Marc barked. "Of all the witless
stunts...!"

Toffee waggled a slender finger at his costume. "Has anyone ever told
you how cunning you look in those pajamas?" she murmured. "Are they
ripped that way on purpose for ventilation?"

With a seizure of modesty Marc snatched at the curtains and clutched
them around him. He looked rather like a Roman senator with his toga
slipping. Toffee laughed.

"I thought that would put the muzzle on you, you old Puritan," she
said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc drew himself up to his full six feet and two inches, and eyed her
with lofty disdain. "You're in a nice position to talk," he observed
frigidly.

"I'm in a nice position for a lot of things," Toffee sighed, "but you'd
never notice."

Marc cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "Don't be brazen," he
said. "I would offer you these curtains if I didn't need them so
desperately myself."

"Always the perfect host," Toffee commented.

"Never mind me," Marc said. "What about you? Whatever possessed you to
do a thing like that?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, stop it," Marc said wearily. "It was perfectly evident that you
were at the bottom of that little demonstration."

"At the bottom?" Toffee laughed. "You put it so well. Unless you wanted
to say I was at the seat of things."

"There you go. Just give you a simple statement and you squeeze enough
dirt out of it to start a truck farm." Marc agitated his drapes.
"Either you tell me what you're up to or I'll stop projecting you if I
have to belt myself over the head with a sledge hammer."

Toffee smiled slowly. "I might as well make a clean breast of it," she
said. "If the anatomical reference doesn't strike you as too racy?"

"Never mind," Marc said shortly. "You wouldn't recognize a moral
scruple if it were presented to you in a glass jar."

"Very well," Toffee said. "Apparently you've guessed the function of
my ring." She held up her hand and the fearsome ornament glittered
brightly. "Actually the stone projects a ray which, in effect,
sensitizes the bones and tissues of the human body, separates them
slightly according to how long you time the concentration, and holds
them apart. Maybe you noticed that Julie, just before her accident, was
slightly taller than usual. Anyway, once you have the subject focused,
it's only a matter of breaking the ray quickly with the other hand.
Things, drawn apart and out of line snap back with such a force that
the subject might just as well be struck with a hammer." She looked at
Marc. "See what I mean?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think so." Marc said slowly. "In other words you focused the
radiation on the base of Julie's spine, drew ... uh ... things out
of line, broke the suspending force suddenly, so that they jarred
together with such momentum that they were thrown out of place ... the
sacroiliac, in this case."

"Exactly," Toffee said. "In effect, I simply gave your wife a good
rousing kick in the...."

"Croup," Marc supplied quickly.

"In the croup," Toffee agreed. "And when I wanted her to get over it I
merely pulled the ... things ... apart again, then released them more
gently so as to return them to their proper adjustment."

"But what I want to know," Marc said evenly, "is just what possessed
you to demonstrate this diabolical little gadget on Julie?"

"Two reasons," Toffee explained. "First to make sure the ring works the
way I planned it, second to get Julie out of the way."

"Get her out of the way?" Marc repeated apprehensively. "Now look
here if you have any sordid notions about a dalliance on a divan, for
instance...."

"I always have those notions," Toffee said. "However at the moment I'm
having them in conjunction with other notions." She smiled prettily.
"I've come to straighten out the world."

"You _what_?" Marc asked incredulously.

"You will admit it needs straightening out?" Toffee asked complacently.

"Well, yes," Marc said. "But believe me the one thing it doesn't need
is your ministrations. It couldn't take it. And I wish you'd get rid of
that filthy ring."

"Why should I?" Toffee asked. "After all it was just as much your idea
as mine."

"My idea?" Marc said. "How do you figure that?"

"You said it plain as anything," Toffee said, "last night, just before
you went to sleep. You said the world needed a good swift kick."

"Oh, my gosh!" Marc said. "And so you've...!" He pointed at the ring.

Toffee nodded proudly. "I'm the girl that's right in there with the
goods. Everything will be just dandy in no time."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, Lord!" Marc groaned. "Of all the things I've said in my life, you
would have to pick on that!" He stopped, sighed heavily, looked at her
long and wearily. "Well, you can just pack up your ring and your sex
appeal and trot right back to where you came from. Of all the idiotic
notions...!"

"Huh-uh," Toffee shook her head. "It's an idea that appeals to me.
Besides, if enough of the right people get kicked in the right
places ... well, what have we got to lose?"

"Also," Marc said coolly, "I don't believe I thanked you yet for
wrecking my home. I take it that is a sample of your methods for
establishing unity and good will?"

"Good will?" Toffee smiled. "I have other methods for that." She slid
off the edge of the desk and moved purposefully toward him.

"You lay a hand on these drapes," Marc said nervously, "and I'll
scream. I mean it! Julie is still here, you know."

Just then, as though to deliberately make a liar of him, the front door
slammed downstairs.

"We are quite, quite alone," Toffee murmured significantly.

"Go away!" Marc said, trembling in his draperies. "Go back where you
came from. Heaven knows things are bad enough already...."

"Oh, stop it," Toffee said. "We have business to attend to."

"Business?"

"Yes. As long as I've gotten myself all materialized to save the world
I suppose I might just as well pitch in and get it over with. Business
before pleasure, as they say. I figure I can have these world affairs
you've been brooding over set ship-shape in less time than it takes
a flat-chested girl to shuck on her girdle. Then I'll be free to
concentrate on you without interruption."

"No!" Marc said suddenly. "I don't know why I waste my time listening
to this prattle. Save the world! Indeed! I'm taking you down to the
office where you can't harm anyone and leave you there till you decide
to evaporate. Both the world and I have enough headaches already."

"You've dropped your drapes," Toffee observed mildly.

"Hang the drapes!" Marc said forcibly and, taking a hitch in his
gaping pajamas, strode into the bathroom ... and locked the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Driving, particularly toward the center of the city, had lately
become hazardous; the motorist never knew what insanity awaited him
just around the next corner. At an intersection Marc stopped the car
before a group of white-haired, bonneted old ladies who were gleefully
engrossed in a game of croquet that had something to do with knocking
your opponent's ball into an open manhole. At the sound of Marc's horn
one of the aged gamesters glanced around demurely and peered at him
through silver-rimmed glasses.

"Can it, you creep," she shrilled. "You wanna louse my shot?"

She might have said more except that her attention was suddenly drawn
to the manhole, where the grimy head of a workman rose slowly like a
soiled and rather timid moon. Lifting her skirts delicately so that
only the minimum of ankle was exposed the lady minced daintily forward
and belted the head a stunning blow with her mallet. Without a murmur
the head retreated once more into the deeps of the city sewage system.

"Danged whelp keeps poppin' up and spoilin' our innocent fun," the old
lady said sullenly. "Does it just to aggravate us." She turned to one
of her companions. "Shag me the bottle, Lana."

The lady in question produced a bottle of bourbon from the folds of her
skirt. "Right-o, Rita," she said. "Blood in your eye!"

Marc shook his head sadly, but Toffee, huddled beside him in one of his
topcoats, saw a certain charm in the sketch.

"Personally," she said, "I like to see folks growing old disgracefully.
It makes the inevitability of age more attractive. After a lifetime of
perfecting sins and vices you ought to be able to take them with you at
least as far as the grave."

Passing by this bit of lopsided philosophy, Marc wheeled the car onto
the sidewalk and skirted the field of play.

"The whole world's gone mad," he murmured.

It was a block later, at the sight of the Empire Department Store, that
Toffee instructed Marc to stop the car.

"I want to pick up a few fine feathers," she explained. "I may want to
take a flier later on."

"You won't need clothes," Marc informed her. "The office is most
informal these days, especially since the staff has left."

"If I'm going to languish," Toffee said, "I'm going to do it in silks
and satins. Besides, if you don't stop I'll darned well cripple you
with my jewelry."

Marc pulled the car to the curb without further discussion.

       *       *       *       *       *

They left the car and entered the Empire, where aisles and counters
stretched into the distance over gleaming floors. A dark girl with
circles under her eyes lounged dreamily at a counter displaying gloves
and handbags. They approached. But just as they did so a short, stocky
individual in a turtle-neck sweater hurried up to the girl from the
opposite direction. He stopped abruptly and stuck a revolver in the
girl's face, waggling it just beneath her nose. Crossing her eyes
drowsily, the girl observed the gun, then the man.

"Oh, fer Cris'sake," she murmured.

"Hand over the cash, sister," the man growled.

"Okay," the girl yawned. "Only don't rush me, see?" She reached under
the counter and brought forth a bag such as money is kept in. She
scratched herself delicately and dropped the bag on the counter. "I
figured I'd have it ready this time," she said. "Anything else, sir?"

"Yeah," the thug snarled, brandishing the gun anew. "Now lay down on
the floor and don't open your trap until I'm gone."

"Aw, that corny routine, huh?" the girl sneered.

"G'wan!"

The girl shrugged indifferently, then boosted herself away from the
counter and disappeared slowly beneath its horizon. The thug departed
in the direction of the street.

For a moment Marc and Toffee were left to ponder this episode in
solitude, then the girl slowly reappeared, leaned her elbows on the
counter. She swiveled her bored eyes in their direction apathetically.

"Yuh want something?" she drawled.

"Aren't you going to scream or something?" Toffee asked with quiet
curiosity.

"Scream?" the girl asked. "What'd I want to scream for?"

"Well," Toffee said. "It may be that I'm just the excitable type, but
if I'd just been robbed I'd sound off like a crash alarm."

"Oh, that," the girl murmured. "That wasn't nothing, honey. Take a look
over there."

Marc and Toffee gazed in the direction she indicated--a counter laden
with expensive handbags. As they looked a hand darted furtively from
beneath the counter, grasped one of the bags and instantly disappeared
again. A moment later the action was repeated.

"What in the...?" Marc said.

"A purse snatcher," the girl said. "He's good, too. He can clean out a
whole counter in half an hour sometimes."

"Don't you care?" Toffee asked.

"I should care," the girl shrugged. "They're stealin' the store blind
from end to end. What's the diff? What's the store going to do with
money when it's blasted off the face of the earth?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Toffee and Marc, before they had had time to digest this, were diverted
by a small movement at the end of the counter. The face of the thug who
had presumably just departed appeared briefly from behind a display of
gloves.

"_Psst!_" it said.

"The place is infested!" Toffee said.

"Excuse me," the salesgirl said, "I'll be right back. If you see
anything you like just slip it into your stocking, honey." She ambled
over to the glove display. "Yeah?" she inquired.

The face was joined by a hand bearing the money bag.

"Here," he said, "I din' take nothin' outa it."

"Don't you want it?" the girl asked.

"Let's do it over again," the thug said. "Only this time give it a
little somethin', will yuh? Scream and carry on a little bit so's I can
get the feel of it better."

"Oh, okay," the girl said listlessly. She accepted the bag and returned
to Marc and Toffee. "Whatta pest," she said. "All day all he does is
hold me up, that's all, just hold me up. I get tired of it."

"Doesn't the manager mind this sort of thing?" Marc asked.

"Geez, no," the girl said. "The manager don't mind anything any more.
Why should he? He'll cork off just as fast as the janitor when the
bombs drop."

At this juncture the thug stepped from behind the glove display, waving
his gun excitedly.

"This is a stickup!" he announced.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the girl murmured. "What else?"

"Go on an' scream," the bandit said in a lower tone. "You said you
would. You promised."

"So okay," the girl agreed. She turned to Marc and Toffee. "You see how
it is--borin'." Then she threw back her head and gave vent to a shriek
that echoed back from the high ceiling with all the painful discord of
a trainload of jealous opera stars going through an underpass in full
voice. When it was over she leaned back on the counter and stifled a
yawn. "So was it okay?" she asked.

"Not bad," the bandit said admiringly. "Now hand over the dough and git
down on the floor!"

"Aw, have a heart," the girl said. "I've been down on the floor so much
today I'm beginning to feel like a dust mop." She nodded to Marc and
Toffee. "Make them get down on the floor for a change."

The thug glanced around, then quickly away. "I couldn't!" he whispered.
"They're total strangers!"

"Take the money and git," the girl said. "And don't come bringin' it
back, 'cause I'm through for today. I'm bushed."

"Okay," the thug said. "Okay. You don't have to get sore about it!"
Drawing himself up, he departed in a huff of indignation.

"Now," the girl said. "What was it you wanted?" But just then the
hand of the purse snatcher eased up to the counter and started edging
toward her. She reached out and dealt it a stinging blow. "Sometimes
he takes it into his head to pinch some things that ain't purses," she
explained. "A girl's got to keep an eye on the shifty little devil or
she might get the shock of her life."

"Where could we find the manager of the store?" Marc asked. "I think if
we talked to him directly...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Just then from across the store came the fearsome sound of steel jaws
closing with a vicious snap, this accompanied by the clatter of chains
and a blood-chilling shriek of pain.

"That's the manager now," the girl said unconcernedly. "I guess Dolly's
got him trapped again. I'd know his scream anywhere."

"Trapped?" Toffee asked.

"Yeah. Over in the sport's department. Last week she got him in a lion
snare, but I guess she's back to her bear traps this week. They cripple
him up so he can't get away so fast."

"This Dolly," Toffee said. "She bears the manager ill will?"

"Oh, no," the girl said. "She's crazy about him. She's been after him
for years and never got anywhere at all. I guess she figures time's
runnin' out."

"And this sport's department," Toffee asked. "They have a department
just for sports? I mean, is this manager considered a sport?"

"He's game," the girl said. "Let's put it that way. The sports
department is where they sell equipment."

"At least this Dolly suits the locale to the action," Toffee said.

Just then the atmosphere was rent with another bellow of agony.

"Come on," Marc said. "The poor devil needs help."

"Be careful," the girl called after them as they started away. "He's
mean when he's cornered. Snarls and spits like a mad badger. And that
Dolly, she's been mean all her life."

Marc and Toffee hurried to the sports section and stopped at the
entrance with a gasp of dismay. At the far end of the department a
camping display was being utilized for a scene of mad action.

A young man of immaculate and personable countenance, one foot held
fast between the jaws of a mammoth bear trap, was energetically
distorting his features and making loud sounds of dissatisfaction.

The cause of his predicament, a large, athletic, sharp-featured
female, wearing tortoise shell glasses and tennis shorts, stalked him
from behind a teepee. She was carrying a baseball bat, and a mad light
glittered in her eyes. It would have been apparent to even a retarded
child with a disturbed psyche that the young man's chances were slim.

As Toffee and Marc watched, the young lady with the glasses leered
evilly from around the edge of the teepee and flourished her bat in a
few practice swipes.

"Ho-ha!" she cried with primitive triumph. "So I've got you at last,
you stinker!" She paused to cackle fiendishly to herself. "You won't
get away this time. I'm going to pound that thick coco of yours so hard
you won't wake up for centuries. And when you wake up--you know what?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The young man, who had ceased to snarl at the beginning of this
overwrought recital, looked around apprehensively. "No," he said.
"What?"

"You are going to find yourself married, wed, hitched, spliced, mated,
united, espoused, wived, coupled, joined and made one with me. You are
going to be mine in twenty-three languages, in fifteen churches, ten
civil ceremonies and a couple of uncivil ones I just thought up myself.
How do you like them apples, Mr. Smart-stuff?"

"No!" the young man yelped, reaching for the jaws of the trap. "No!
Never!"

"Let go of that trap!" the girl yelled. "I'll lop your ears off just
for the sheer hell of it!"

"We'd better lend a hand here," Marc said. "She'll kill him with love."

"I can't help admiring her frank, forthright manner," Toffee said. "And
you can't deny that her intentions are almost too honorable. But I can
see where a man might consider her undainty, especially the choosy
kind." Marc started forward, but she reached out a hand and drew him
back. "I'll take care of this," she said. She raised her hand and faced
the ring in the direction of the infuriated Amazon.

"Hurry up!" Marc said. "Shoot the current to her before she mashes him
to a pulp!"

Toffee carefully surveyed the scene of primitive love run amok.
The assault on the hapless manager, no longer merely imminent, was
developing rapidly into a crashing reality. The love-crazed Dolly had
risen to her toes and hunched forward to gain the maximum devastation
from the blow.

"Hurry!" Marc said, and Toffee drew her hand down sharply over the
face of the ring. The results in addition to being instantaneous were
staggeringly bizarre.

The stalking murderess abandoned her batting stance with a cry and
straightened up throwing her hands over her head. The bat, gaining its
freedom all of a rush sailed high in the air and fell to the floor with
a crash. Dolly, as suddenly as she had righted herself, fell into a
tormented crouch and hugged her bottom with both arms in a fair fit of
devotion to the awful thing. Her glittering eyes seemed to spin wildly
in their sockets, and she clenched her teeth in a manner suggesting
that she had bitten into a high voltage socket and was prepared to blow
a whole bin full of fuses.

"_Yeeeee-ow!_" she yelled in shrill tones.

       *       *       *       *       *

The captive manager, having devined from the tone of Dolly's voice
that the skull-splitting project had run into a snag, opened his eyes
and glanced around hopefully. One peek, however, and his expression
underwent a change, so that he looked for all the world like a young
man who would have preferred immeasurably having his skull crushed to
being confronted in this awful way with a crouching, teeth-gritting
female who beyond any question of a doubt was preparing to spring upon
him and rend him limb from limb with her bare fangs. He shuddered
visibly and looked away. His lips quivered over prayers for an easy
deliverance of his immortal soul. Toffee and Marc hurried forward to
reassure him.

Once the young man was released, he mopped his brow, glanced around
with a sigh, and instantly spotted the fact that there remained
something in the situation to be explained.

"What's the matter with her?" he asked of his erstwhile captor. "Why is
she all hunkered down like that?"

"Either she's a hard loser," Toffee murmured, "or she needs more
roughage. It's hard to say at a glance." She made a quick surreptitious
pass at her ring, and the girl in question fell back limply on the
false grass before the teepee.

"Who prodded me with a riveting machine?" she asked belligerently.

"I wish I had," the manager said, rubbing his ankle. He looked at the
trap. "Damn thing's got a nasty bite. I tell you if I were a bear I'd
be very careful around those things."

"You can't blame a girl if she's got ingenuity," Dolly said sullenly.
"I almost got you, too, you slippery devil."

"You're fired," the manager said loftily.

"Oh, yeah?" Dolly said. "I don't quit, see? I haven't even tried guns,
knives, hand grenades, bayonets, hand-to-hand combat and mousetraps
yet. I'm starting in on light side-arms tomorrow."

"Look," Marc said to the manager. "The young lady would like something
to wear. We're in a hurry. I've got to get back home...."

"Fine," the manager said. "I was on my way to the fashion salon when
this morbid little affair befell me. I'm to meet Congressman Bloodsop
there, too; he wanted to sit and look at the models. Come along."

And the three of them left, leaving the luckless Dolly thoughtfully
testing the blade of a machete with the tips of her fingers.

"You see?" Toffee said to Marc. "You see how easily differences can be
settled under the proper guidance?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The salon, it turned out, was on the fifth floor of the Empire. On the
way the manager paused briefly in the silver department to confer with
a small, detached looking lady called Miss Winters.

"Things going well?" he asked.

"Oh, divinely!" Miss Winters twittered. "Just like magic. They're
simply cleaning out the department."

"Bolting the meat and picking the bones, eh?" the manager beamed.
"Stealing everything in sight, are they?"

"Oh, just!" Miss Winters nodded. "To give them encouragement, every so
often I close my eyes and feign deep concentration. Every time I open
my eyes the place looks just a little more like a desert wasteland."

"Just blinking away the merchandise, so to speak?"

"How cleverly you put it, Mr. Baker! You always were the one with the
well-turned phrase, though." She colored prettily at her own boldness.
"How would you like to hear that we've lost better than twenty thousand
dollars just since opening this morning?"

"Splendid!" Mr. Baker said. "Splendid! Just keep up the good work, Miss
Winters, and we'll be out of business in no time at all." As he turned
away he smiled broadly at Marc and Toffee. "The sooner we unload all
this junk the sooner we can close up and await the end with composure.
As a matter of fact the advertising department has devised a little
slogan: Steal at the Empire Before you Roast in Hellfire! Clever, eh?"

"Frightfully," Toffee said, "in the strictest sense of the word."

"Good grief," Marc said. "They're so used to the idea of dying, they're
getting flip about it."

"Maybe it's all for the best," Toffee said. "At least their last days
will be pleasant."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the grey coolness of the fashion salon, Toffee, Marc and Mr. Baker,
the manager, sank into low, comfortable chairs and accepted the
services of a dark, aloof young lady who brought them drinks in tall,
cool glasses. An orchestra played muted background music as from a
misted distance. All in all the salon was a den of pleasant relaxation.

Girls of all types and unparalleled beauty paraded constantly in the
latest words from the fashion centers of the world. Some of the fashion
designers, Toffee concluded approvingly, were given to very brief and
suggestive words. She also noted--again with approval--that most of
those in attendance were males.

"They come here to make dates with the models," the manager explained.
"But then the models come here to make dates with the men, so it's all
right. I see Congressman Bloodsop hasn't arrived yet."

Toffee leaned forward interestedly. "The congressman?" she said. "Tell
me, is this Congressman Bloodsop a man of influence? Does he have
connections in high places?"

Marc interrupted the answer. "Pick out some clothes and let's leave,"
he said impatiently. "I have to get home and start looking for Julie."

"That can wait," Toffee said airily. She turned back to Mr. Baker with
a smile. "You were saying...?"

"The congressman has the best of connections," he said. "He's only been
in office six months and he's already bilked the nation of millions."

"I see," Toffee said thoughtfully. "And if you were me and were picking
out a dress that would interest Congressman Bloodsop what kind would
you choose?"

"Something unobtrusive," the manager said. "Nothing to obscure the
view."

"I see," Toffee said. "The old gaffer has an eye out?"

"Both eyes. And so far out you could tick them off with a match."

"Something of a rounder, eh?"

"Everything of a rounder."

"Sounds almost too easy," Toffee mused.

"Here, now," Marc broke in. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," Toffee said with great innocence. "A girl likes to make a
good impression on persons of importance." She pointed to the model
across the room who was displaying, besides quite a lot of epidermis, a
dress made of a vaporish material which had been cut with an extremely
frugal hand--almost grudging. "That dress--could I have that one?"

"Oh, that's a dinger, isn't it?" the manager said approvingly. "You
might say it was practically made for Congressman Bloodsop." He brought
the model over with a nod of the head.

"Madam wishes to see the dress?" the girl asked.

"Madam wishes to see the dress on madam," Toffee said. "The sooner the
better."

"You got guts, honey," the model said. "And you'll need them, too, to
keep this thing up."

       *       *       *       *       *

The two of them adjourned to the dressing rooms and Toffee returned a
moment later, the very picture of the most recent thing in scandalous
_chic_. She joined Marc and Mr. Baker and took her place between them.

"How do you like it?" she asked Marc.

"You'd be more modest in a plastic shower curtain," Marc said. He
boosted himself forward. "Come on."

"I want to meet the congressman," Toffee said. And even as she spoke a
portly gentleman with a ruddy face and almost theatrically white hair
appeared in the entry and started forward. "And I think I'm about to."

At the manager's limp wave, Congressman Orvil Bloodsop, the
accomplished absconder of public funds, presented himself before the
company. His eyes, true to forecast, registered a lively appreciation
at the sight of Toffee. He nodded perfunctorily to Marc.

"These are some people I met in sporting goods," the manager said. "I
haven't the least idea what their names are--or if they have any at
all. They can tell you, if they think it's wise."

"What's in a name?" the congressman said with hackneyed gallantry.
He got himself a chair and wedged it deftly between Toffee's and the
manager's. "It's the ... uh ... heart that counts, eh?" He settled
himself with a snort. "I don't believe I've ever seen you around
before, dear. Where are you from?"

Toffee lowered her lashes with artful mystery. "A long way away," she
said huskily.

"Stop that," Marc said. "Stop sounding like a movie vamp with a bad
cold and come on."

"I have things to discuss with the congressman, haven't I, Congressman
Bloodsop?"

"Why, of course, dear," the congressman said, leering at the things he
hoped she referred to.

"What things?" Marc asked crudely.

"You'll see," Toffee said. "Enjoy the passing scenery." She turned back
to Congressman Bloodsop. "I hear you've got some wonderful connections."

"Some of the best, dear."

"In Washington?"

"Straight up to the President," Orvil Bloodsop boasted. "All the way
up."

"The President?" Toffee said. "Who's that?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The congressman looked at her twice to make sure she wasn't joking.
"Why the President is Lemons Flemm," he said. "You know that. But
perhaps you remember Lemons when he was a television comedian. That's
how Lemons got elected, you know.

"During campaign time Lemons' sponsor refused to give up his air time
for the candidates speeches. As a result everyone was trying to watch
Lemons and the candidates at the same time, and they got confused.
When they counted the votes, Lemons was elected.

"And he's made the most entertaining president we've ever had. Taxes
up one day and down the next. Anything for a laugh. Anything and
everything goes."

"I see," Toffee said. "This comedian, then, is at the head of the
government?"

"Right on the top of the heap. However, if any of us ever live to
see another election I doubt that Lemons will be reelected. It seems
that during the campaign there were a lot of people who thought the
candidates were a lot funnier than Lemons."

"But this Lemons Flemm is running things?"

"A mile a minute," Orvil Bloodsop nodded.

"Then if someone were in possession of a really decisive secret weapon
he'd be the man to contact, wouldn't he?"

"I doubt if he'd be interested," the congressman said. "Secret weapons
have been done to death lately. Everyone's sick of them."

"Suppose this were something that gets in there where it does the most
good and really makes itself felt?" Toffee asked anxiously.

"Something to make 'em rare back and take notice, huh?"

"Exactly."

"I see," the congressman said. "Then you're a foreign spy, aren't you,
selling out the old country? You've already said you were from far
away. Tell me, how do you like our little country?"

"Love it," Toffee said. "That's why I want so badly to meet your
President." She crossed her legs carefully, and no part of the movement
was overlooked by the congressman.

"I see," he said. "You want to get up in the world where the bidding is
high?"

"That's the idea," Toffee said. "Sort of wriggle my way into the
affairs of state, so to speak."

"Brings to mind an exciting picture," the congressman commented. "Of
course the best way to crash Washington society is to be investigated
by the Congress. You may not believe it, dear, but we've made some
of the very best international figures. But it's difficult to be
investigated, especially for a spy like yourself, with credentials and
all. That's too easy, and we have to concentrate on the more difficult
cases--our personal enemies, for instance. However, a girl with
your--uh--attributes might prove of sufficient diversion to warrant
special attention."

"This Congress," Toffee said. "What is it?"

"Oh, just a body of men."

"Really!" Toffee's interest shot ahead like an arrow discharged from a
sixty pound bow. "I would be investigated by this body of men?"

"Minutely, honey," the congressman assured her. "And from every angle."

       *       *       *       *       *

Toffee was almost beside herself with anticipation; she almost forgot
the purpose at hand. "I'll kill 'em," she said. She composed herself.
"Could you arrange to have me hauled up for investigation?"

"Well ... I wouldn't do it for just anyone, you know."

"But you would for me, wouldn't you? Don't forget; I do have a secret
weapon."

"I'm not forgetting," the congressman murmured. "No, indeed. However,
I'll have to convince the Congress that you're a substantial menace."
He was thoughtful for a moment. "I think I'll call the Congressman from
Idaho and say that you've been insulting his wife. I think something
can be worked out." He rose.

"Just a minute," Toffee said. "There's just one more thing; include my
friend, Mr. Pillsworth. Say he's been insulting Texas."

"Well...." the congressman hesitated.

"Please," Toffee cooed. "He might get his feelings hurt if we left him
out."

"Well, okay," the congressman agreed, and left.

Seeing that there was an opening, Marc edged closer. "Is the
congressman leaving?" he asked.

"He'll be right back," Toffee said pleasantly. "He's gone off to
arrange something for me."

"What?" Marc said evenly. "Just what has he gone off to arrange?"

"Oh, just a little investigation."

"What kind of an investigation?"

"He mentioned something called Congress," Toffee said. "I think it's
some kind of a club he belongs to."

"A Congressional investigation?"

"Uh-huh," Toffee nodded. "I believe those were his very words."

"Who's going to be investigated?"

Toffee smiled the sublimely innocent smile of one of heaven's nicer
angels. "Me," she announced, "and you."

"_What!_" Marc jumped to his feet as though he'd been wrenched by a
pulley. "Why you...! What did you tell that old idiot?"

"Nothing really," Toffee said. "I just told him I had a secret weapon,
and he assumed the rest. He's including you as a personal favor."

"Dear God in heaven!" Marc yelped. "Let's get out of here before he
comes back!"

"Oh, no!" Toffee cried. "I have to wait and see if he could arrange it."

"Come on!" Marc said, taking her by the arm and dragging her out of her
chair. "Where'd he go? We'll go the other way."

"I must say I don't understand your attitude," Toffee said woundedly,
following him into the entry. "After I worked like a demon to charm
the daffy old vulture...."

"_Just_ like a demon!" Marc said hotly. "_Exactly_ like a demon! You
take the words from my mouth."

"And I should dip them in cyanide and put them right back!" Toffee
said. "I suppose it hasn't penetrated your blunted intelligence that
I'm only trying to do something to help save this preposterous world of
yours."

"I see," Marc said. "You propose to save the world by ruining me.
That makes such brilliant sense it fairly blinds me." By now they
had reached the outer hallway and were covering space rapidly in the
direction of the elevators.

"I'm not going to stand for it!" Marc said testily. "And that's my
message to you." He stopped before the elevators and placed his finger
firmly to the button. "If you think I'm going to allow my life to be
governed by the noxious fermentations of that fluttering mind of
yours ... you're wrong!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Toffee parted her lips for an angry reply, but just then the door
across the hall opened, and Congressman Bloodsop appeared on the scene.
His ruddy face was wreathed with smiles.

"Ah, there you are!" he boomed expansively. "Well, the news is good
tonight. You're to be investigated tomorrow. I'm to take you into
custody right now, and there'll be a couple of government boys to
guard you. You're to stay at my home under guard tonight, and we'll
fly up to Washington in the morning for the festivities." He swayed
back on his heels in a seizure of self-appreciation. "Fast action, eh?"

"Mr. Bloodsop...!" Marc sputtered. "Mr. Bloodsop...!"

But the congressman held up a hand. "No need to thank me, boy," he
said. "It's nothing to pull a few strings for friends."

"Mr. Blood...!"

Just then the elevator doors slid back to disclose Dolly, the
impassioned wild-gamester, struggling with the stringy vagaries of an
enormous tuna net. She staggered forward and paused to disentangle a
cork float from the door latch. Then, hunched forward under her burden,
she started determinedly toward the salon.

"On the scent again already?" Toffee inquired amiably.

Dolly stopped and peered back over her muscular shoulder. "Uh-huh," she
panted. "Only this time I've got a switcheroo for the sonofagun. This
time I not only toss him into the trap but fling myself in after him."
She winked. "Get it?"

"In detail," Toffee said. She turned to Marc. "Isn't it nice to meet
a girl who knows her own mind--even when it's cracked seven ways to
Sunday?"

"You should know," Marc glowered. "You should damned well know, you
little heller."

Congressman Bloodsop's study was a mammoth vault paneled solidly with
the finest oak that purloined money could buy. It was vast-ceilinged
and set solidly at one end with leaded windows of a thousand panes.
Beyond the windows, like a magazine illustration, one could see formal
gardens softened with twilight. To Toffee's mind it fairly stank with
class.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the depths of her leather-covered chair, she lowered her coffee
cup to the table and observed the spectacle of Congressman Bloodsop
sitting like a high magistrate behind a kennel-sized mahogany desk.

"Do the guards _have_ to stay outside in the hallway?" she asked.
"Won't they be lonesome?"

"A matter of form, dear," the congressman said. "Looks good. Besides,
I've told the maid to give them tea."

Marc standing beside the fireplace stirred with agitation. "Mr.
Bloodsop...!"

The congressman raised his eyes with slow patience. "Young man," he
said evenly. "Is there something the matter with you? What is this
curious compulsion of yours to rasp my name every few minutes? If you
have something to say, say it."

"Yes, Marc," Toffee said sweetly. "Don't let the congressman think
you're dull."

Marc choked, presumably with emotion. "I only wanted to inquire just
why I can't use the telephone to try to find my wife?" he said in a
strained voice.

"Another matter of form," the congressman said. "Good heavens, man, do
you really care so much to find your wife? It's the most extraordinary
thing I've ever heard of. I must remind you that you and the young lady
now constitute a matter for official inquiry."

Marc clenched his fists tight at his sides. "Oh, Christ!" he wailed.

"At least he's shouting for someone else for a change," the congressman
said complacently. "An erratic type. Subversives usually are, though.
Next he'll be calling for Phillip Morris."

"Poor Marc," Toffee put in appealingly. "He just can't bring himself to
view the end of civilization with the same happy composure the rest of
us do. It upsets him."

"No use fighting the inevitable," the congressman said. "When the whole
country has gone gypsy, you might just as well snatch up your skirts,
so to speak, and join in the innocent merriment."

"Seems a trifle fatalistic," Toffee said. "Sometimes I rather agree
with Marc that you owe it to yourself to resist to the end ... even if
it's only an attitude. It seems more ... human ... somehow."

"Thank you for that much," Marc said with heavy irony. "At least my
attitude pleases you."

"Welcome, I'm sure," Toffee murmured, then turned back to the
congressman. "Tell me, congressman, just who is it that's going to do
all this bomb dropping anyway? I haven't heard any name mentioned yet."

       *       *       *       *       *

The congressman gazed at her. "You mean you're not really one of them,
after all? You're with another interest?"

"A private concern, you might say," Toffee said.

"Well, it's a good thing we're investigating you then," the congressman
said. "One does like to know who's killing one, you know. It gives you
a clue whom to curse with your dying breath."

"But getting back to these others," Toffee said, "who is it? What
country, I mean?"

"Why, You Know Where, of course," the congressman said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You Know Where, who else?"

"Did someone put something in my coffee," Toffee asked, "or are you
just being terribly coy about this thing?"

"I'm not being coy at all, damm-it," the congressman said. "You Know
Where is the country."

"Good grief," Toffee said, "now he's lapsing into baby talk. Very well,
congressman, if you can't bring yourself to tell me the name of the
country in a straightforward manner, perhaps you'll just mention the
man who's at the head of it. Just as a hint."

"You Know Who," the congressman said flatly.

For a long moment there was silence as Toffee gazed toward the gardens
with apparent serenity.

"All right, congressman," she said presently. "Just forget the whole
thing. Forget I even mentioned it."

"Come here," the congressman said, drawing a globe atlas forward across
his desk. "I'll show you."

Toffee got up and crossed to the desk. She followed the congressman's
finger as it swept across the United States, brushed aside the Hawaiian
Islands, and came to rest on a large country on the soiled outskirts of
Europe. Quite plainly the country was marked: YOU KNOW WHERE.

"For heaven's sake!" Toffee exclaimed. "Why, that's...!"

"Don't!" the congressman broke in frightenedly. "Don't say that name!
It's illegal. It was the government's idea that we should ignore the
country, refuse to recognize it. It was hoped that if we just didn't
speak to it any more and acted as though we didn't know it was there,
it would go away and leave us alone. The use of the name was outlawed
five years ago. Unfortunately, it's still there so we have to call it
something."

"Very shrewd," Toffee said. "Reminds one of the tactics of sulky
children. And this You Know Who, I suppose, is the head of the
government there?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The congressman reached across the desk and drew a newspaper toward
them. On the front page was the picture of an elderly man in a short
choke-collar effect. He had penetrating eyes and a drooping mustache.

"Oh," Toffee said, "you mean...!"

"You Know Who," the congressman supplied quickly.

"Of course," Toffee agreed. "Then as I see it the country is faced with
the question of whether You Know Who from You Know Where is going to
drop you know what on the USA?"

"Not whether," the congressman amended, "but when. Otherwise, you have
stated the situation in a nutshell."

"And I can't think of a better place for it either," Toffee murmured.
"Outside of a pecan pie it's the nuttiest situation I've ever heard of."

"Well," the congressman said, "there's nothing to be done about it now.
Unless, of course, your secret weapon has some bearing on the crisis.
But I doubt it. We've piled secret weapon on secret weapon and the
situation has simply worsened with each one. It's very disheartening."

"I see," Toffee reflected. "It makes a murky state of affairs. However,
if you could get people away from the idea of blowing each other up and
reduce them to the oldfashioned, intimate methods of warfare...."

"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned aggrievedly.

"Well," the congressman sighed, "he's still in the religious cycle at
least."

At that moment the door opened at the far end of the room, and a
heavy-lidded French maid appeared in the opening and leaned exhaustedly
against the sill.

"Someone smeared a French pastry on the woodwork," Toffee commented
dryly.

"I have served the gentlemen in the hall tea for three hours," the maid
sighed, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "They are the devil himself.
They play funloving games, like children." She paused and sighed again.
"Dinner is served, I presume."

The congressman boosted himself out of his chair. "I will speak to
those funloving gorillas in person," he said. He turned to Toffee. "Are
you hungry, my dear?"

"Famished," Toffee said, and looked at Marc. "And you?"

"Yeah," Marc said dolefully. "My wife is gone, my business is ruined,
my world is about to go up in smoke--but what the heck!"

He turned a sardonic eye on the congressman. "Lead on," he said.
"Play, gypsy, play!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Toffee sat down gingerly on the corner of the bed and surveyed the
congressman's best guest room with voluptuous appreciation. It was a
production in lace and rococo gilt in which the curly-cued, beflounced
bed was lost like a fireworks display in a gaudy sunset. Toffee only
regretted that such splendor, for her part, was only to be wasted.

It was not that she would not have willingly stayed the night there,
had she the choice--but she had not. Being a thought projection of
Marc's conscious mind, she would not exist in the material world when
Marc slept. She had to return to the land of his imagination until
he awoke again; then she would rematerialize wherever she chose. She
looked at the bed, imagined the roseate picture of herself amongst the
linens and laces, and sighed a sigh of regret.

She removed herself from the bed, went to the door and listened. There
were sounds; the guard was still there. The other guard would be posted
at Marc's door.

Toffee glanced at the ornamental clock on the bedstand. It was well
after midnight, and she was still in the land of reality. That meant
that Marc was still awake--and still worrying about Julie--and the
bombs.

She crossed to the bed, sat down as before, and ran her hand absently
over the lace coverlette. Something had to be done to help Marc before
he became a nerve case. It was true that she had gained the attention
of the law makers, but now it seemed that the law makers were as
irresponsible a group as one could wish for. And there might not be
much time left. Something had to be done ... something big ... and in
a hurry. If either side could be made to see the sheer idiocy of the
situation. If, for instance, You Know Where....

Suddenly Toffee stood up.

"My gosh!" she cried. "If I could only...!"

She stopped suddenly and a gasp came to her lips. Even as she did so
her very being seemed to fade a bit.

"Oh, no!" she cried. Then slowly she became more completely
materialized again; Marc had yawned. She ran to the door and threw it
open. Instantly the guard, a youngish ape in a dark suit, appeared
before her.

"Yes, miss?"

"I've got to see Mr. Pillsworth!" Toffee cried. "He's going to sleep
and he mustn't! Not yet." She started forward, but the guard stood firm.

"Sorry, miss," he said. "You're not permitted to see Mr. Pillsworth
tonight."

"But I must!" Toffee cried. "He has to stay awake until...!"

"I'm sorry, miss," the guard said, then looked at Toffee more closely.
"Aren't you feeling well, Miss? You look a trifle pale around the
gills."

"And what's worse," Toffee said, "I _feel_ pale too."

"Well," the guard said helpfully, "I saw an advertisement once about
a lady who recommended a vegetable compound very highly. Of course I
couldn't be positive but I believe the lady's name was Sylvia Pinkham,
or something of the sort. She was a very kind looking old lady...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Look," Toffee put in distractedly, "could I go to the study if you
came with me? It's terribly important."

"Well," the guard reckoned, "all right. But don't you think you ought
to lie down. This lady ... Sylvia ... seemed to think that other ladies
should lie down...."

"Blast Sylvia Pinkham," Toffee said. "And blast her compound, too. Come
on. Hurry!"

Together they hastened down the stairs. On the first floor the guard
led the way to the study and switched on the lights. He watched Toffee
with concern as she swept past him into the room.

"My, miss," he said. "You're looking paler every minute. You'll soon be
nothing more than a ghost the way you're going."

Heedless, Toffee ran to the desk. There she reached for the globe and
turned it with a hurried hand. The guard joined her curiously.

"Let's see," Toffee mused. "We're here. You Know Where is there. If you
concentrated in a straight line in that direction...."

"Miss," the guard said softly. "I'm sure Miss Sylvia Pinkham wouldn't
like it at all...."

"And I wouldn't like Miss Sylvia Pinkham at all," Toffee said shortly.
She turned back to the globe. "This must be the capital of You Know
Where, this heavy black dot over here. It is, isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss. But if you're thinking of going there, they won't let you
in, you know. There's the Brass Curtain."

"I thought it was iron," Toffee said.

"It used to be. But after a few dealings with those people everyone
decided it must be brass."

Without comment Toffee snatched up the newspaper and studied the
picture of You Know Who as though she were committing the unlovely
features to memory. Finally she set it aside and turned to the guard.

"There now," she said. "I think I've got everything fairly straight in
mind. There's just one thing. Mr. Pillsworth is going to sleep now.
Don't let him sleep too long--just a little while, then wake him up."

"Are you certain he'll want to...?" the guard began.

"Don't forget," Toffee said positively. "It's a matter of life and
death."

"Well, okay," the guard agreed. "I'll tell him you said...!"

Then, with a gasp, the poor man's voice descended down his throat with
the gritty rattle of a parcel of bones dumped into a disposal. As he
watched, shaken to the very roots of his soul, the girl by the desk
gradually faded into thin air....

       *       *       *       *       *

Dusk had come to a distant land.

Toffee stood in the formidable square and looked with disfavor on the
great concrete pilings that brooded over the clear area in the center
and isolated it from the waning light of day. Functional architecture,
with frippery--cold, grey and starkly oppressive. Very functional, like
a straight jacket, and just as pleasant to look at.

There were hardly any signs of human life. A couple of men, so grey and
so gross that they seemed only a part of the buildings around them,
lumbered down the steps of the largest and most formidable of the
structures, stopped to look at Toffee curiously, then passed on. Toffee
shrugged and turned toward the building from which they had just come.
The best way to obtain information, after all, was to ask someone for
it. And if those men had just come from the building, life must exist
inside the place in spite of appearances.

She had no more than set foot on the steps of the place, however, than
life suddenly descended upon her in a rush; two grey-uniformed guards,
seemingly patterned very closely on the physical and spiritual makeup
of the gorilla, clumped down the steps toward her with bayonets fixed.
One of them barked something that, to Toffee, had no specific meaning.
The bayonets, pointing in the vicinity of her mid-section, spoke with
great eloquence. Toffee felt keenly that the moment called for a
disarming smile.

"Don't be silly, boys," she said with arch modulation. "There's no
occasion for manly demonstrations."

There was a sputtered, incoherent exchange between the two,
interspersed with moments of silence which allowed them time to stare
in open-mouthed wonderment at the lightly-swathed redhead before them.
Toffee listened to this for what seemed the proper social interval,
then started determinedly forward. The bayonets, however, thrust a
little closer, took all the verve and sweep out of the gesture.

"Now, kids," Toffee said, "I don't want to have to get rough with
you." And so saying she reached out, delicately parted the bayonets,
and passed between them. Their owners, obviously unused to this
open flaunting of the sword, turned to stare after her in petrified
astonishment. After a stunned silence, there ensued a growl-and-spit
interchange of thought on the matter.

Though Toffee had no way of knowing it, one aborigine inquired of the
other if they were eye to eye in the opinion that they were seeing
things. The other replied in the affirmative, adding that if it were
not illegal to entertain such notions, he might venture that they had
just been bypassed by an angel from heaven. Of course, since everyone
knew that heaven and angels did not exist, the notion was silly.

"Nothing descends from heaven but bombs," his companion observed with
native starkness. "The Great Leader has said it is so."

"Then it is so, and we are only the victims of a delusion."

Shrugging their massive shoulders they returned to their posts and
hoped for the best.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside the building Toffee found herself confronted by a wide foyer
from which innumerable corridors stretched away in all directions.
Guards of a similar stamp to those who had accosted her on the steps
literally infested the place, two to the corridor. They seemed so
much a part of the sombre decor, however, that Toffee did not notice
them at once. She had proceeded nearly to the center of the room
before, overtaken by a certain feeling of uneasiness, she stopped and
reconnoitered.

As she glanced around, the walls began to bristle with bayonets. She
appraised this nasty state of affairs with concern and decided to adopt
the policy of the congressman and his colleagues. A song on her lips,
if not in her heart, she fixed her eyes straight ahead on the center
corridor and resumed nonchalantly in that direction--perhaps if she
pretended that these bayoneted orangoutangs were beneath her notice
they might go away and leave her alone. They didn't appear to be the
friendly, informative type anyway.

For one brief moment it seemed that the ruse, by dint of sheer
boldness, was going to work. Toffee was almost to the corridor when one
of the benumbed guards suddenly began to vocalize in an overwrought
fashion. In a voice that slammed against the vaulted ceiling like
a trumpet blast he shouted something that sounded loosely like,
"Gamnovitch!" His tone did not convey the feeling of warm welcome.
Toffee, sizing the situation up as the sort that only comes to a head
with delay, bolted.

She darted into the corridor and kept going at a pace that utilized her
lovely legs to the utmost. A noisy clatter from the rear, however, told
her that she was not in the sprint just for exercise. She renewed her
efforts. Then suddenly stopped.

It wasn't so much that the corridor terminated in a huge doorway only
a few yards ahead--though that was bad news enough--the real thing was
that before the door there stood not two but four enormous guards,
supplied like the others with those ugly weapons. The guards and Toffee
caught sight of each other simultaneously, but the really filthy part
of it was that the surprise element in the incident shoved the guards
into action while it only held Toffee motionless.

       *       *       *       *       *

Toffee needed no one to tell her she was about to be surrounded.
"I _would_ have to get into this place," she sighed. "It must be
a barracks for guards." She watched with resignation as the bulky
bayoneters formed a prickly circle around her. She chose the most
likely-looking of her captors and smiled enchantingly into his sub-ugly
face. But the favored one only reciprocated with a small jabbing
gesture which was enthusiastically picked up and elaborated upon by
his companions. Toffee was the first to realize that the situation was
climbing toward that state which is often described as 'serious.'

"Look out, you lumbering oafs," she said hotly. "You could play hell
with a lady's dainties with that sort of thing."

She considered her ring and the hoard of armed brutes around her; there
were too many of them to deal with effectively. The situation called
for help, and Toffee took her cue from the situation; though she didn't
know the language she was willing to kick it around a bit.

"Helpovitch!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Helpovitch!"

The result that followed was as instantaneous as it was unexpected. No
sooner had Toffee's voice split the air of the hallway than the guards
froze where they were and stared at her in a transfix of horror. Toffee
hadn't the faintest notion of what she had said but she was awfully
glad to have said it.

Experimentally she made a movement; the guards remained still. She
stepped out of the circle, and one of the guards made a small movement
of protest.

"Helpovitch, you rat," Toffee said. "You heard me."

The guard remained motionless.

Toffee paused, selected the door at the end of the hall as her
destination, and went rapidly toward it. As she drew abreast of it,
it opened just a crack and an ear presented itself in the opening.
Apparently someone had been disturbed by the noise in the hall. Toffee
leaned forward and placed her mouth close to the ear.

"Helpovitch," she whispered.

There was a moment, then the ear shuddered delicately, after which
it turned red and withdrew quickly from sight. Here, Toffee realized,
was the sort of ear that responded to a firm hand. She shoved the
door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind her. Then she turned
about--and stopped short.

       *       *       *       *       *

It wasn't so much the room which, large and marbled, was a gasping
matter all in itself--but the room's occupant; the ear had been
misleading for its owner was none other than You Know Who himself.
Between the Great Leader and Toffee there wasn't much to choose for
goggle-eyed surprise. Toffee, however, was the first to recover from
the encounter.

"Well," she said, "just the old villain I'm looking for!"

The Great Leader, his eyes retreating back into their sockets, set
his mustache atremble with a great sucking breath and launched into a
series of resonant sounds.

"Knock it off," Toffee commanded. "You're making a fog in here.
Besides, I can't understand a word of that juicy jazz."

"So!" the Leader exploded. "Who iss? How you got har, hah?"

"Well," Toffee murmured relievedly, "at least you can speak
English--using the language loosely, that is."

"How come you har, hey?" the Leader insisted truculently. "Why not
soldiers kill you forst?"

"They had it in mind," Toffee said, "but I just said 'helpovitch' to
them, and they dropped the whole thing."

"Vooman!" the Leader gasped. "You say soch dorty vord it is only
sooprise soldiers do not drop teeth along with thing!" He waved his
hand. "Go vay, dorty gorl! Screm!"

"For Pete's sake!" Toffee said. "What does the word mean?"

"Don't ask!" the Leader gasped, throwing up his hands. "You make me
drop whole thing, too! Go vay or I call soldiers and tall tham shoot
you all over--oop!--down!" He started toward the door. "Tarrible gorl!"

"Hold it, Cecil," Toffee said. "You touch that door and I'll pull off a
shindig that'll make you sad all over."

The Leader stopped and regarded her uncertainly. "You American vooman
spy, hah?" he demanded. "You think you smart. Vell, you be dad soon,
vhat you think, hay?"

"I think you're going to be reasonable and do what I say, hey," Toffee
answered firmly. "Either that or you're going to get the surprise of
your life."

"Who iss you anyway?"

"An avenging angel," Toffee said. "That'll do for now."

"Nonsanse!" the Leader snorted. "No soch thing angel. Anyvay, angel
vould not say dorty vords, make soldiers drop things."

"Okay," Toffee said, "so I'm no angel. You're right there, pop. But I'm
avenging, and don't you forget it."

       *       *       *       *       *

A new thought crossed the seething mind of the Leader. "You know who
you talk to so mean?"

"Sure, Mac," Toffee said. "I know you."

"Than I tall you drop dad, you gotta do it, hah?"

"Huh-uh," Toffee said, shaking her head. "And let's have no more sass
about killing people. Now let's get down to brass doorpulls...."

But just at that moment the soldiers outside not only got down to
doorpulls, but pulled them: the room began to swarm.

"If I'd knew you were coming," Toffee said, "I'd have baked a snake."
Nevertheless, she retreated warily. The guards paused uncertainly
before her and started babbling among themselves.

"Now!" the Leader said triumphantly.

But Toffee pointed imperiously to the gabby guards. "What are those
birds saying about me?" she demanded. "I've got a right to know."

The Leader paused to listen, then nodded with comprehension.

"Forst man say he think you foreign spy because you look nothing like
voomans from this country. Other man say he's right because if you var
from here you vould haf thick lags like his wife who iss von big slob.
Forst man say he can say that again for his vife who iss so big slob
you gotta say it twice to describe her." The Leader paused to consider
this exchange and suddenly smote his brow. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Now
iss clear! You deganerate product of America sant har to make men
unrastful with slobbish female population. So!"

"It's a side-line I hadn't thought of," Toffee said and smiled
engagingly at the guards. "But if you think it'll work...."

"Iss no good you viggle around and look saxy," the Leader put in
sullenly. "You gonna get shot good, you deganerate boopsy daisy." He
turned to the guards and shouted an order which had but one meaning in
any language. The men instantly formed a single rank with mechanical
precision and raised their rifles toward Toffee, albeit with a certain
gleam of reluctance in their eyes.

"Now you gonna gat it," the Leader said.

But Toffee only smiled. "I've told you," she said, "I'm an avenging
angel. And we angels are practically indestructible."

"Ve see," the Leader snorted. "So!" He turned to the guards and barked
an order that touched off a confusion of explosion and gun smoke.
In the moment that ensued, as the smoke settled, there was a tense
silence. This was followed by a many-throated cry of alarm.

Toffee, still smiling, and completely unscathed, stepped lightly
through the screen of smoke and presented herself to the company at
large.

"What would you like for an encore?" she asked.

She did not bother, of course, to explain that she could not possibly
be destroyed as long as Marc's mind held the image of her as a live
being. She would always be just as Marc imagined her and he quite
evidently was not thinking of her as dead at the moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

As she moved forward, the guards took a faltering step backwards. Then,
as a man, they turned and fled the room, slamming the door after them.

Toffee shrugged lightly, turned and gazed about. The Leader was no
longer in evidence. She paused to consider briefly, then crossed to the
large desk in the center of the room, and bent down to peer underneath.

"You may as well come out," she said. "I see you."

The Leader's head appeared apprehensively in the opening. "Go vay," he
said. "Vhy you not dad? You crazy?"

"Crawl out of there, Sam," Toffee commanded. "Loosen that tight collar
of yours and get set for a lesson in future history. You can frolic
about on the floor later."

Slowly the great man emerged and stood before her. Toffee's refusal to
die or even get decently dented had shaken him to the very foundations.
Furtively he eyed the bullet-scarred wall.

"Shame," Toffee said. "You've been naughty, Jasper. Sit down."

He did as he was told, looking as though he might burst into tears at
any moment. "Vhy you not dad lak hangnail?" he insisted. "You got an
iron gordle?"

"I simply can't be killed," Toffee said. "I just can't seem to bring
myself around to a serious frame of mind about guns and knives and that
sort of trash. Which leads me to the problem at hand. I've got a plan
for you, kiddo, and though it won't take five years, we've got to shake
a leg." She glanced at the row of buttons and the speaker on the desk.
"You know what you're going to do?"

"No," the Leader said warily. "Vhat?"

"You're going to start pressing those buttons, one at a time, from
right to left. You're going to talk to all the big shots wired to those
buttons and you're going to order the country demobilized, tonight."

"Hah?" the Leader said. "And since vhen?"

"Right now," Toffee said. "You are going to have every bomb and every
facility for making bombs blown to dust in the cool of the night. Every
piece of live ammunition in the country is going to be laid to rest.
By your order. So get busy and start having the danger areas cleared."

The Leader only stared at her in blinking disbelief.

"Voop!" he burped with deep emotion.

"And what is the meaning of that remark?" Toffee asked.

"Means you iss goofy. Means you got bats in the bonnet."

"And you're going to have ants in the pants if you don't start
pressing your moist little finger to those buttons." Toffee eyed him
humorlessly. "Are you going to start pressing or aren't you? You've had
the word."

"I'm waste no more time talking foolish with dorty, saxy dame like
you," the Leader said petulantly. He got up and started determinedly
toward the door. "I call new guards and have them carry you avay."

"I warned you," Toffee said, raising her hand tentatively. "You'll
regret it."

       *       *       *       *       *

But the Leader, unintimidated, continued toward the door. He had just
reached out to open it when Toffee brought her hand down quickly over
the face of the ring. Events proceeded according to expectations.

[Illustration: As Toffee aimed the magic ring, You Know Who suddenly
sprawled across the desk with a howl of pained surprise!]

"Halpovitch!" the Leader screamed, and plumped down heavily on the
floor. "Oi!" Following the pattern of his forerunners he slapped his
hands to his bottom and hugged himself into a knot of pulsating agony.
A stream of highly charged verbiage sullied the air.

"You kick me in restricted, top secret area!" he wailed.

"Not exactly," Toffee said. "Though it's a shame. So many people have
longed to." She moved closer to her distressed victim. "Going to start
punching buttons? If you do I'll take the heat off."

"No!" the Leader gritted pettishly. "I ponch you in nose!"

"I see," Toffee said. "Suppose I call those guards back in here and let
them see you like this? In no time at all the news will get around that
the Great Leader has gone off his rocker and is snapping at his own
bottom like a beagle after ham hock. A fine laughing stock you'll make,
won't you?"

"No!" the Leader pleaded. "No! Oh, soch a pain!"

"Then suppose we have a little friendly cooperation around here?"

"Hokay!" the Leader cried. "I can't stand it no longer!"

Toffee made a pass at the ring and the Leader, after a moment of
adjustment, arose.

"How you do soch rotten thing?" he asked.

"You haven't got all the secret weapons," Toffee said. "That's one your
agents missed. Now hop to it and start thumbing those discs."

Shaking his head which was heavy with disillusion, the Leader made
his way shakily to the desk. He looked at Toffee, then reached for the
first of the buttons.

"Don't double cross me," Toffee said, raising her hand. "If you do
you'll writhe in agony for the rest of your days."

"Hokay," the Leader said and pressed the button. A moment later a voice
answered distantly.

"Halpovitch!" the Leader yelled at the top of his lungs. Instantly
Toffee made the necessary gesture, and for the second time the great
man assumed the position, placing his equipment as he went. He was
moaning low in every sense of the word.

"I warned you," Toffee said. "Trickery will get you nothing but a pain
in the terminus."

"All right!" the Leader groaned. "Stop it! I poosh buttons! I poosh 'em
twice apiece! I do what you say like a liddle lamb."

Toffee manipulated the ring, and again the Leader picked himself up
from the floor. "Let's stop this horseplay," she said, "and get going."

"Horseplay!" the Leader exclaimed, advancing his finger to the buttons.
"Horses vhat play mean like you should be on the backs of postage
stamps."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was nearly an hour later when the Leader released the last button
and sagged back in his chair, a broken man.

"Iss all," he said. "You have louse up averything. They all say I am
insane, but they gonna do it anyhow 'cause I tell 'em, the dumbells.
Over-regimented, they are, like a lot of stupid machines."

Toffee glanced out the window at the now-darkened square. "The
fireworks should be starting soon, if they're as efficient as you say."
She turned back to the Leader. "Is there any way to get to the top of
this pile of concrete where we'll have a better view?"

"Opp stairs, sure," the Leader said dully. "Who vants to see?"

"Come on," Toffee said. "This is going to be _worth_ seeing, all that
advanced gun powder going up in smoke."

"Hokay," the Leader agreed brokenly. "Who cares now?"

Toffee watched him carefully as he opened a drawer in the desk and slid
his hand inside. It was a moment before he extracted a large bottle of
vodka.

"For the medicinal purposes only," he explained ruefully. "And I am the
sick buckeroo of them all."

Toffee smiled. "Let's get to the top, pop," she said amiably. "Let's
tie one on."

       *       *       *       *       *

Though it occurred miles away, the explosion shook even the solid
foundations of the capitol building. Toffee and the leader watched with
awe as the whole world, it seemed, suddenly screamed with white fire.
The Leader was forced to cling to Toffee for support, and Toffee clung
to the bottle strictly as a precaution.

"Beautiful," Toffee breathed as the building ceased to shudder. "It's
beautiful to see all that death and destruction destroying itself.
Makes you think of those scorpions who sting themselves in the neck
when they're mad."

And if the explosions constituted an item of beauty for Toffee, the
night was filled to overflowing with the gaudy stuff. The explosions,
near and far, continued through the night. Toffee and the despairing
Leader sat on the edge of a functional parapet and toasted each new
blast with vodka and conflicting emotions.

Below them people churned bewilderedly in the streets like a rising and
falling tide. A faint thread of dawn touched the horizon just as the
last explosion shuddered across the land.

"Iss all," the Leader mourned soddenly. "All iss gone. You haf made me
a tired old man."

"That's all you ever were," Toffee said almost kindly. "You were
foolish to try to be anything else." She patted him on the head with
groggy sympathy. "I've got a feeling I've got to be running along now.
But there's just one more thing before I go...."

"Iss all. Iss all," the Leader moaned. "Iss no more."

"No, not that. All I want to know is what does helpovitch mean?"

The old man lolled his head to one side and looked at her lopsidedly
from the corner of his eye. "Iss native slang vord meaning 'democracy.'
Iss very dorty vord."

And then, as his beautiful tormentor vanished into thin air, he toppled
from his perch on the wall and sprawled flat on his back.

The enemy, a bottle cradled protectively in his arms, had fallen....

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc had fought the battle against sleep to the last ditch, and there
had tripped and fallen squarely into the waiting arms of Morpheus.
The sounds, the drone and buzz of Congress, swirled away into limbo
and mercifully died. Marc was no longer among those present at the
ridiculous investigation.

The only way Marc had been able to go to sleep the previous night was
to take as many sleeping tablets as possible, and then a couple more.
When Congressman Bloodsop had managed finally to awaken him and to tell
him of Toffee's disappearance, it was a long while before he was able
to appraise the situation rightly; that Toffee had simply transferred
her activities to some other seat of operations, so to speak. Then,
once this had soaked into his benumbed brain, it occurred to him that
it constituted an ideal state of affairs. With the volatile redhead
out of the picture there was an even chance that he would be able to
extricate himself from the mess she had created for him and find his
way back to Julie.

To accomplish this end he had only to stay awake so that Toffee could
not put in an untimely appearance--no mean accomplishment considering
the sleeping tablets fermenting in his system. Now he contributed to
the congressional activities with a resonant snore.

"And do you persist, Mr. Pillsworth, in the absurd assertion that you
did not aid in the escape of the young woman known as Toffee? _Mr.
Pillsworth!_"

Marc stirred and opened his eyes as his name penetrated his awareness.

"Eh?" he yawned, then sat up abruptly as a current of horror flashed
up his spine. What chilled him more than the reproving tone and the
baleful eye was the realization that he had been asleep. He glanced
away from the fuming chairman and subjected the room to a wary search.
It was on the return sweep that his most awful expectations burst
abloom. Toffee, looking for all the world like an abandoned torch
singer on the corner of a piano, was sitting on the outer edge of the
podium, one hand poised rakishly on a well-curved hip. She surveyed
the assemblage with unmistakable disappointment. Throughout the room
several hot games of tick-tack-toe were summarily abandoned as grey,
greying, bald and balding heads snapped back in uncharacteristic
attitudes of attention. The members of Congress, acting sharply against
precedent, sat up and took note of the business at hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since no one else spoke, Toffee took the initiative. "So this is a body
of men, is it?" she sneered. "I've seen better bodies on Model T's."

The Chair eyed her with a definite lack of warmth.

"My dear young woman," the Chair said, glaring coldly through his
glasses. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm here to be investigated," Toffee said, jauntily crossing her legs.
"Get out the tape measure and heave to."

Marc pressed his hands to his temples and sank lower in his seat.

"What!" the Chair said. "You're the young woman known as Toffee?"

"The same," Toffee said complacently. "The very same."

"How did you get there on the stand all of a sudden?"

"Ask me no questions," Toffee said, "and you'll reduce the lie
expectancy by at least fifty percent."

Marc's forlorn moan was lost as the Chair cleared his throat. He
flicked a pencil in Marc's direction. "Take your place over there with
your confederate, please."

"Sure," Toffee said. Abandoning her perch, she leaped lightly to the
floor and shoved off in Marc's direction, pausing on the way to pat
Congressman Bloodsop on the head. The congressman winked at her,
withdrew the pocket flask which had been affixed to his mouth and wiped
his lips genteelly on the back of his hand.

"Government," Toffee observed, settling herself happily at Marc's side,
"is much the same the world over--full of medicinal purposes."

"Why did you have to show up now?" Marc asked sourly. "They'd have
called the whole thing off in another few minutes."

"That's what I like," Toffee said, patting his hand, "a rousing welcome
from the one you left behind."

Marc withdrew his hand frigidly and resisted a yawn. "Now we're right
back in the same old soup."

Toffee scanned the Congress with a sweeping glance. "Don't tell me
you're afraid of this collection of old nincompoops?" she scoffed.

She pointed to a bemused, bald-pated individual across the way who was
engaged to the last nerve in the business of engraving a pierced heart
in the top of the table in front of him. Across from this exhibit sat a
lank citizen who was quietly strumming a guitar and chanting a ballad
which had to do with a lonesome cowboy whose horse was dead, house was
burned, well was dry, range was barren, and he himself was suffering
from pernicious anemia--which individual, nonetheless, wished to assure
his faithless sweetheart that she was not to worry for a minute that
his affairs were anything other than tickety-boo and that he would
'git' along somehow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc observed these examples of high-minds-at-work with a wry face.
"That's just the trouble," he grieved, "they're completely irrational.
Heaven knows what they might take a fancy to do to us. Your entrance
didn't help any, you know."

"Nonsense," Toffee said. "They're just a bunch of harmless children."

"So harmless," Marc snorted, "they've danced the whole nation right
down the path to extinction."

"Oh, that," Toffee said, smiling secretively. "I wouldn't worry about
that. I wouldn't waste the time."

"Oh, you wouldn't, wouldn't you?" Marc said annoyedly. "Well, let me
remind you, Miss Cotton Brain, that you're subject to the laws of
extinction just as much as the rest of us. When I die you go with me,
you know, and after the way you've messed up my final hours I will
consider it a pleasure to perish just to get even with you. I will
laugh as the bombs come crashing down on my roof."

"You're doing me a terrible injustice," Toffee said.

At this point their conversation was abruptly concluded by a heavy
rapping from the Chair.

"The Chair addresses the young woman known as Toffee."

"If I'm known as Toffee," Toffee snapped, "then call me Toffee. Stop
making me sound like some loose-moraled hussy slinging her hips around
in a Klondike saloon."

"Just remain seated," the Chair said severely, "and speak into the
microphone on the table. There are some questions for you to answer
before we proceed."

Toffee eyed the Chair with raised eyebrows. "Okay," she said. "Shoot."
She turned to Marc. "Stop nudging me."

"First of all," the Chair said. "Please make a statement of your
political affiliations."

"Political affiliations?" Toffee said, completely bewildered. "If you
mean have I ever had anything to do with politicians, I haven't. I
might as well say that I think all politicians are a bunch of bums."
She turned again to Marc. "Are you ill, dear? Why are you making that
awful choking noise?"

Marc repeated the awful choking noise, and the Chair rattled for
attention. The Chair also glowered through its glasses.

"What the committee wants to know is which political philosophy do you
embrace?"

"None of them," Toffee said. "I wouldn't touch any of them with a
pole, much less clasp them to my bosom as you suggest. Aren't you
getting a little lewd with all this talk about embracing?"

"Let's put it another way," the Chair said with strained patience. "Of
which nation are you a citizen?"

"Why, none of them, of course," Toffee said. "Not that they wouldn't
have me, you understand...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Precisely at this point a door behind the Chair burst open, and a
small, musty individual in shirt sleeves hurled himself into the room.

"It's come!" he piped. "It's come!"

"Has someone been praying for rain?" Toffee asked innocently.

The Chair rattled frenziedly. "Just what is it that's important enough
to justify this outburst?"

"The news!" the little man jibbered. "I was working down in the
Intelligence Department just now...."

"I wondered where they keep all the intelligence around here," Toffee
said. "I didn't know they had a department for it."

"Shut up, can't you?" Marc hissed. "You've made enough enemies already
to last us out a lifetime."

"You Know Where!" the little man screeched. "You Know Where!"

A murmur of apprehension moved through the room.

"They've attacked?" the Chair asked quickly. "Has the attack begun?
Speak up, man!" Then without waiting for a reply, he turned to the
gathering at large. "I will now lead you all in prayer."

"No!" the little man cried. "No, no!"

"You don't want us to pray, you nasty little atheist?"

"No!" the little man cried. "Yes! I don't care! But there isn't any
attack! There isn't going to be one! You Know Where was demobilized
last night. It's a positive miracle! Our agents report rumors about a
religious revival going on there. Everyone is talking about an angel
with red hair who appeared to the Leader and...."

Marc turned sharply to Toffee with the look of a man who has just been
stung by a bee.

"You...!"

"Uh-huh," Toffee said. "We had quite a romp last night, the Leader and
I." She spoke through a pandemonium of cheering, crashing bottles and
mad guitar music.

"Oh, bury me not on the lone prar-ee!" the lanky Congressman chortled
besottedly. "Where the coyotes howl 'cause there's no whisk-ee!"

The Chair added to the din in behalf of a moment of silence and
received just a moment.

"Let's knock off for the day," a voice yelled, "and get drunk!"

"We did that yesterday," the Chair said. "We have to think of
appearances once in a while, you know. Besides, this new development
puts a whole new face on things. It calls for action."

"What about me?" Toffee yelled. "I insist on being investigated."

"Please be quiet, young woman," the Chair said. "You're no longer
needed here."

"Thank heavens!" Marc sighed. "Come on, let's leave."

"Certainly not," Toffee said. "I have other business to take care of."

"Oh, no!" Marc cried, and slumped exhaustedly into his chair. "I'm too
tired for any more!"

"We must realize," the Chair was saying, "that an opportunity has
been placed in our hands. The enemy is helpless. _Now is the time to
strike!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a pause while this sank in, and then the cheering and
rough-housing began again with greater vigor.

"Rickety-rax!" One vaporish congressman giggled, slipping limply from
his chair to the floor. "Rickety-rax! Give 'em the axe!"

A colleague at his right launched a squadron of paper darts into the
air as the guitarist twanged away at an off-key rendition of the _Air
Corps Song_. This musical interlude, however, came to an unhappy end
as the gentleman across the table, finishing the pierced heart with a
flourish, picked up an inkwell and emptied it into the bowels of the
instrument. There was a splintering crash as the donner received his
contribution, guitar and all, across the crown of his head. Undaunted,
the man rose from his seat and launched into a lamentable imitation of
Jolson doing a mammy song.

"We'll kill 'em!" the cry went up. "We'll give it to 'em in the teeth,
the dirty, yella, murderin' rats!"

"Gentlemen!" the Chair pleaded. "Gentlemen! Your enthusiasm and
patriotic spirit is commendable. But let's be constructive about this
thing. _Let's declare war!_"

Toffee and Marc, who had been watching this display with rising
emotion, got to their feet simultaneously.

"Now just a minute!" Toffee yelled. "Just a minute, you tramps!"

"Precisely," Marc said, steadying himself against the table. "Just a
minute."

But their protest was unheard in the din of the merry-making.

"I can see," Toffee said, lifting her hand, "that the time is due to
take measures."

"For once," Marc said, "I'm with you one hundred percent." He moved to
her side in a limp gesture of staunch support, blinking drowsily.

Toffee eyed the revelling law makers with a selective eye. Her gaze
fell to two rotund parties who, their arms clasped about each other's
shoulders, were dancing a polka in the aisle. As one of the bulbous
rears swiveled in her direction, she let go. It was a direct hit on the
target.

With a searing cry the erstwhile dancer unclasped his partner and
doubled over, his chops aquiver with an emotion too great for
expression.

His partner, at first taken aback, eyed this inexplicable development
with bleary gloom. Then he beamed with happy understanding.

"Leap frog!" he yelled joyously. "Hey, fellas! Leap frog!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The rush for the aisle was instantaneous and enthusiastic. As the
playful congressmen lined up for the game, Toffee leaped to the top of
the table and assumed a firing stance. Taking careful aim as the first
gamester wheezed up the aisle and boosted himself aloft over the back
of his suffering brother, she executed a neat wing shot which dropped
her victim into place with a convulsion of shocked pain.

"Fish in a barrel," Toffee said gleefully.

"Good," Marc said, coming momentarily awake. "There! Get that gaffer on
the rise!"

And another congressman doubled in mid-air and came to earth with a
rasp on his lips.

"Stacking up nicely, eh?" Toffee said. "Makes a neat exhibit, all of
them in a row like that."

The sport continued apace. It wasn't long before the aisle was lined
from end to end with tortured congressmen who moaned and wailed like
lost souls taking hell's post grad course. Texas, naturally, made the
loudest noise.

"Here, now!" he blurted. "What's going on here? What do you fellows
think you're doing; you look like a lot of distressed cats who've found
cement in the sand box. It doesn't look at all nice. I'm surprised at
you, Maine, for being mixed up in this sort of thing. You, too, South
Dakota. Young woman, why are you standing on that table?"

"When I go to the circus," Toffee said, "I like to see everything. I
wouldn't want to miss this for the world."

"I thought I told you to go home. The Congress has finished with you."

"But have I finished with the Congress?" Toffee said. "That's what I
ask myself."

"Get out!" the Chair cried, definitely beginning to show cracks about
the outer surface. "Please go home. Please!"

"I'm afraid I can't," Toffee said. She nodded significantly toward
the convulsed members. "I'd hate to go and leave so much unfinished
business behind. Or should I say so much behind, unfinished business?"

"Do you mean to say that you are in some way responsible for that
repellent demonstration in the aisle?"

"I take the credit proudly," Toffee said. "Remember, I said I had a
secret weapon? However, I must say that Mr. Pillsworth, here, has given
me all sorts of moral support."

"Thank you," Marc said with composure. "Glad to be associated with any
enterprise of a worthwhile nature. I'm a real sucker for these toney
clambakes."

"Toney!" The Chair snorted in outrage. "I suppose you are able to undo
this disgraceful state of affairs?"

"Oh, quite," Toffee smiled. "In a twinkling. But I wonder if I really
want to."

"You must," the Chair said distractedly. "With all that moaning and
groaning going on down there I can't hear myself think."

"Heaven only knows why you should want to," Marc said, "with your
dwarfed powers of reasoning."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Quiet!" the Chair snapped. "Young lady, I'm telling you to release
those men from whatever unattractive thing is ailing them. That's a
congressional order!"

"Okay," Toffee said. "But with one stipulation."

"And what is that, may I ask?"

"That you follow the example of You Know Where--and follow it to the
last bomb and factory."

"What! Are you actually suggesting that we demobilize the country?"

"I'm telling you now," Toffee said earnestly. "And I'm telling you to
do it immediately. Get religion, brother."

"I see," the Chair said quietly. His hand moved cautiously toward an
alarm button.

"I'm sorry," Toffee murmured, "but I haven't time to waste on any more
guards." She lifted her hand, made the necessary motion, and the Chair
departed his moorings with a leap that sent his glasses sailing off
into the air.

"Murder!" he screamed, and crashed back into his seat in a fit of acute
discomfort.

"Well," Marc sighed. "Fair's fair. These boys have been giving everyone
else that localized pain for years. Now they're just getting a shot of
their own medicine. By the way, what happened to that little man from
Intelligence?"

"He's in with the congressmen," Toffee said.

Dusting her hands lightly, she turned away just in time to see a door
swing open to permit the pompous entrance of several over-costumed and
over-decorated individuals who had obviously played the army and navy
game with the right set of loaded dice.

One, however, stood ahead of and apart from the others. He glittered
and shone with all the bogus brilliance of a dime store jewelry
counter. From the peak of his duck-tailed blonde hair to the tips of
his two-toned shoes--passing quickly over his rust-red jacket and
lemon yellow trousers--he was the absolute end and final gasp in
well-upholstered commercial entertainers. As he stood impressively
in the doorway his shirt front added the final touch of elegance by
lighting up with the classical quote: Kiss Me Quick!

"Good night!" Marc said. "President Flemm! And the heads of the War
Department!"

       *       *       *       *       *

As Toffee gazed on this fine new catch, whole vistas of fresh
achievement spread themselves before her. "Hail! Hail!" she said. "Deck
the halls with poison ivy!"

The President, having had his little joke, had since fallen into
a mood for a bit of tribute from what he considered his official
flunkies--or straight men. As he waited for the Congress to rise in
his honor--without result--an expression of petulance swept over his
features. It wasn't as though they weren't aware of his presence; he
made himself known surely. Then why didn't the clods snap into it?

He stepped imperiously to the head of the aisle, from whence there
issued low sounds of displeasure and suddenly, with a start, found
himself faced with a shattering view of a whole row of upturned
bottoms.

"Here, now!" he exclaimed. "What sort of greeting is this? If you
men have some personal criticism to make against me there must be a
nicer way of expressing it!" He swung about to the Chair. "Just who is
responsible for this insulting...!"

The words jammed together in his throat at the sight of the Chair whose
sightless eyes peered down at him with every evidence of complete
loathing. He seemed to snarl. In fact, as the President watched, the
Chair actually did bare his fangs and snarl.

"Now, just a minute!" the President cried, taken aback. "Maybe we do
have our little differences now and again, but there's no need to
get obstreperous about it. Now stop slavering at the mouth in that
extraordinary way and tell those old fools in the aisle to turn around
right end up."

The Chair only snarled again.

"Oh, very well," the President said coolly. "If that's the attitude you
want to take...."

"I don't think you're really going to get anywhere with him," Toffee
put in mildly.

The President whirled about. "And who are you?"

"You might say I'm in charge here," Toffee said. "My friend and I. I
think you'll discover that the Congress is suffering from shock--in a
way." She nodded to the Chair. "With that one, it's something I said."
The big brass crowded in curiously from the rear and ogled Toffee with
enormous appreciation. "Oddly, you are just the group I've been waiting
to see. I've been wanting to tell you that the time has come for you to
demobilize the nation--unload all that high-powered ammunition before
it goes off and hurts someone."

The President merely stared at her for a moment. Then he shook his
head. "Wouldn't get a big enough laugh," he said.

"I take it you are replying in the negative?" Toffee asked.

"You got it, sis," the President said with his customary dignity.
"Besides, just where do you get off telling me the time? Who signed you
up for the act?"

"Allow me to present my credentials," Toffee said, and raised her hand.
"You'll get a kick out of this."

       *       *       *       *       *

A moment later President Flemm, quite to his own surprise, added
acrobatic dancing to his list of talents. Toffee, aware that important
persons required her best efforts, added a shot to the President's
neck, having already administered to the more logical location.

President Flemm's fine tenor assailed the air with ear-splitting
clarity, as his companions edged away in terror. Clutching alternately
at his neck and his rear, the man leaped about like a fan dancer
deprived of her feathers before a meeting of young business executives.
The President gave the performance of a man who was torn in his very
soul.

"Think that'll get a laugh?" Toffee asked. And then, lest the
President desired companions, she quickly added the efforts of the War
Department. The effect was engaging in a primitive sort of way, though
there was a great deal of clanking and crashing of brass on brass.

"Any time you gentlemen decide to sit one out," Toffee said, "just let
me know. There are plenty of telephones handy with which to spread the
good news."

She and Marc retreated to the steps in front of the podium, picking up
an abandoned bottle on the way. Toffee settled back comfortably and
indulged in a long draft.

"Hey," Marc said, "you might leave a swallow for me. I'm the one who
needs the stimulant, you know."

Toffee handed him the bottle, and for a moment they sat silent
listening dreamily to the sounds of gnashing teeth and grunted curses
that filled the air about them. Marc looked over to where the President
and his cronies had fallen into a stupor of misery.

"Looks like the government has collapsed," he observed drowsily. "I
might say it has a pain in its brass."

Even as he spoke, the President lifted an enfeebled hand and beckoned
to them. "I think the President wishes a word with us."

"Isn't it thrilling," Toffee said, "meeting all these important people
on such intimate terms?" She tilted the bottle again. "Let's toddle
over and see what the old comic wants."

"This is excruciating!" the President panted as they approached.
"You've got to stop it; it's unbearable."

"Now you know how people felt about your jokes," Toffee said. "I take
it you're on the verge of capitulation?"

"Over the verge," the President grunted weakly. "Huh, fellas?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Four sets of clenched teeth bobbed up and down behind him, accompanied
by the plaintive rattle of metal.

"Good show, men," Toffee said. "That's using the old heads. Follow me
to the telephones the best way you can and start the wires singing--my
tune, of course."

Half an hour later Toffee and Marc let themselves out of the room by
the back way and walked along the corridor toward the street.

"I'm hungry as an abandoned babe," Toffee said.

Marc regarded her from beneath drooping eyelids. "I don't know if I
can stay awake long enough to feed you," he said. Then he stopped and
nodded worriedly back the way they'd come. "Are you sure you ought to
leave them all groaning around in there like that?"

"Until after the fireworks tonight," Toffee said. "When it comes to
backing out on your word those boys could face to the rear and win
the Olympic races without straining a nerve. Besides, suffering has a
cleansing effect on the soul, they tell me, and that mob in there has
the grimiest set of souls I've ever seen. I informed the lot of them
that if they welched on this deal they'd stay that way the rest of
their lives and would have to be buried in round coffins. We can come
back and turn them loose later."

"I suppose you're right," Marc said. "Right now, I've got to have a pot
of coffee before I pass out."

By now they had reached the sidewalk and luckily spotted a cab. Waving
for the driver's attention, they hurried forward.

It was just as Marc reached for the door of the cab that he suddenly
stumbled. All at once his weariness became too great to be borne
further; it reached to his very bones and turned them to sawdust. As he
went down to his knees the blackness swam in around him. He reached out
a hand to steady himself, but there was nothing to cling to. He was
vaguely aware of falling....

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, now, how'd you like a dame like that!" the cab driver exclaimed,
climbing out of the car. "She takes a powder just because the guy gets
a snootful and passes out!" He looked down at Marc who, sprawled on
the sidewalk, was tuning up for a good solid snore. "I wonder where he
belongs?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Wherever he belonged, Marc at that very moment was lounging in a state
of quiet bliss on one of the rising slopes in the valley of his mind.
He turned to regard Toffee whose costume had once again become the
transparent tunic, and to reflect that Paris would have to go a long
way to stitch up anything half as becoming. Toffee smiled back at him
and propped herself up lazily on one elbow.

"Well," she said. "It was something of a whirl, wasn't it? I mean it
leaves one a trifle dizzy."

"Whirl?" Marc asked. "How do you mean?" Recent events had slipped from
his mind in the interval between awareness and slumber.

"The bombs," Toffee said. "The politicians--" she held up her hand and
displayed the ring "--and this."

Memory jarred back into place. "Oh, my gosh!" Marc cried. "All those
congressmen! And the President! They're all back there...! And you're
here...! How'll you ever get them straightened out?"

Toffee laughed. "I won't. There's going to be a terrific run on the
Washington doctors for a while, that's all. Anyway, it'll do the old
tubs good, give them something to think about next time they start
getting gay with the public's time--and redheaded women."

"Anyway," Marc said. "At least it proves that a well-placed jolt in
the right place is a lot more powerful than any bomb. I was right in
the first place. When warfare gets personal it loses its attraction. I
suppose they'll be busy developing more and worse bombs as soon as the
shock wears off, but at least the people in the world will have another
chance to try and prevent them."

Toffee shrugged lightly. "It just goes to show that world politics are
really childishly simple when someone comes along with a firm hand."

"Are you going to keep the ring?" Marc asked.

Toffee shook her head. "I think I'll just dematerialize it; I never did
care about gems." She regarded him slowly from the corner of her eye.
"I have just one last use for it first."

"Yes?" Marc asked with a note of apprehension. "What's that?"

"Just this," Toffee said. She slid her arms around his neck and drew
him close. "One twitch of resistance and I'll double you up like a
pretzel."

Marc sighed helplessly. "When you put it that way, what can I do?" he
asked, and submitted unflinchingly to her kiss.

It was just as she drew away, just as she brushed her hand over his
shoulder, that the ring exploded.

Actually it was only a burst of vibrant green light, but it was so
intense that it blinded Marc, blocking Toffee and the valley from
sight. Marc squinted against the brilliance and waited for it to die.
But when it did there was only an infinite blackness where it had been.

"Toffee?" Marc called tentatively. "Toffee, where are you?"

"Goodbye, Marc," Toffee's voice said through the darkness. "Goodbye,
you old reprobate."

       *       *       *       *       *

Marc moved a bit to one side and felt of the softness beneath him
before he opened his eyes. Then he opened them half fearfully,
wondering where he was. He looked about slowly, then suddenly sat
upright. He was home, in his own room, in his own bed.

But it was dark outside, and the lamp was on. He had passed out on a
street in Washington, if he remembered correctly. He was sure that was
right, but he couldn't think how he had gotten home. Then he held his
thoughts in abeyance and listened; there was the sound of a voice--a
man's voice--and it seemed to be coming from downstairs....

"_As each bomb bursts and casts out its power for destruction the
burden becomes just so much lighter in the hearts of men all over the
world. Tonight the bombs send out their light against the darkness, not
as instruments of death and hate, but as multi-beamed beacons pointing
the way to world peace. This is one of the greatest nights in human
history!_"

Marc leaped from the bed, drew on his robe which was lying across the
bed, and ran out into the hallway. He was nearly to the head of the
stairs when he stopped to listen again.

"_The mystery surrounding the House of Congress since early today when
the order for demobilization was issued from there by the President
remains unsolved. Guards have been placed by presidential order at all
entrances and exits, and no one, not even the President, has left the
inner chamber. The press and other officials have been strenuously
barred from entry, even at gun point in some instances. However a
number of physicians have received calls from within the chamber and
have been escorted into the room. A rumor persists that one of the
members--Congressman Wright of Maine--was stricken with the mumps
during today's session, placing the entire Congress in quarantine...._"

Marc hurried down the stairs and into the living room. He stopped short
at the sight of her.

"Julie...!" he cried.

       *       *       *       *       *

She rose quickly from her chair and switched off the radio.

"I had it fixed," she said. "I was so ashamed." Then her face lighted
with joy. "Oh, darling, there's the most wonderful, wonderful news! The
President ordered...!"

"I know," Marc said. "I ... uh ... I heard it just now coming down the
stairs." He went to her and drew her into his arms, and for a moment
they were both still, just holding each other.

"Julie...?" Marc said, and she nodded. "When did you come back?"

"The same night I left, of course," Julie smiled. "I only got as far as
the station and I got to thinking that if anything happened ... and we
weren't together.... Anyway, I turned right around and came back. I
was nearly frantic when you weren't here. I just sat here and cried and
blamed myself."

"I see," Marc said. "And ... uh ... how did I get back?"

"The taxi driver brought you. He found your address in your wallet."

"All the way from Washington?"

"He said there was a young lady he wanted to see here anyway, and he
only charged half fare." She put her hand to his cheek. "Oh, I was so
relieved when I found out you'd only been on a bender. In fact I was
a little flattered that you were that desperate without me." She drew
closer. "Oh, darling, we both behaved so childishly. We deserved just
what we got--a good swift kick in the...."

But Marc kissed her quickly--and for a long time--until he was sure a
new topic for conversation had come into her mind....