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"Gunnartown Trust is near our destination, sir."
"Good. You can park the car and walk over. You know how long that document would last if my
daughter got her hands on it prematurely."
"But Mr. McKissic "
"I'll handle the business at the Tavern myself, Philip. This is a private matter. Iam her father."
"Yes, sir." The car drew up before the Easygo Tavern. "Sir " the chauffeur began as McKissic got out,
"thank you. I "
This time McKissic did not smile. "It is the welfare of my daughter I am thinking of," he said. He walked
briskly into the tavern, twirling the decorative cane he sometimes affected.
A man with tastelessly jeweled fingers met him at the entrance. "You have a reservation?"
"My card," McKissic said impatiently, handing him a glowing ticket in the shape of a gyro assembly. A
reservation in Gunnartown? Ludicrous. And those rings...
The man gaped. "President of General Gyromotors!" He looked appalled, then recovered himself
somewhat.
"Sir, are you sure you I mean, not even a costume?"
Then McKissic placed him: the man Pamela had talked to on the phone. The one who had agreed to
arrange it, and who had accepted the money. "I'm here to recover my daughter."
"She oh, you mean she's watching the show?" The relief on the man's face was almost comical. "That's
all?"
There was more here than met the eye. Well, Crater and his truthall would clear it up in due course.
McKissic prodded him in the belly with the cane. "Sheis the show." He marched on.
The man ran after him. "Sir, I don't understand "
McKissic handed him a thousand dollar note and the man shut up. McKissic smiled briefly; from the
reactions here, one would think they were stealing G&G gyros!
The lighted stage was ahead. A packed audience strained to see through the seemingly physical blare of
drums, men and women garbed like devils. On the right side of the stage was a suited man holding an
object. On the left was a young woman in conventional dress, a black hood over her head.
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Pamela! She had gone through with it!
He had doubted that her nerve would hold up. Pamela's exploits had almost invariably been private,
before; at least she had protected her reputation to that extent. She had never liked to make herself
ridiculous in public.
But he had come, knowing that this time it might not be a bluff. He had told himself that it was probably
a needless trip, and thus protected himself against the full shock. He had tried to make a permanent
arrangement for her, so that there could be no more trouble but she had done it. This time she had
really done it.
He was striding down the center aisle toward the stage as these thoughts came to him. He had to keep
moving now, or he would lose the thread lose all of it.
The suited man walked toward the girl. She tried to stand up, and McKissic saw her foot was chained.
She could not run assuming that she wanted to.
Crescendo on the drums. Pamela screamed and struggled, but the chain was firm. Now, too late, she
had changed her mind; she had gotten herself into trouble she couldn't hide from. The man lifted a
pressure can and broke its seal.
For a moment her hooded face turned toward McKissic, and he knew she saw him through the fine
mesh. "Help me!" she cried. Not "Help me, Father," or even "Daddykins!" just a blunt summons as
though he were a distant acquaintance whose interest might be presumed to be incidental. So far apart
had he grown from his daughter, despite his efforts!
The man on stage depressed the nozzle. A fine mist columned out.
McKissic needed no more. He jammed the tip of the cane against the floor and vaulted to the stage as
though he were still a young athlete.
"Hey! You can't !" someone cried amid the angry yells from the satanic audience.
McKissic paid no attention. The man was standing over the hooded form over his daughter! aiming
that terrible spray at her head while she leaned desperately away. McKissic charged into the man and
caught him with a body-block.
The contact jarred him violently. The man was solid; the protective suit gave him weight and rigidity. But
he stumbled aside, off balance, the can spraying upward. McKissic squatted at the girl's feet, took hold
of the chain and pulled, but it was solidly anchored.
The man came back, aiming the can's nozzle at him. Realizing his own peril, McKissic struck at the hand.
He missed, and the mist enveloped his sleeve as the other backed away.
He stalked the enemy, striking again, and this time rapped the bubble helmet ringingly. The man put his
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