Thorsen seemed to be considering that. "Yes," he said at last. "That's more apparent now than ever. He's beginning to suffer the usual complications of immobility. Probably won't last more than a few weeks anyway. But can't you get the dope you want from his brother?" he stalled while he weighed his ethics against the necessity of the moment. "His brother," I told him, "is dead. Paper clips. Right through the heart." "I see. Well, we could operate, but as I said, Calvin wouldn't survive for long. Maybe only hours or minutes. And maybe not even long enough to regain consciousness after we remove the clot." I said, "I've left a crew at the Baxter house to tear it apart, board by board, until we find this so-called _extractor_ that Leo hid. But even after we find it, we need Calvin to tell us how to make it work. There must be a part missing." We had wandered into Calvin's room and were talking over his great, supine body, covered to the chin with a white sheet. The speck of scalp on his forehead had dried up and dropped off leaving only a faint white spot. As I mentioned the missing part, his lips began moving and a grunt issued from his throat. "Listen," I said. "He hears me! He's trying to talk!" "No, Lieutenant." Thorsen said, putting a hand to his eyes. "He's been grunting like that for days. The only word that ever comes out is his brother's name, Leo." The name struck anger and frustration in me. "Leo," I half-shouted. "That stinking little--never even visited his brother!" "Relax, Gene. That won't do any good. The man's dead," he reminded me. "Relax? When all over the country people are tearing their bodies to pieces? Innocent people. Little kids--" "I know, I know. I just spent nine hours in the emergency ward. Peritonitis. Cardiac injury. Lungs. Torn eye-balls. And it's probably just the beginning." "Then what are you waiting for?" I demanded. "Our only chance is to bring Calvin Baxter to consciousness long enough to explain how his extractor works." Doc ran trembling hands through his fuzz of white hair. For the first time I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were moving back and forth in little quick, darting motions like a wild animal looking for escape. "I--don't know, Gene. I suppose you are right. Only--we need permission--we must--you see, he might die, and--" I took a good look at him and suddenly realized that despite his calm voice, the old man was going to pieces. I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of there, across the hall to the chief's office. Durstine had his head down on his arms, slouched over the desk fast asleep between two clanging telephones. "Wake up, chief!" I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "We have to get Baxter to City Hospital and--"