"You must remember," he said. "You must believe me, Adrian. Remember our last night together? Right here? We stood by that window, and you cried in my arms. And then we...." She tore her hand away, as if burned. Then she stood up, looking horrified. "Get out of here!" she shrieked. "You little monster!" "Adrian--" Only now did he realize what it must have been like to her, to hear those words from his childish lips, to feel the touch of his tiny hand as he spoke of the night they.... "Get out!" she cried, covering her face. "Get out before I call the police!" "Adrian!" She screamed, piercingly. This time, the sound brought heavy foot-side clumping outside her front door. It was thrown open, and a uniformed man with bouncing epaulets was striding towards him. "No," Ron said. "You must listen--" "Get him out of here!" "Sure, Miss Walder!" He struggled in the big man's grip, while the girl turned her head aside. He managed to squirm from his hold, and broke for the door. The houseman started after him, cursing. Ron's hand went out and grasped a solid metal ash tray. He threw it without thought or aim, but it crashed squarely into the man's face and sent him thudding to the carpet. Adrian screamed again. He looked at her once more, imploringly. Then he ran for the door, just before she reached for the house telephone. In the elevator cage, he punched the button marked roof, and fell against the wall, panting. On the rooftop, he galloped across the metallic surface towards the ledge. He peered over it, and his heart sank when he saw that his stratagem had deceived no one. Police were entering the building, and some were pointing fingers in his direction. With a sigh, he dropped to his knees and rested his head against the cool aluminum surface. "It's no use," he said aloud. Then he heard the copter overhead. He looked up, thinking it was a police vehicle. But then he saw the outmoded design of its fuselage, and the young face at the controls. It hovered over his head, and a rope ladder unfolded. The youthful pilot said: "Quick! Climb in!" He blinked at the voice, unbelievingly. Then he scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the dangling ladder. He barely made it into the copter; the pilot had to help. "Who are you?" he said, gasping. The boy laughed. "I hate cops, too." Then they were in the air, and speeding towards the west. * * * * * Ron Carver watched the back of the young boy's neck for twenty minutes, while he steered the ancient copter expertly across the skies. He figured that the boy might have been fourteen or fifteen, but there was a competence in the way his hands moved over the controls, and a steeliness in the way his head sat on his thin neck. They didn't make much conversation, but Ron gathered that the boy was a member of something called the Red Rockets, an organization with some inexplicable purpose.