I kicked at the control panel and ripped out all the wires in sight, then socked the principal three or four more times for good measure. We exited as casually as we could, nodding pleasantly as we passed Masefield in the hall. Then we broke into a frantic run, through the inner and outer doors, pausing only long enough for Celia to smash the electric eye mechanism with her purse as the outer door swung shut. Nicely competitive of her. We raced out to the parking lot. The cop was standing beside our car, and I could see Freddie cowering in the back seat, behind closed windows and locked doors. "Officer Fegerty!" I said breathlessly. "Mr. Masefield says for you to come to the principal's office immediately! Something's happened." He hesitated. "What about the kid?" "We'll watch him! You'd better hurry!" He headed for the administration building at a lumbering trot. We waved wildly to Freddie. He pounced, with uncontrollable joy, on the door release. Celia plunged into the car, and then I. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the policeman had stopped. He was viewing us with uncertainty. Then he yelled and started to run toward us, unlimbering his gun from its holster. [illus] My trembling fingers fitted the key into the ignition. I heard a shot and a thudding sound. Then another, and a hole appeared in my side and front windows. I gunned our car like fury and we rocketed into the air so fast that Celia, holding Freddie tightly in her arms, moaned at the terrible acceleration. We were far above Chicago's islands. Nothing, not even a police car, could catch our Cad Super. I turned to my son. "You're a bright boy, Freddie. I'm proud of you." A real competitor at heart. Then my eye caught the great municipal sign, with its motto I WILL COMPETE. And I realized for the first time the seriousness of what we had done. * * * * * "The alarm will be out any minute," I told Celia. "I must land." I nosed our ship down to the lowest air line, merging with slow local traffic above the city. For once I was not pleased to be driving such a conspicuous car. Where to land? Certainly not my usual parking lot. They'd check there as a matter of routine. Celia read my thoughts. "Where would they least expect us?" "Navy Pier traffic fines bureau!" I exclaimed. "They have a free parking lot there." "That's good, for the car," said Celia, "but risky for us." She thought. "The Art Institute. They have a private lot and we're members." "Ridiculous!" I started to say, then checked myself. "That's good. That's cultural. The cops would never think we'd go looking at pictures." There would be people there, a crowd in which we could lose ourselves. A big building where we could remain all day, if necessary, without attracting suspicion. A place where I could think. I desperately needed to think. "I don't want to go to the Art Institute," Freddie whined. "I want to go home."