"A nice bag for one evening," he told Russ. Russ grinned and stoked up his pipe. Manning turned to the gangster chief. "What do you think we ought to do with these fellows? We can't leave them in those force shells too long because they'll die for lack of air. And we can't let them loose because they might use their guns on us." "Listen, Manning," Scorio rasped hoarsely, "just name your price to let us loose. We'll do anything you want." Manning drew his mouth down. "I can't think of a thing. We just don't seem to have any use for you." "Then what in hell," the gangster asked shakily, "are you going to do with us?" "You know," said Manning, "I may be a bit old-fashioned along some lines. Maybe I am. I just don't like the idea of killing people for money. I don't like people stealing things other people have worked hard to get. I don't like thieves and murderers and thugs corrupting city governments, taking tribute on every man, woman and child in our big cities." "But look here, Manning," pleaded Scorio, "we'd be good citizens if we just had a chance." Manning's face hardened. "You sent these men here to kill us tonight, didn't you?" "Well, not exactly. Stutsman kind of wanted you killed, but I told the boys just to get the stuff in the safe and never mind killing you. I said to them that you were pretty good eggs and I didn't like to bump you off, see?" "I see," said Manning. He turned his back on Scorio and started to walk away. The gangster chief came half-way out of his chair, and as he did so, Russ reached out a single finger and tapped a key. Scorio screamed and beat with his fists against the wall of force that had suddenly formed about him. That single tap on the great keyboard had sprung a trap, had been the one factor necessary to bring into being a force shell already spun and waiting for him. Manning did not even turn around at Scorio's scream. He slowly paced his way down the line of standing gangsters. He stopped in front of Pete and looked at him. "Pete," he said, "you've sprung a good many prisons, haven't you?" "There ain't a jug in the System that can hold me," Pete boasted, "and that's a fact." "I believe there's one that could," Greg told him. "One that no man has ever escaped from, or ever will." "What's that?" demanded Pete. "The Vulcan Fleet," said Greg. Pete looked into the eyes of the man before him and read the purpose in those eyes. "Don't send me there! Send me any place but there!" Greg turned to Russ and nodded. Russ's fingers played their tune of doom upon the keyboard. His thumb depressed a lever. With a roar five gigantic material energy engines screamed with thrumming power. Pete disappeared. The engines roared with thunderous throats, a roar that seemed to drown the laboratory in solid waves of sound. A curious refractive effect developed about the straining hulks as space near them bent under their lashing power.