Rocks stepped forward. His left hand flicked out. All the weight of his body was behind that blow. He drove it straight at Sharp's chin. It would have made Joe Louis bat his expressionless eyes. It would have knocked Sharp's head almost off his shoulders--if it had landed. That was the trouble. It didn't land. Sharp saw it coming. He ducked down and to one side, fumbling with the instrument he had taken from his bag. The fist skidded across the top of his head. It sent him staggering backward. "The next time," Rocks gritted. "I won't miss. I'll knock your damned head off, you dirty murderer." He charged. Sharp brought the instrument up. Pale, scarcely visible flame lanced from it, like a heat wave moving through air. It spurted forward, soundlessly. As it leaped it seemed to absorb, to blot out all sound. There was a sudden heavy silence in the museum basement, the sort of silence that is so real it registers on the ear drums. Rocks saw the instrument coming up. He kicked himself to one side, in a dancing step. The fringe of lambent flame barely touched him. But that touch sent needles of agony through his body, sucked the life out of him, turned his muscles into lumps of lead, threw him off balance, so that his charge, instead of striking Sharp, barely grazed him. His arms closed around the business manager's body. To keep himself from falling, Rocks clinched. They wrestled. Sharp could not use the instrument. Rocks was so groggy he could barely hold on. Sharp dug into him with his elbows, kicked viciously at his shins. If he could only hold on, Rocks thought. The agony was lessening. The groggy shadows were going from his mind. If he could only hold on for another minute. He was holding on. He was winning. Soft living had made a weakling of Sharp. He would be no match for the rugged, youthful muscles of Rocks Malone, in a fair fight. Then Sharp struck upward. His fist hit Rocks in the chin. Malone sagged downward. Shaking his head, he grabbed at Sharp again. And missed. And fell to the floor. Before he could move, Sharp had leaped around a table. He had brought the instrument up. "All right," he husked. "You asked for it, with your snooping. You're going to get it. You and this girl." Rocks staggered to his feet. He leaned against the edge of the table, panting, fighting for breath and strength. Sharp was across the table from him. He was aiming the instrument. This time there would be no escaping it. It would point at him and those almost invisible tongues of light would flash out, the deadly silence would smash all sound into nothingness, and millions of microscopic needles would tear through his flesh. Sharp fumbled for the firing button. Penny, crouched on the other side of the room, grabbed the handiest object she could find, and threw it. It was the alarm clock. It struck Sharp full in the face, and the alarm, jarred by the impact, went off.