He had brought no weapons. If he was wrong, he would not need any and being armed would only aggravate his offense. If right, there would be plenty of weapons available. There were. A whole drawer full of DeLameters—fully charged—belts and everything. He leaped across the room to Graves’ desk; turned on a spy-ray. The sub-basement—“private laboratories,” Graves had said—was blocked. He threw switch after switch—no soap. Communicators—ah, he was getting somewhere now—a steel-lined room, a girl and a boy. “Eureka! Good evening, folks.” “Eureka? I hope you rot in hell, Graves. . . .” “This isn’t Graves. Cloud. Storm Cloud, the Vortex Blaster, investigating. . . .” “Oh, Bob, the Patrol!” the girl screamed. “Quiet! This is a zwilnik outfit, isn’t it?” “I’ll say it is!” Ryder gasped in relief. “Thionite. . . .” “Thionite! How could it be? How could they bring it in here?” “They don’t. They’re growing broadleaf and _making_ the stuff. That’s why they’re going to kill us.” “Just a minute.” Cloud threw in another switch. “Lieutenant? Worse than I thought. _Thionite!_ Get over here fast with everything you got. Armor and semi-portables. Blast down the Mayner Street door. Stairway to right, two floors down, corridor to left, half-way along left side. Room B-Twelve. Snap it up, but keep your eyes peeled!” “But wait, Cloud!” the lieutenant protested. “Wait ’til we get there—you can’t do anything alone!” “Can’t wait—got to get these kids out—evidence!” Cloud broke the circuit and, as rapidly as he could, one-handed, buckled on gun-belts. Graves would _have_ to kill these two youngsters, if he possibly could. “For God’s sake save Jackie, anyway!” Ryder prayed. He knew just how high the stakes were. “And watch out for gas, radiation, and traps—you must have sprung a dozen alarms already.” “What kind of traps?” Cloud demanded. “Beams, deadfalls, sliding doors—I don’t know what they haven’t got. Graves said he could kill us in here with rays or gas or. . . .” “Take Graves’ private elevator, Dr. Cloud,” the girl broke in. “Where is it—which one?” “It’s in the blank wall—the yellow button on his desk opens it. Down as far as it will go.” Cloud jumped up listening with half an ear to the babblings from below as he searched for air-helmets. Radiations, in that metal-lined room, were out—except possibly for a few beam-projectors, which he could deal with easily enough. Gas, though, would be bad; but every drug-house had air-helmets. Ah! Here they were! He put one on, made shift to hang two more around his neck—he had to keep his one hand free. He punched the yellow button; rode the elevator down until it stopped of itself. He ran along the corridor and drove the narrowest, hottest possible beam of a DeLameter into the lock of B-12. It took time to cut even that small semi-circle in that refractory and conductive alloy—altogether too much time—but the kids would know who it was. Zwilniks would open the cell with a key, not a torch.