The Prowler, with one lightning lunge, one flip of its whip-like neck, got him. Got him, gently, as Meek had meant he should. * * * * * Howling in mingled rage and terror, Hoffman dangled by the seat of his pants from the Prowler's beak. Neatly as any circus horse, the Prowler wheeled and trotted back to the Silver Moon, carrying Hoffman with a certain gentle grace that was not lost upon the crowd. Hoffman quieted and the crowd's jeers rang against the dome. The Prowler pranced a bit, jiggled Hoffman up and down. Meek raised a hand for silence, spoke to Hoffman. "O.K., Mr. Hoffman, call out your men. All of them. Out into the middle of the street. Where we can see them." Hoffman swore at him. "Jiggle him some," Meek told the Prowler. The Prowler jiggled him and Hoffman bawled and clawed at empty air. "Damn you," shrieked Hoffman, "get out into the street. All of you. Just like he said." No one stirred. "Blaine," yelled Hoffman. "Get out there! You, too Smithers. Loomis. Blake!" They came slowly, shame-faced. At a command from Meek they unholstered their blasters and heaved them in a pile. The Prowler deposited Hoffman with them. Meek saw Andrew Smith standing at the edge of the sidewalk and nodded to him. "There you are, Mr. Smith. Rounded up, just like you wanted them." "Neat," said Stiffy, "but not gaudy." Slowly, carefully, bones aching, Meek slid from the Prowler's back, was surprised his legs would hold him up. "Come in and have a drink," yelled a dozen voices all at once. "Bet your life," agreed Stiffy, licking his chops. Men were slapping Meek on the back, yelling at him. Yelling friendly things, calling him an old he-wolf. He tried to thrust out his chest but didn't succeed too well. He hoped they wouldn't insist on his drinking of lot of _bocca_. A hand tugged at Meek's elbow. It was the Reverend Brown. "You aren't going to leave that beast out here all alone?" he asked. "No telling what he might do." "Ah, shucks," protested Stiffy, "he's gentle as a kitten. Stands without hitching." But even as he spoke, the Prowler lifted his head, almost as if he were sniffing, started down the street at a swinging trot. "Hey," yelled Stiffy, "come back here, you cross-eyed crow-bait!" The Prowler didn't falter in his stride. He went even faster. Cold fear gripped Meek by the throat. He tried to speak and gulped instead. He'd just thought of something. The power plant that supplied Asteroid City with its power and light, the very oxygen it breathed, was down that way. A power plant and an alien robot that was starved for energy! "My stars!" gasped Meek. He shook off the minister's hand and galloped down the street, shrieking at the Prowler. But the Prowler had no thought of stopping. Panting, Meek slowed from a gallop to a trot, then to a labored walk. Behind him, he heard Stiffy puffing along. Behind Stiffy trailed practically the entire population of Asteroid City.