There were shouts and restraining arms and when he could see again the woman dancer, now almost naked, was pointing an accusing finger at him. "He deliberately attacked me!" she wailed. McLeod wiped blood from his face and said, "That's crazy." These were more than combo-strippers, he knew. They might be in Wainwright's pay or Overman's. Either way, he was in for it. "They're a couple of gunmen," he said. The male dancer was covering Tracy and Cripp with his parabeam, which had been hidden under the flapping right sleeve. "See?" McLeod said to the circle of people around them. "He's armed." The crowd parted to admit the weaponcheck girl to its center. With a quick, deft movement she found McLeod's second parabeam, withdrew it and told him, "So are you." More figures joined them, in police uniforms, the polished leather harness for twin parabeams creaking on each pair of hips, the gaudy blue and gold uniforms starched stiffly. "You're under arrest," one of them told McLeod. "You'll have to come with us." "You're no more police than I am. Since when do police do anything more than direct traffic?" "You'll have to come with us, sir." "And then get killed trying to escape? Keep your hands off me." At that moment, Weaver Wainwright made his way inside the wide circle of onlookers, his long sad nose drooping over his upper lip as he smiled at McLeod. "When our police reporter said it was you, I rushed right over." "Sure," McLeod said bitterly. "Police reporter. Why don't you admit these people are a bunch of your killers? You've really tailor-made your accident this time, Wainwright. I guess I'll be killed trying to escape." Wainwright regarded him with bland curiosity. "What I want to know is why you attacked the girl." "He didn't attack her," Tracy said. "I was right here." "In pitch darkness," the weaponcheck girl reminded her. Apparently McLeod's bribe had been topped. * * * * * McLeod let his eyes scan the crowd, seeking a friendly face. Here were the minor luminaries of the fourth estate gazing upon their fallen idol. For McLeod, like Weaver Wainwright, had been almost a legendary figure. But Wainwright had engineered the fall and now, like those South American fish which can strip the flesh from a man in seconds, they clustered about McLeod's social corpse. They sensed his demise as surely as if it had been something physical. They waited with avid eyes at the bottom of the ladder for him to fall. Then each figure would ascend one rung upward and so, each with his own capable hands and thinkwriter, control human history a little more. If only he could somehow contact Overman, McLeod thought. How much time did he have? He wasn't sure but thought it could be measured in minutes. "I'd like to call my City Editor," McLeod said. Wainwright chuckled. "A good reporter to the last. But I see Crippens and Miss Kent here." "It's my right."