* * * * * "But you simply can't!" a white-haired man in blue-and-orange business clothes was protesting. "If you do, the Associated Fraternities'll be liable for losses we incur; you know that!" Bayne, his thin face livid with anger--and also, Cardon noticed, with what looked like a couple of fresh bruises--ignored him. Feinberg broke off his chant of "Unfair! Unfair!" long enough to answer: "A Literate First Class has been brutally assaulted by the Illiterate owner of this store. Literate service for this store is, accordingly, being discontinued, pending a decision by the Grand Council of the local Fraternity." Cardon grabbed the blue-and-orange clad man and dragged him to one side. "What happened, Hutschnecker?" he demanded. "They're walking out on us," Hutschnecker told him, unnecessarily. "The boss had a fight with Bayne; knocked him down a couple of times. Bayne tried to pull his tablet gun, and I grabbed it away from him, and somebody else grabbed Pelton before he could pull his, and a couple of store cops got all the other Literates in the office covered. Then Bayne put on the general-address system and began calling out the Literates--" "Yes, but why did Pelton beat Bayne up?" "Bayne made a pass at Miss Claire. I wasn't there when it happened; she came into the office--" Cardon felt his face tighten into a frown of perplexity. That wasn't like Literate First Class Stephen S. Bayne. He made quite a hobby of pinching salesgirls behind the counter which was one thing; the boss' daughter was quite another. "Where's Latterman?" he asked, looking around. "Down in the office, with the others, trying to help Mr. Pelton. He's had another of those heart attacks--" Cardon swore and ran for the descending escalator, running down the rotating spiral to the executive floor and jumping off into the gawking mob of Illiterate clerks crowded in the open doors of Pelton's office. He hit and shoved and elbowed and cursed them out of the way, and burst into the big room beyond, and then, for a moment, he was almost sorry he had come. Pelton was slumped in his big relaxer chair, his face pale and twisted in pain, his breath coming in feeble gasps. His daughter was beside him, her blond head bent over him; Russell Latterman was standing to one side, watching intently. For an instant, Cardon was reminded of a tomcat watching a promising mouse hole. "Claire!" Cardon exploded, "give him a nitrocaine bulb. Why are you all just standing around?" Claire turned. "There are none," she said, looking at him with desperate eyes. "The box is empty; he must have used them all."