Kerry gasped with horror. Ben’s feet were swollen to nearly three times their normal size. Fallon produced an enormous pair of carpet-slippers, slit them at toe and heel, and knelt to put them on the useless feet. Ben forced himself painfully to a sitting position, and just as he did so Lew broke into Kerry’s frozen dismay with a rasping, “Come and help me, Mr. Donalson. Can’t you see we’ll have to carry him?” They bundled the raincoat over Ben’s pajamas, lifting and supporting him. Ben crossed the room in a shambling walk, dragging himself along between Lew and Kerry as if the men were living crutches. Although he did not say a word, Kerry felt him wince and heard the harsh catch of breath each time he set one of the swollen feet to the ground. They could only guess at his pain. Somehow they got him into a small service elevator and rested, breathing harshly--Ben was a large and heavy man--while it made a creaky and slow descent. The back door opened on a narrow areaway, lying deserted in a brilliant vapor-light which brightened its every ugly crevice from the building to the curb. They hoisted Ben bodily into the front seat of a small, war-model electric automobile, and Kerry climbed in after him. The big man sagged on Kerry’s shoulder. Kerry looked curiously at Fallon as the youngster climbed into the driver’s seat. As if sensing his apprehensive scrutiny Fallon explained, “We’ll take a chance on the law of averages. How many Night Police are in the city? They can’t check every street, and they usually concentrate on deserted spots.” III Lew Fallon drove the car down the main street. They encountered no other car, and saw only one pedestrian--a solitary Night Cop lounging in a doorway, his neuron-gun a luminescent halo on his hip. The police officer did not even raise his head as their car’s lights swung across his uniform. Lew laughed, harshly and contemptuously. “See? They think the whole city is so scared by now that no one would dare to be here without a police permit!” They were rapidly approaching Kerry’s street, and the newspaperman was beginning to relax. He had almost convinced himself that the peaceful drive was an anticlimax to a melodramatic prelude when a blinding shaft of light crossed their headlights. One of the small, fast prowlies darted from a side-street and completely blocked their passage, blinking a menacing red signal. Lew jammed on the brakes. A uniformed man jumped from the prowlie, his right hand ghostly by the phosphorescence around his neuron-gun. He strode up to the car. “What is it this time?” he asked angrily. “Are you taking your wife to the maternity hospital? If you’re not, your excuse had better be good.”