Lorms, the behaviorist, nodded his head. For just an instant Grant felt confused, helpless. His original arguments for psychosport were proved valid, but the killings became even more inexplicable--they were logically impossible! And, somehow, that made _him_ the criminal. That left him only one thing to do. It was humiliating to accept such a solution to his personal problem. He thought of Bee Anthony and nearly turned back. Only since the tragedy had he realized how changed was their relationship--and how important she was to him. Would she scorn his action, think him a slave to public pressure? Probably, but Grant forced his steps onward. In the lobby of the Page-Horton, Bee caught him by the arm. "Since when," she asked, "do you walk grimly past your friends?... No, Grant. Don't bother to think up a story. I know where you are going." He wanted to chase her away--and to pull her close to him. But she glanced up and laughed. "You look _so_ perplexed and silly. Professor Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you'd do." "Do you think," said Grant, "that I should, Bee? Is it right?" "Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until--well, they _have_ to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, Grant! I know you're wrong, but you're right, too, and inside I'm so glad!" He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with reassurance. They went up together to Slag's suite. Teagle was at the door. "Glad to see you, Mahomet," he said to Grant. "The contract's all ready to sign. I guess you'll want _your_ cut for charity, eh?" "You won't, I suppose." "Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss." He smirked at Bee. "I ask you, who's going to match us after we knock this one off?" Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the glass beside him. "Practicing," he said. "Getting into shape for our tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across." Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed. "Don't talk much, this Doc Lane," said Slag. "Should I show him, Teagle?" "Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc." The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, jerkily, it lifted--one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it ring as it fell to the table. "My job when I retire," he said. "Got to pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?" Grant gave no warning. The man's trousers were deluged as the glass shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and with ugly purpose toward his visitors. "Careful, boy," warned Teagle. "There's a dame present." For fifteen seconds Grant's eyes were locked with Slag's. He looked into their red-rimmed hatred, fought to see the depths of the man. Then, just before the other turned away, an unreasoning, unexpected emotion surged in Grant. It swept over and left him shaken, all in that instant.