I put my hands to my face and I felt the vein over my left eye swelling, pulsing. Through the bars of my fingers I saw Sergeant motion me down with one eloquent hand. I took my hands away--I didn't like looking through bars--and sat down. "Now," Sergeant said, steepling his fingers, "I know of a completely nice place in the country. Of course, if you respond properly...." Those hands of his. There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... I lurched across the desk and grabbed his wrist. "_Please_, Mr. Turner! violence will--" My fingers clawed at the backs of his hands and my nails dragged off ugly strips of some theatrical stuff--collodion, I think--that had covered the scrapes and bruises he had taken hammering away at me and my belt buckle. Sergeant. Sarge. I let go of him and stood away. For the first time, Sergeant smiled. I backed to the door and turned the knob behind my back. It wouldn't open. I turned around and rattled it, pulled on it, braced my foot against the wall and tugged. "Locked," Sergeant supplied. He was coming toward me, I could tell. I wheeled and faced him. He had a hypodermic needle. It was the smallest one I had ever seen and it had an iridescence or luminosity about it, a gleaming silver dart. I closed with him. * * * * * By the way he moved, I knew he was used to physical combat, but you can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been younger. (Hadn't I?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on me or drop it to have his hands free. I stiff-handed him in the solar plexus and crossed my fist into the hollow of the apex arch of his jawbone. He dropped. I gave him a kick at the base of his spine. He grunted and lay still. There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?" I searched through his pockets. He didn't have any keys. He didn't have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a ballpoint pen. The receptionist had moved away from the door and was talking to somebody, in person or on the phone or intercom. There wasn't any back door. I went to the window. The city stretched out in an impressive panorama. On the street below, traffic crawled. There was a ledge. Quite a wide, old-fashioned ornamental ledge. The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The fourteenth, I remembered. I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason. I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze. The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted me off the ledge, but the cornice was so wide I could keep out of the wind if I kept myself flat against the side of the building.