Now the police wanted Dennis. But Fred Ajax and the Sailor tore him out of their grasp and there was another frantic chase along graveled paths, through grassy nooks and sylvan dells, until Ajax and company outdistanced the law and made it to the ’copter stand. The ’copter pilot was induced to swear off the stuff when he saw two grown men pinching the cheeks of an owl-eyed little boy and mumbling, “Sober up, sober up!” while they rolled their eyes frantically. The ’copter set down back of the tent at ten minutes past four, and Egbert IX had seventy minutes head start. Dennis reeled from the ’copter, more or less understanding Ajax’s frantic pleas that he had a problem to solve, could not let them down, and so forth. Dennis blinked behind his large glasses. “Can you do it, Dennis?” Ajax pleaded frantically. Dennis cocked an eyebrow, weaved to and fro and pointed an index finger at Ajax. “Gimme a swig of Orange-dee-lite and I can do anything!” “Orange-dee-lite!” Ajax said wildly to the Sailor. “Quick!” The Sailor got a bottle from the refreshment stand and pressed it into Dennis’ feverish hands. Dennis swigged. “I’m ready, boys,” he said. Ajax, mouthing supplications to the powers that be, held the tent flap aside. Dennis staggered inside on rubbery legs. The crowd gasped. Dennis bowed low, almost falling on his face, walked over and kicked the side of Egbert IX, snatched the problem sheet from the hands of a gape-jawed Dr. Heinz Hockelbach, kicked Hockelbach in the shins, and marched into the shack. The rest is history. At precisely five thirty-eight Dennis Ogg emerged with a sheaf of scribbled paper and loudly demanded a shot of Orange-dee-lite. At five forty-one Egbert IX came through with the same correct answer as Dennis had. But the machine was vanquished. To account for this phenomenon, Dennis himself told the videosheet reporters: “The Orange-dee-lite stimulated me. It is an excellent beverage. I attribute my success to the lucid quality of my thought while under the influence of this liquid. The phenomenon strikes me as similar to the conditions under which Edgar Allan Poe purportedly composed much of his poetry. That is all I have to say. Let’s all go have some Orange-dee-lite.” Monday, in the offices of Ajax Enterprises, a very sick Dennis Ogg groaned and held his stomach while reclining on the couch. “I hope he’s gonna be all right,” the Sailor said dolefully. “He’s sure a game little kid.” “The doctor said it was only a very severe stomach ache,” Ajax told him. Dennis groaned, blinked and sat up. “How do you feel, Dennis?” Ajax asked, taking time off from counting up the semi-fortune he had made from his enterprise. “Awful,” Dennis said, trying to muster a grin. “But it’s fun for a change. I’m going to hate going back to practicing to be a genius.”