Theirs was the last car through the intersection, Rick saw, before traffic started through the cross street. Scotty took another turn, doubled back, and went through another alley. As he emerged onto a street where traffic was sparse, he slowed. "That should do it," Tom Dodd said. "Nice work." "How is he?" Rick asked anxiously. "Just like the others," Tom said flatly. "Listen, boys. Our Newark agent is in Whiteside. I don't think it's wise to take Marks to Spindrift in this condition, but I don't want to take him far, either. Have you any contacts here?" Rick tried to remember. His father had associates in Newark, he was sure, including a doctor or two. But he couldn't remember their names. "I could call home," he suggested. "Dad will have some ideas." Dodd considered. "You couldn't use the scrambler from here. Could you tip your father off without giving information to anyone who happened to be listening on the wire?" Rick thought he could. "Okay." Dodd motioned to a restaurant. "There's a phone in there. I can see the booth through the window. Hop to it." Rick hurried into the restaurant. The full horror of what had happened to Dr. Marks was just having its effect. He found himself shivering as though with a severe chill. Marks was the victim of something ghastly. He seemed to be trying to make sense, as though there was still a glimmer of intelligence behind the blank stare. But his words were disconnected, completely unintelligible. Barby answered the phone, caught the urgency in Rick's voice, and yelled for their father. Hartson Brant came hurriedly. "What is it, Rick?" "Guarded language," Rick said urgently. "Dad, don't you have a professional friend in Newark? The teletype machine just went haywire for the third time and I need help." Hartson Brant muttered, "Good Lord! Yes, Rick. I have a mechanic friend who is ideally suited for the purpose. Constantine Chavez. Look him up in the professional part of the phone directory. I'll phone him and say you're bringing the machine." "Good, Dad. I'll come home as soon as possible. Better phone the man who runs the machines and give him the information." "All right. Be careful." Rick disconnected and looked up the name under the listing of physicians. Back in the car, he cast a quick look at Dr. Marks. The scientist was sitting quietly, staring straight ahead. He wasn't talking, and Rick was glad. He didn't know how much of the gibberish he could take. It was weird and horrifying, particularly since Marks had been so crisp and terse--even though sometimes unpleasant--in his speech. Dr. Chavez was watching for them through his window and hurried out to meet the car. He was a tall, slender man with handsome features that showed his Spanish ancestry.