"I don't know!" Phil yelled, struggling to get away from Jack, who maddeningly whispered in his ear, "That's right, don't spill a word." "I'll remind you," Billig continued swiftly, taking something else from under his coat, "that it's much worse for her--or for anyone--to be hurt by people she idolizes than by people she hates. So tell me about the green cat. Look here, this is an ortho. I can cut down that car any moment you tell me." But Phil, like all the others, was watching Mitzie. Having picked herself up, she didn't move. She simply stayed there, facing the oncoming car. When it was so close that for an instant Phil saw Mitzie's dark head against its chrome muzzle, it veered and missed her by a breath. Mitzie stood motionless as a statue, though her short skirt whipped out. Then she turned at the waist and watched the retreating jeep. "Chicken!" she jeered, loudly. For an instant everyone on the balcony was very still. Then there was a dull banging, and Phil realized that Moe Brimstine was pounding the railing, and saying, "I tell you, that girl's good." "Yes, she is," Billig buzzed at him curtly. Brimstine stopped his applause, looking ashamed. "But," Billig continued smoothly, turning to Phil, "they're bound to get her, sooner or later, unless...." And he wiggled the large black gun he held in his small hand. "So you better talk." The jeep swung round under the balcony in a much tighter loop and headed back, revving screamingly. Mitzie faced it, grinning, hands as light on her hips as before. Then, just as--from Phil's point of view--it had swallowed her up to the waist, she sprang to one side. Phil felt her foot must have brushed the tire. The jeep slammed through the air where she'd been. "_Dumb-bell!_" Mitzie screamed. Brimstine lifted his clenched fists above the railing, glanced at Billig, and with an effort dropped them to his sides. Phil realized his arms were numb, Jack was gripping them so tightly. Beyond Billig, Harris and Dora leaned forward over the guard rail, as abstracted as gamblers. But Billig himself, though presumably a gambler, was neither still nor intent. "Look, Mr. Gish," he said rapidly, "I don't want to see this girl smashed myself, and Brimstine here is figuring on starring her in a knife throwing or dodge-the-car act. This is probably the last chance you have to save her. Where's Romadka? Where's the cat?" Phil didn't even look at him. A phone-light began to blink on the control panel. Billig ignored it. "_Where's the cat?_" he repeated. But all Phil could think, as the black jeep turned very tightly by the far wall and as Mitzie pivoted to face it--all he could think was that this had happened before, in ancient Crete, where girls as slim waisted and dark haired as Mitzie had faced the black, charging bull and dodged it or vaulted or somersaulted over its cruel horns, their breasts as bare as Mitzie's, opposing the most tender thing in the world to the most terrible.