Picture a shiny four-gallon tomato can, with the label stripped off, hanging by wire from the flashing-light panels of an electric computer. That was Arthur. The shiny metal cylinder was his prosthetic tank; the wires were the leads that served him for fingers, ears and mouth; the glittering panel was the control center for the Consolidated Edison Eastside Power Plant No. 1. "Hi, Arthur," I said, and a sudden ear-splitting thunderous hiss was his way of telling me that he knew I was there. I didn't know exactly what it was he was trying to say and I didn't want to; fortune spares me few painful moments, and I accept with gratitude the ones it does. The Major's boys hadn't bothered to bring Arthur's typewriter along--I mean who cares what a generator-governor had to offer in the way of conversation?--so all he could do was blow off steam from the distant boilers. * * * * * Well, not quite all. Light flashed; a bucket conveyor began crashingly to dump loads of coal; and an alarm gong began to pound. "Please, Arthur," I begged. "Shut up a minute and listen, will you?" More lights. The gong rapped half a dozen times sharply, and stopped. I said: "Arthur, you've got to trust Vern and me. We have this thing figured out now. We've got the _Queen Elizabeth_--" A shattering hiss of steam--meaning delight this time, I thought. Or anyway hoped. "--and its only a question of time until we can carry out the plan. Vern says to apologize for not looking in on you--" _hiss_--"but he's been busy. And after all, you know it's more important to get everything ready so you can get out of this place, right?" "Psst," said Amy. She nodded briefly past my shoulder. I looked, and there was the guard, looking sleepy and surly and definitely suspicious. I said heartily: "So as soon as I fix it up with the Major, we'll arrange for something better for you. Meanwhile, Arthur, you're doing a capital job and I want you to know that all of us loyal New York citizens and public servants deeply appreciate--" Thundering crashes, bangs, gongs, hisses, and the scream of a steam whistle he'd found somewhere. Arthur was mad. "So long, Arthur," I said, and we got out of there--just barely in time. At the door, we found that Arthur had reversed the coal scoops and a growing mound of it was pouring into the street where we'd left the MG parked. We got the car started just as the heap was beginning to reach the bumpers, and at that the paint would never again be the same. Oh, yes, he was mad. I could only hope that in the long run he would forgive us, since we were acting for his best interests, after all. Anyway, I _thought_ we were. * * * * * Still, things worked out pretty well--especially between Amy and me. Engdahl had the theory that she had been dodging the Major so long that _anybody_ looked good to her, which was hardly flattering. But she and I were getting along right well.