"Come on," Toffee said. "You drive." Then she glanced back toward the lane from which they had just come. Headlights stabbed around the bend and started toward them. "Hurry!" She got in the car. Marc followed after, started the car, and maneouvered it onto the road. "Can't you make it go any faster?" Toffee asked. She looked around. "They'll be here in a minute!" Marc pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car coughed daintily and continued at a steady speed of twenty five. "For the love of heaven!" he cried. "That's its limit!" It was then that a shot suddenly echoed through the night, and the old car skidded across the road to a forced stop against an embankment. Toffee looked back at the approaching lights. "Come on!" she cried. "Run!" They scrambled out of the car and started up the embankment. They were just about to the top when they were suddenly caught in the blinding glare of a spotlight. They stopped where they were. On the road there was a squeal of brakes and the slam of a door. Cecil Blemish, his gun in his hand, stepped into the light. "Fun's over," he said. "Let's go home." * * * * * Toffee and Marc reentered the house with an air of morose finality. As they automatically took their places in the chairs and allowed themselves to be imprisoned again, Gerald appeared smirkingly from the tangled underpinnings of the small catapult. He regarded them with an air of almost personal triumph. "Glad you got back for the launching," he said. "You're just in time." Marc glanced fearfully toward the catapult. "Listen," he said earnestly. "You don't realize what you're doing. The disappearance of that monument could easily start another war. Such small things can sometimes." The brothers stared at him with rapt attention. For a moment Marc thought he had actually begun to impress them. Then Gerald turned to Cecil. "Just think, Cecil!" he simpered. "Another war! We'd be in great demand as spies! Do you think it's too much to hope for?" Cecil shook his head. "Certainly not. Now that I stop to think about it, if this bomb doesn't do it, the one tomorrow night is sure to." "Let's fire the bomb!" Gerald cried. "Right now!" But Cecil hung back for a moment. "What's happened to that traitorous spook?" he asked. Gerald shrugged. "Dematerialized so we couldn't tell him to his face what we think of him. He's drifting about somewhere. Anyway, forget about him. Let's launch the bomb." The two hurried off to the catapult. There, they argued briefly about which of them would officiate at the switch, but finally Cecil won the honor by drawing his gun on his brother. He stepped up to the switch and took hold of it. A thick silence of mixed expectancy took the old house. "No ... no ..." Marc whispered, then watched with haunted eyes as Cecil's hand brought the switch suddenly downward.