"I can see he is and won't," Moe said drily, shifting the gun to the hand from which Lucky dangled. But Phil kept on toward the towering figure. He tried to stop, but the torturer inside him wouldn't let him--and now once again the same torturer pried open his teeth and lips. "Put him down," he repeated. "You can't have him. Nobody can." He raised his fists, but the left one wouldn't close. Moe looked at him disgustedly. The big fist came toward Phil's jaw, very slowly. Still, there somehow wasn't enough time to get out of the way. VIII Phil struggled through the slap-slap of an invigorating gray surf, until he realized it was a wet towel wielded by Juno. "How's the head?" she inquired with a grin that showed her lip scar. The head seemed twice as thick and heavy as usual to Phil, but he didn't feel any special pain until his exploring hands came to the lump on his chin. "You're okay," she told him, tossing the towel on the upset black and silver table. He doubted it. "Do you think that by any chance Mr. Brimstine is a Beelzebite?" Phil gingerly swiveled his head around. Sacheverell, whose green garment now seemed just a garish and not too clean bathrobe and whose dark complexion was merely sunburn again, appeared to be having a conference of some sort with Jack and Cookie. They were drinking. Mary was busy at her work table. "A what?" Cookie asked suspiciously. "You know, a Satanist, a devil-worshipper," Sacheverell explained briskly. "That would explain his stealing the Green One. A Satanist wouldn't want good to bloom in the world." "Stop talking that silly guff," Cookie told him. "Moe Brimstine isn't interested in any kind of mystical crud or anything else, for that matter, except the do-re-mi. And neither is Mr. Billig. And Moe Brimstine wouldn't be working for anyone but himself or Mr. Billig--probably both. That's true, isn't it, Jack?" The kingman didn't seem at all inclined to be talkative, but at this question he did nod his head with conviction. Juno put a glass in Phil's hand. "Here, drink this," she told him. Phil looked at the brown stuff. "What is it?" he asked. "Not soybean milk," she assured him. "Drink it up!" The whiskey, which tasted as if it were laced with something bitter, burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes, but almost immediately his head began to feel clearer. He surveyed the room. Outside of Mary's work table, none of the mess had been cleaned up, though someone had taped the Moslem prayer rug over the broken window. "And what's more," Cookie was saying dogmatically, "your idea about that cat being mystical is crud too." Sacheverell looked at him and Jack with exquisite blankness. "But didn't you feel it?" he asked. "Didn't you feel what it did to all of us?"