As she passed da Silva, he looked up at her groggily. In his expression there was still the ghost of desire. "You jerk," she said to him and walked on and went down the stairs. Phil felt his heart hammering ten, eleven, twelve times, like a clock striking, and then he was racing downstairs and someone was pounding along after him. He caromed off the open front door and stumbled down the steps in time to see a dark car roar off. Greeley was beside him now, barking orders into a pocket radio. From the other end of the street, another car shot in. Red plumes shot forward from under its hood as it rocket-braked to a heaving stop. Greeley piled into the back seat. Phil scrambled in after him. "You can still see them," Greeley yelled at the driver. "Take all chances. Rockets!" Then he turned to Phil. "Who are you?" "Phil Gish of the U. S. Newsmoon," Phil replied recklessly, but the last word was lost in the rocket's roar. The other car had been about five blocks away when they had taken off. As Phil untwisted himself with difficulty from the huddle into which acceleration had thrown him, he saw that its lead had been reduced to almost one block. "Douse the jets," Greeley ordered. "We can curb them on our regulars; but watch out they don't shift. They may have rockets. Where do you stand in Project Kitty, Gish?" "Sort of special observer," Phil improvised gaspingly, still hanging on with both hands. "My section has decided the green cat may not be dangerous." "What?" Greeley demanded, peering ahead. "Didn't you feel it up there?" Phil asked. "Feel what?" Greeley said, his eyes measuring the lessening distance between the two cars. "You mean the horror?" "No," Phil said. "Peace. Understanding--" But just then the car ahead of them slowed a bit and something green flashed out of it, rolled over half a dozen times, and darted toward an alley. "Brakes!" Greeley yelled and Phil almost tumbled into the lap of the man beside the driver as the forward rockets jetted and the back of the car lifted and slammed down. Then he realized he was the only one left in the car and scrambled out. "The alley's blind; there's no way for it to get out," Greeley was calling. "Advance abreast. Gish, back us up!" "Don't hurt him," Phil warned. "We know enough for that!" Greeley yelled back. By this time Phil was behind them, and saw the green cat crouching defiantly in the narrow alley's blind end, some twenty feet away from the advancing men. The distance lessened to ten, and then the green cat darted forward, dodged this way, that, and dove between Greeley and the man on his right, straight into Phil's outstretched hands. "Lucky!" Phil said blissfully, lifting the cat closer. Five claws raked his chin painfully, while fifteen others dug into his hands. He looked at the little face. Except for its color, it was a most ordinary, though spittingly furious cat face. In fact, it was a most ordinary cat. And he could smell the dye.