"I dunno. Hold it," said Handel, bending over his radio set.
"Report from hospital," said the radio. "Psychotic escaped in plane. Give warnings. The plane will be identified later; its owner is undergoing a serious operation and no records are immediately available. Be advised."
"That must be it," said Handel practically. "He's out of all accepted zones and he hasn't got any right to hover over a residential district. Call him, Pete."
Petersen aimed his short beam radio antenna in the general direction of the disputed plane. "Calling Monoplane of class ten," he said into the mike. "You with the brown body and blue wings. Can y' hear me?"
Harshly a voice answered. "We hear. What is it?"
"Sorry," said the pilot, "but you're hovering over a residential area. That's not allowed. What's your number, pilot?"
"I have no number," said the voice, "and I have no license. Stand off or take the consequences!"
"It's him—the psycho," hissed Petersen to Handel. "Call HQ on your set while I keep him busy."
"Right," snapped the engineer, tuning in the traffic center.
The pilot turned to his set, his brow wrinkled. How do you handle a psycho? Humor him. "What was that you said?" asked Petersen, smooth as silk.