"What are you doing?" cried Kitty.
"I'm doing a stitch in time, gal. I never run short of ideas. We're heading for the Uvan Thought Clinic. If I can get the right etheroel formula before the Patrol comes, I'll have Castlebottom where I want him. That formula means his job and I have an idea the Uvans don't give out duplicates."
"So that's freebooting?" The look that Kitty flashed Bill had something more in it than mere admiration.
"Hey, she's my girl!" Castlebottom bleated from the doorway. He stood there powerless for the Uvan guard's radium gun was poking a little valley in his stomach.
"Keep a sharp eye on him, Webster," Bill shouted back. "Dangerous type!"
A preposterous gurgle choked up Castlebottom's throat as Bill Petrie and Kitty Carlton disappeared, hand in hand, beyond the square.
The Uvan Thought Clinic was housed in a pale amber building. It contained twelve main halls, one dedicated to each of the major sciences. In an outer-reception room, an ancient Uvan whose resin-hard body was rapidly flaking away, fastened a pair of pearl gray eyes on Bill Petrie as he presented his credentials.
"Chemistry," said the oldster.
"Fuel," answered Bill.
The old Uvan led the way to a circular chamber. There, after elaborate preparations, he sat himself on a sort of throne that floated in a bed of pure mercury.