"They place him on the east side of Baxter Avenue between 43rd and 44th streets," Dr. Weeve explained. He rubbed a lean jaw, frowning. "But how the detectors failed to pick up his presence before he reached the civic center baffles us. Seems as if he just popped up there."
"I'm ready for the kill, gentlemen!" crowed Marston, slapping the holster strapped to his side. "You look pretty impressed, Engel."
"Yes, yes, I am," Engel managed to say.
With the doctor close behind, he followed Marston apprehensively down a corridor to a thick convex window. Marston slid it back and stepped into what resembled a bowl-shaped cockpit, a confusing maze of dials and instruments under a hemisphere of glass. Motioning Engel to a seat, he turned to the dashboard, and the same spot of light which Engel had seen in the Tracer Room flashed on a screen. He jabbed a button twice and picked up a microphone.
"Marston to Captain Schaeffer. We're coming down."
"Yes, sir. The alien's turned back," a strained voice replied. "He's now walking south on Baxter. Might be on to us, he's acting jumpy."
"You sound jumpy yourself, Schaeffer," Marston snapped. "Tell your men to hold their fire this time! All right, I have him on optibeam."
Marston spun a wheel sharply, and they were falling. Engel braced himself as a white glistening tower swung away to their left, and the geometric depths of the city loomed up. He saw the doctor take a gun from a compartment, check it, and stand up wavering. His face was a mask of suppressed hate.
"We'll dispatch him quickly," he hissed.
Engel squirmed. To prevent a ruthless murder he'd have to not only outwit these men but countless police besides. What was worse, with his headache almost gone, his own uncontrollable waves of fear might expose him.