Patty reached him just as he righted himself. She was a tall girl, tall as Heck. She was not exactly Amazonian, but had a lush, well-built figure. Heck, for his part, was not exactly Herculean. With anger and some little vestige of fear pumping adrenaline through her blood and with health and vigor and half a night's sleep behind her while Heck was still considerably potted, she would have been a good match for him.
But Heck was at a disadvantage. Heck did not want to fight.
She caught his shoulders and turned him around to face her. She butted at him with her head. She kicked him in the shin. She balled her fists and hit his face. Heck tripped for a third time, and this time he fell down.
In one sweeping motion, the cover trailing like a cape, Patty clawed for the telephone on the dresser and dove down on top of Heck. She sat on his middle and lifted the phone from its cradle and said, her voice surprisingly cool: "Get me the police."
Frantically, Heck clutched at the telephone, depressing the cradle. Patty raised the heavy instrument threateningly.
"Wait!" Heck cried. "It's me—Heck!"
Patty's mouth opened. She didn't say anything, though. Then she looked at Heck and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Hector, Hector, did I hurt you?" she wanted to know.
"You definitely did not hurt me. I tripped, is all."
"I'm sorry, if I had known—Just a minute! Hector Finch, what are you doing in my bedroom?"
"I can explain everything," said Heck in a voice which said he could not explain anything at all.