She’d have to get out of the Science Center right away.  Marshal Fane was questioning people under veridication; she didn’t dare let him get around to her.  She didn’t dare go to her office; the veridicator was in the lab across the hall, and that’s where he was working.  And she didn’t dare—­

Yes, she could do that, by screen.  She went into an office down the hall; a dozen people recognized her at once and began bombarding her with questions about the Fuzzies.  She brushed them off and went to a screen, punching a combination.  After a slight delay, an elderly man with a thin-lipped, bloodless face appeared.  When he recognized her, there was a brief look of annoyance on the thin face.

“Mr. Stenson,” she began, before he could say anything:  “That apparatus I brought to your shop this morning—­the sensory-response detector—­we’ve made a simply frightful mistake.  There’s nothing wrong with it whatever, and if anything’s done with it, it may cause serious damage.”

“I don’t think I understand, Dr. Ortheris.”

“Well, it was a perfectly natural mistake.  You see, we’re all at our wits’ end here.  Mr. Holloway and his lawyer and the Colonial Marshal are here with an order from Judge Pendarvis for the return of those Fuzzies.  None of us know what we’re doing at all.  Why the whole trouble with the apparatus was the fault of the operator.  We’ll have to have it back immediately, all of it.”

“I see, Dr. Ortheris.”  The old instrument maker looked worried.  “But I’m afraid the apparatus has already gone to the workroom.  Mr. Stephenson has it now, and I can’t get in touch with him at present.  If the mistake can be corrected, what do you want done?”

“Just hold it; I’ll call or send for it.”

She blanked the screen.  Old Johnson, the chief data synthesist, tried to detain her with some question.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson.  I can’t stop now.  I have to go over to Company House right away.”

* * * * *

The suite at the Hotel Mallory was crowded when Jack Holloway returned with Gerd van Riebeek; it was noisy with voices, and the ventilators were laboring to get rid of the tobacco smoke.  Gus Brannhard, Ben Rainsford and Baby Fuzzy were meeting the press.

“Oh, Mr. Holloway!” somebody shouted as he entered.  “Have you found them yet?”

“No; we’ve been all over Science Center from top to bottom.  We know they went down a few floors from where they’d been caged, but that’s all.  I don’t think they could have gotten outside; the only exit on the ground level’s through a vestibule where a Company policeman was on duty, and there’s no way for them to have climbed down from any of the terraces or landing stages.”

“Well, Mr. Holloway, I hate to suggest this,” somebody else said, “but have you eliminated the possibility that they may have hidden in a trash bin and been dumped into the mass-energy converter?”