elevator rolled open, and a flood of sunlight poured into the tiny cage. "There," said the man, pointing out a plane. "That's the one we'll take."

"Did you fly here?" asked the girl. "I thought you were afraid." "No," said Stevens, confidently opening the unlocked door of the plane. "This doesn't belong to me." Markett gasped, as her twenty-odd years of inculcated respect for property came down on her head like a ton of bricks. "You can't!" she cried. "It isn't yours--you said so." Her voice trailed off as she saw the baffled stare in his eyes.

"Come in," he offered, making room for her beside the pilot's seat. Limply she entered and closed the door. "Now," said Stevens, "what did you say?""The plane isn't yours, Clark!" Oddly, she flushed as she called him by his given name.
"Well," said Stevens, puzzlement written over his face, "it is now." He started the motor with one kick at the pedal and the plane snapped into the air, hovered for a moment, and shot diagonally up, through and above low-hanging cumulus clouds that glittered in the afternoon sun.
"Why did you come here?" asked Markett. Somehow she felt safe.
"More beautiful," said Stevens. "And I have plans."
"Plans?" asked the girl. "For yourself?"
"For the world," said Stevens. He nodded his head over the control board, and a shaft of light was caught in his hair; made it shine like little curly brass wires. "I must ask you questions," said the man. "I am different. Can you see it?"
"I can," said the girl. And at that moment she felt that it would be a better thing for man if she were to seize the controls, send their ship tearing down to smash into the ground.
Traffic control ship seven (for the district) swooped three times on the hovering plane. Pilot Petersen scratched his head. "What's he doing?" he asked Engineer Handel.
"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 

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