Rita was bound as well as gagged and strapped down to a table saw. The blade was whirling between her ankles, and the implication was clear that some very bad person was ready and willing to push her forward toward the shiny teeth of the saw. A sign taped to the front side of the table said, “Who Can Save Our Nell?” and below that, in block letters, “PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB THE PERFORMERS'.

Around the edge of the space ran a model train, towing a series of flat cars with a sign propped up on them that said, “The Future Of Melodrama'.

And finally I saw Coulter —but it was not a happy and reassuring sighting. He was propped up in a corner, head lolling to one side.

Weiss had put an old-fashioned conductor's hat on his head, and a heavy electric cable was attached to his arms by large, jumper-cable clips. A sign was propped in his lap: “SEMI-CONDUCTOR'. He was not moving, but I could not tell if he was dead or merely unconscious, and considering the circumstances finding out was not high on my list.

I pushed into the crowd, and as the model train went by again I heard Weiss's patented pre-recorded scream played in a taped loop that repeated every few seconds.

I still could not see Weiss —but as I reached the crowd the image on the TV monitor changed —to my face. I spun frantically, searching for the camera, and found it, mounted on a pole on the far side of the exhibit's space. And before I could spin back around again, I heard a whistling sound and a loop of very heavy fishing line whipped tight around my neck. As things started to go dark and whirly I had only a moment to appreciate the bitter irony that he was using a fishing line noose, one of my own techniques; the phrase “my own petard” trundled through my brain, and then I was on my knees and stumbling dreadfully forward in the direction of Weiss's exhibit.

With a noose that tight around your neck, it's really quite remarkable how quickly you lose interest in everything and slide into a dim region of distant sounds and dark lights. And even though I felt the pressure slacken slightly, I couldn't raise enough interest to use the looseness to get free. I slumped on the floor, trying to remember how to breathe, and from far away I heard a woman's voice saying, “That isn't right —stop them!” And I was mildly grateful that someone was going to stop them until the voice went on, “Hey, you kids! It's an art exhibit! Get away from there!” And it filtered through to me that somebody wanted to stop Cody and Astor from ruining the piece by saving their mother.