Off to the-left, where the scenery was piled thickest, there seemed to be a space cleared for a workroom.
He ran that way. No exit—only a middle-aged man touching up a piece of stage-scenery with green paint. Apparently he was in that undiscovered country called backstage though he had always thought of it as being literally in back of the stage and not underneath.
The man, looking at him mildly as he approached, said, "What goes on, mister?"
Steps resounded on the stairs Otterburn had just descended and he saw a couple of ushers sprinting towards him. For some reason the painter's equipment fascinated him—what fun couldn't he have with a can of that lovely green paint? He snatched up the large can the painter was using, wrenched the 4-1/2 -inch paint-brush out of the astonished man's hand—and then started running again.
He dropped the paint-brush into the can so as to have a free hand, toppled a couple of pieces of scenery in the path of his pursuers and came out the other end of the workroom, back in the large room again.
To the other side of the stairs by which he had come down he saw a passage and ran for it.
The passage went straight on for a short distance. Then there was a little flight of steps leading up to another door and the passage did a square turn to the right. At the sight of something moving in front of him, Otterburn started so hard he spilled paint before realizing that the moving thing was his reflection in a huge full-length mirror beside a double door.
He ran on down the passage to the right to where it did another turn, to the left this time, and ended with a door marked Green Room. No admittance except to theater personnel.
As he took in this message the door flew open and a couple more ushers boiled out.
They checked as they saw him facing them, giving him time to turn and flee back the way he had come.
But when he got back to the big mirror and the double door, here came the other two ushers who had followed him the way he had come. There seemed to be no way to go except through the double door.
Therefore he wrenched it open and plunged in.
He found himself in a large room full of lockers, mirrors, long dressing-tables and a score or more of girls in all stages of nudity, some sitting at the tables and working on their makeup while others struggled into and out of articles of costume.
As soon as his entrance became obvious the girls set up a chorus of screams.
Some held garments in front of them while others simply yelled at him. Knuckles pounded the door.
It took Otterburn a few seconds to decide on his next course of action while fragments of stories he had read and movies he had seen floated through his head. Deciding that terror tactics were in order, he twisted his face into a horrid grimace and raced about the room, screaming at the top of his lungs and slapping wildly with his dripping brush at every patch of bare skin he saw—which under the circumstances included a great deal.
The shrieks of the girls rose to a. deafening crescendo. A few threw bottles and jars of cosmetics at him, which he heeded not at all. By showing his teeth and foaming a bit he soon had the entire mob rushing out the double door, bowling over the ushers standing there or else carrying them along in the torrent. Otterburn, counting on just that, followed them closely out of the room.
Chapter IV.
Once outside, the crowd streamed off in all directions. Some ran for the Green Room, others for the circular staircase at the back of the scenery room that led up to the stage—Otterburn later wondered what the audience must have thought when the females boiled out onto the stage yelling their heads off.
Others ran up the little stairs near the mirror and threw open the door which, as Otterburn could see, was the main backstage exit, the Stage Door. He ran up the steps after them and followed them down another alley to the street.
Since it was the middle of the theater hour with most of the customers in their seats, the crowd on the sidewalks had thinned. Otterburn, thinking it about time he went away from there, looked around for means of transportation.
In front of him he saw a policeman's horse, standing calmly with one forefoot on the curb. No doubt the cop had parked the animal while he went into the theater to investigate the disturbance. Well, he might as well have one more fling.
Otterburn, still clutching his paint-can, swung into the saddle. He collected the reins into his left hand—(which also held the paint-can)—and kicked the horse into motion. At first the beast showed signs of fractiousness at being mounted by a strange rider, but in his present exalted mood Thomas Otterburn was no man to let a mere horse buffalo him. He whacked the animal's rump with the paint-brush and set it to cantering down the avenue.
Ahead of him, screaming, ran three of the chorus-girls. One wore a petticoat with wire stiffening, another a brassiere, and the third a pair of shoes and a broad green stripe across her backside.
Otterburn took a good schloop of paint on his brush and, as his horse passed a bald pedestrian, brought the brush down with a smack on the man's head. He swung at another man afoot but missed and almost swung himself out of the saddle. A third dodged behind an automobile when he saw Otterburn's intention.
Then the three babes had disappeared and from behind him rose a clamor of yells, whistles and sirens. It was time to switch again. He pulled up at a comer and jumped off the horse. The force-field, as he expected, saved him from the jar when he hit pavement.
He threw the paint-can as far as he could and, with the brush, again slapped the horse, which took off down the avenue. Looking hastily around, Otterburn sighted a fire-box. He quickly pulled a false alarm by way of diversion and ran down the side-street.
Since this street, on the edge of the theatrical district, was occupied almost entirely by office-buildings and garment-lofts, it had hardly any pedestrians. The few there were looked at Otterburn as he ran past, but made no move to stop him. At the next corner he turned again. The most promising refuge was an all-night barber shop. He leaped down the four steps that led to it.
When police and firemen swarmed over the neighborhood five minutes later, Thomas Otterburn lay blissfully in a barber-chair with his face covered by lather. He had just finished saying, "Don't shave the upper lip. Think I'll grow a mustache."
By the time the barber had finished the commotion had died. Otterburn looked ruefully at his suit, which now bore several smears of green paint in addition to the spots from its earlier misadventures. He asked, "Have you got some turpentine?"
As it happened the barber did have some turpentine. When Otterburn had abated the worst of the paint-stains he thanked the barber, paid up and strolled back to the street. Everything seemed normal.
He stretched his muscles a little. A shade tired, yes, but not the least bit sleepy. Who said go home? The night was yet young and even if Lucy and M'rie were gone beyond recovery there were plenty more...
Next morning at about ten Thomas Otterburn opened his front door in answer to a knock. Before he could move, strong arms shot in and seized his wrists. Handcuffs clicked.
"We got him, Professor," said one of the cops, holding tight."Okay, now you turn the gadget off."
Otterburn started to remonstrate when he recognized Seymour Barlow, Eduard Dubrowsky and Dr. de Castro. Dubrowsky opened the front of Otterburn's pajamas wide enough to get his fingers on the switch of the materiostat.
Click!
"All right," he said."He's no longer invulnerable, and if you'll unlock these handcuffs and hold his arms I'll get the contraption off him."
"Am I pinched?" asked Otterburn innocently.