He saw a loose mat on the vise and reached for it with his left hand. At that instant his hand slipped off the controlling lever, and the first elevator head came down with a crash.

But Arturius’ fingers were not there. He backed off and did the most thoroughly human thing he’d done in years. He thumbed his nose at No. 7. The judge looked skeptical.

“Look out!” High-Pockets yelled. “She’s backing!”

His long arms moved with astonishing speed. He practically snatched the judge up from the place where he stood and set him down again two feet away. And just in time, for a stream of silvery, molten metal rose in a wide arc from the vise-jaws of No. 7 and came down exactly where His Honor’s bald head had been. About three pounds of it descended to the floor and lay there hardening and smoking like an overdone pancake.

Sweat popped out on the judge’s bald head. His Honor’s eyes were bulging. “She squirted hot lead at me!” he said accusingly. “Maliciously and with malice aforethought.” He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his bald head. His hands were steady. “If that lead had fallen on me,” he said plaintively, “it would have baked my skull. Why did she try to do that to me?”

“You made fun of her poetry,” High-Pockets pointed out. With a certain amount of pleasure he reflected that His Honor could hardly allege contempt, under the circumstances.

But his honor looked at High-Pockets with a new light in his eyes. “You may have saved my life,” he said thoughtfully.

Arturius Wickware looked desperate. “It can’t squirt,” he said. “The plunger pin isn’t in.”

High-Pockets pointed to the metal on the floor. “It did,” he said.