The lobby was empty. The Newsman looked around quickly: doors into the theatre, concession stand, information desk/souvenir case, restroom doors, staircase to the balcony. Which way had Scribbler chosen? From behind the info desk, a steady snoring arose. Looking over the top of it, Newsie saw an old man with a circle of white hair and tiny round glasses asleep with his head on the desk. He shook the man by the shoulder roughly. "What? What?" the oldster snapped, peering up with a frown.

"Did you see which way Scribbler went?"

"Do we need a defibulator pen?" the man repeated, puzzled.

"What?"

"What?"

Exasperated, Newsie let him go. "Never mind!" He checked quickly behind the concession counter, but no one was there. Figuring the straightest route was the fastest, he flung open one of the auditorium doors and ran down the left-side aisle, looking all around. The house seemed empty, and he didn't see anyone onstage. Maybe Scribbler was as fast as his name, and had already legged it backstage. Newsie headed through the house seats and boosted himself up onto the lip of the orchestra pit, and from there onto the stage. He was about to head into the wing when some impulse, some odd feeling, made him pause. Slowly he turned, and caught a tiny movement in his usually-unreliable peripheral vision. Whirling to confront it, he saw gray hair ducking beneath the edge of the balcony, high up. "Scribbler!" Newsie shouted.

Half an unpleasantly familiar face popped up from behind the balcony rail, and eye contact was made. "You hack! You libeler!" Newsie shouted.

Scribbler muttered a curse to himself, breaking from his blown cover and heading for the balcony door. Newsie jumped from the stage, recovered his footing fast, and bolted up the aisle for the lobby. The two of them nearly ran head-on into each other at the bottom of the balcony stairs. Startled, Newsie made a grab for the hack. Scribbler dodged, whirling on the spot and leaping back up the stairs. Where did he think he was going? There wasn't another exit! In growing triumph, Newsie stomped up the stairs hot on Scribbler's heels. Scribbler climbed onto the armrests of the nearest seats, jumping to the next one down, and the next. Newsie went after him, pacing him along the end aisle.

At the edge of the balcony, Scribbler stopped, looking over the rail. It was quite a distance. He looked back at the Newsman, who had paused to catch his breath, confident he'd trapped Scribbler. Rats…I hate heights, Scribbler thought. He boosted himself over the rail, hanging onto it, his shoes barely finding purchase on the tiny ledge. "Go on, jump," Newsie urged, grinning at him. "I'll find the trash bag to scoop you into. It'll be the best scoop you've ever had!" As he laughed at his own terrible joke, Scribbler smirked at him.

"Nice seein' ya," Scribbler said with a jaunty salute, and then vanished below the railing.

Startled, Newsie ran to the railing and looked over. Scribbler was hanging onto one of the lights! The scrawny man grunted, finding a foothold, working himself sideways over to a small ladder of lighting instruments. Newsie debated trying to follow; he wasn't sure the creaking metal poles Scribbler was even now bending a bit would hold his somewhat greater weight. Deciding it would be safer to run down and catch him in the lower house, Newsie turned and took off running up the balcony aisle.

Scribbler glanced up, hearing the Newsman's footsteps hurrying away. "Ha! Loser," he muttered, grinning. Quickly he swung himself up again, making for the back of the balcony. He'd spotted something the Newsman clearly didn't know about: the old trapdoor at the rear of the balcony ceiling which led into the front-of-house bays and lighting storage. He'd hidden there a time or two back in the day. Feeling invigorated by the chase, he jumped up on the arms of the right rearmost seat, able from that height to just reach the handle of the trapdoor and yank on it with his whole weight. The trapdoor swung down, and quickly Scribbler clambered up into it. Once inside, he reclosed it firmly, then sat panting a moment. Fun though it was, he was getting too old for this stuff. Quietly, slowly (no need for hurry or noise now, he'd never be found), Scribbler moved through the ranks of dusty lighting instruments which looked to have sat rusting for decades, heading for the second front-of-house bay. He realized suddenly he ought to use this opportunity; why skulk around in the lighting bays when he could get above the stage and listen in? Clearly his story had caused a furor. Why not spend the afternoon enjoying it?

Pleased with this idea, Scribbler padded along the narrow wooden walkway, passing the first bay without a glance, remembering the route back to the loading rail. He might comfortably wait there, or even climb farther up to the creaky old grid of two-by-twelve boards and spy on the whole stage. The possibilities were open, and he felt sure the chicken-livered Newsgeek wouldn't dare climb up after him. That guy had no idea what it really took to get a great story!

Newsie emerged in the house, glaring around quickly. There was no sign of Scribbler. Immediately he looked into the balcony, seeing no one. Good grief – how long did that sniveling coward expect to drag out this cat-and-mouse run? Irritated, Newsie backed up to the stage along an aisle, his gaze darting in every direction, not seeing any sign of his quarry. Again he climbed onto the stage itself, where he could see the majority of the balcony seats, but although he paced back and forth, squinting up into the dim tier and the box nearer the stage, he couldn't find Scribbler anywhere.

Frustrated, Newsie stood and considered the timing. There was no way the hack could've got by him; he'd have caught at least a glimpse if Scribbler had made it to the stage, or if he'd gone behind him into the lobby somehow. Newsie had made sure to prop open the door as he entered the house so there would be no unseen escape by backtracking through the balcony for the weaselly little liar. Where on earth could he be hiding?

He heard unfamiliar voices behind him, and suddenly remembered he wasn't supposed to be here. He'd been suspended. Shame colored his cheeks. Well, it wasn't as though he'd come to hang around in the hope Kermit would forgive him! He had legitimate business here at the moment! Nodding to himself, he looked around. Perhaps someone else had seen Scribbler. Moving center stage, he kept a nervous eye on the balcony and the house, and waited for whomever was just offstage to get close enough for him to see.

Nothing seemed to be on TV but soaps, infomercials (she frowned as she lingered an extra second on a weird ad for a musically-based learning system called "Hooked on Muppaphonics," with some loud guy in a Flamenco shirt), talk shows, and news. Sighing, Gina left the channel on a local news show, rose and went to the kitchen to figure out what she could pack for a snack; bringing her own was always healthier than relying on the concessions at the Sosilly, and she'd only have a few minutes at intermission to refuel. Still, better a quick snack than going almost five hours from her call time for the pre-show lighting check to shutting it all down when the audience had left. She poked through the refrigerator, wondering suddenly if Newsie liked pizza, and if so what kind. Takeout from Sal's Pies on the way home might be a fun dinner for them both.

Beaker heard noises in the kitchen, and cautiously stepped out of the tub. The shower curtain rustled slightly as he moved, making him freeze, but apparently the owner of the apartment didn't hear it over the noise of the TV. "Watch out if you're heading into the city today! It's raining cats and dogs out there!" The light chuckles of the newspeople didn't seem very worried at all; Beaker wondered why he wasn't also hearing meows and barks and the falling thumps of animals hitting the forecaster. Perhaps that sort of thing didn't happen to non-Muppets. The kitchen noises continued, and Beaker crept out of the bathroom and along the short hallway. Just as he was gathering his courage to make a break for it, the chatter about traffic and upcoming social events in the city tonight changed tone. "And now for a more troubling story: breaking news in one city paper today shone an ugly spotlight on a local former reporter who seems to have finally snapped! This man, known only as Newsman, might be familiar to those of you who've lived here a long while."

Beaker flattened himself against the wall as Gina strode into the living room. She stopped in front of the armoire, staring at the TV, her back to Beaker…but blocking his escape to the door. Flustered, Beaker looked back the way he'd come, then peeked into the dining room. That dining table, though not very high, did seem large enough to hide under… Deciding forward was better than back, Beaker dropped to his hands and knees and crawled from the hall archway through a corner of the living room and successfully into the dining room, wedging his lanky body uncomfortably under the antique table next to the central pedestal. He patted one of its enormous clawed feet, thinking anxiously about monsters, but the table seemed immobile enough. Breathing hard, he tried to be silent.

Gina stared in shock at the images on the screen: as the anchor's voice continued, a montage of gruelingly awkward shots of the Newsman flew across. Newsie being eaten by his own desk. A ton of weight dropping from the ceiling on him. A falling cow hitting him from above. Newsie suddenly exploding (Gina flinched badly at that one). A piano crashing onto his desk. Attacked by angry sheep. Attacked by a rampaging sledgehammer. Barometers battering his head. Turned suddenly into cheese. "This so-called Newsman, a former employee of our rival station KRAK, has suffered humiliations of the bizarre kind for decades while delivering completely unfounded reports on undocumented events. It seems he may have finally snapped. A report this morning states the Newsman was responsible for the explosion which disrupted the show at the Muppet Theatre last night. Inside sources claim the allegedly enraged reporter then went on a rampage in the theatre until authorities dragged him out of the building." Gina shook her head, choking in protest, unable for a moment to even yell half the things running through her mind. The news anchor, a smiling younger man, shook his head in mock disbelief as the camera returned to him. "What set him off? No one seems to know. We sent a reporter down to the theatre earlier, but we were unable to get a clear statement from anyone there. Our sources inside the police department say no one fitting the Newsman's description is in custody; his whereabouts are currently unknown."

"Are you KIDDING me?" Gina shrieked. Beaker cowered.

"Wow, Brad. Did you say he used to work for KRAK?" asked the sports guy sitting next to the anchor at the long curved desk.

"That's right, Brent. Maybe they fired him because they suspected he was a loose cannon with a lit fuse," the anchor responded, smiling.

"Grrrrrraaaaahhh!" Furious, Gina threw the remote at the TV. It bounced off the armoire instead. Her aim was bad when she was angry.

"Well, stay tuned! We'll be back with the three-day forecast when we return to the News at Noon, here on Fox affiliate KRAS!"

"I don't believe this!" Gina yelled, storming into the bedroom. "Those sons of-!"

Beaker flinched, eyes wide, at the sounds of heavy cursing coming from down the hall. Suddenly he realized this might be his chance at escape, and hurried forward – forgetting to duck. The overhanging lip of the table bonked his forehead, and he flopped to the floor a moment, dazed. He meeped and scrabbled backwards as Gina came stomping out into the living room again; she was too furious to even notice him. Shutting off the TV, she paced the living room, looking out at the rain. "Oh, Newsie. What are they doing to you?" Turning, rubbing her chin in worry, she trudged back out of the room. Desperately, Beaker surged forward again, remembering to duck, and was just straightening up when Gina strode angrily back through the hall. With a terrified squeak, Beaker hit the floor, scrunching his whole body backwards under the table again. "I do not believe this! What, am I supposed to conjure up protection from total idiots now?" She stopped by the window again, glaring out. Beaker stared at her, frozen, waiting. Fuming, Gina turned again and left the room. This was it. He had to run! Beaker threw himself forward. The lip of the table banged his head. He meeped in pain, but then hurriedly scrambled across the floor, was mostly upright by the time his feet landed on the living room rug, and yanked open the front door as he heard noises behind him. He pulled the door shut, legging it for the elevator, where someone was inside and just starting to close the doors.

"Mee-mee!" Beaker yelled, throwing himself at the elevator. The doors shut just as he reached it, clamping around his nose. "Meeeep!" With an annoyed tingtingting, the doors reopened, and a large hippo-lady stood glaring disapprovingly at Beaker. Shaking, he stepped into the car, feeling his nose throbbing painfully. He glanced back at the snooty lady, then with trembling fingers pushed the door close button. He shuffled back a step to make sure his nose was unhurt this time. The elevator started down.

Gina kept pacing from the bedroom to the living room. She really, really hoped none of Newsie's colleagues at the Muppet Theatre saw this. She especially hoped he wouldn't find out about it. It was obvious the unscrupulous station had taken their story from the unscrupulous tabloid reporter's piece this morning. Oh, she could certainly understand his wanting to go pound Scribbler. She'd a good mind to do some pounding of her own at this point. She wondered briefly how much Scribbler weighed; swinging him from the grid at the Muppet Theatre sounded like fun. Or hooking him into the lighting circuitry, so he'd be shocked every time the house lights came up, or something. Poor Newsie! Worried, Gina went back to the bedroom and stopped before her prayer altar. She took a moment to calm herself, so as not to send anything negative his way, thinking of his face when he'd said what he did before running out. She hadn't thought he would say it. Had she hoped he would, if she was gentle to him, if she did her best to make him happy? Yes…but hope is not certainty. The thought of it made her smile a little. He was priceless, and she was determined to keep him safe, even from this craziness.

She opened the little cabinet doors…and stared, stunned. The doll was missing! Had Newsie found it? He hadn't given her any indication he'd discovered the protective spell she'd cast with his likeness. Frantically she searched the bedroom, but there was no sign of the doll. Oh, no, oh, no! Had someone broken in and taken it? She should've paid more attention when she'd come back in the apartment and felt like something had changed! If someone had the doll who knew what it was for, how to use it, they might try to hurt Newsie!

Trying not to panic, Gina unpinned the old shawl from the wall above her bed. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed it briefly, murmuring, "Grandmama Angie, please help me! If you can hear me, help me… Newsie's in trouble…he's in trouble, and I love him!" Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she grabbed her keys and an umbrella and ran from the apartment, pausing only a second to check the door lock this time before bolting for the elevator.

On the wet street, Beaker shivered as much from the scariness of what he'd just been through as much as the chill of the rain. He felt the weird little figure in his coat pocket, tucked the psychokinetic energy detector in the other, and kept running for the theatre. He had to warn Bunsen before anything worse happened. And with both the Newsman and the scary Gypsy girl giving off frighteningly high energy levels, who knew what catastrophe might come down on everyone's heads? Squealing at a near-miss by a swerving car on the slippery street, Beaker dashed through the traffic and down the sidewalk, worried less about getting soaked than about reaching the theatre before things got worse.

"A reporter? Yeah…there was a guy hanging around the back door earlier, right Bob?" one of the workmen remembered. Eagerly, Newsie looked at the other man. Both of the workmen from Fiama Construction, Remodeling, and Waste Disposal were short, with olive skin and black hair; Newsie couldn't tell them apart, especially in their identical yellow hardhats and blue overalls.

"Oh yeahhh…dat's right," the other nodded. "Yeah, good memory, Steve."

"Sure was. Yep." They kept nodding, staring blankly at the Newsman.

Frustrated, he pressed, "Well, did you see which way he went?"

"Oh, I dunno. He and that cameraguy sure ran when the rain hit!"

They both laughed. Eventually the laughter subsided, and they stood dumbly, blinking at him.

"Cameraguy?" Scribbler didn't have a cameraman! No station would hire that hack…well, maybe the jerks over at KRAS. They seemed to thrive on gossip and rumormongering almost as much as The Daily Scandal. "No, no; the man I'm looking for is about so high, with gray stringy hair and big round glasses!"

"Hey Steve, what color was that guy's hair?"

"Uh…I dunno…what was it…like the color of…bananas?"

"Uh…you mean green?" Bob tried.

"Green! Yep. Dat's right. Green."

"Wasn't stringy?"

"Nope, nope, nope."

"Nope, nope." They both shook identically dull heads at him.

Newsie tried to hold back a shout of complete exasperation. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak clearly: "Okay…if you do see someone like I've described, could you tell me?"

"Yep, we can do dat."

"Sure can, Bob. Sure can."

"Yep." As the Newsman turned away from the nodding workers, one spoke up suddenly, "Uh…when do you want us to tell you?"

"As soon as you see him!" Newsie shouted.

"Oh," the other worker said, looking almost surprised. The two of them exchanged a glance.

"Hey Bob, you're late dere."

"Yep, guess I am, Steve! I sure am. Yep."

The Newsman stared from one of them to the other as they lapsed back into complacency. Finally he exploded, "When did you see him?"

"Hey, buddy, no need to yell," Bob-or-Steve said mildly.

"No need for yellin'," Steve-or-Bob agreed.

"Where? Where IS he?"

"Right up dere," one of the workers said, nodding behind Newsie.

"Yep. Looks gray from here."

The Newsman whirled, his head jerking up, seeing a surprised Scribbler ducking too late below the enclosure of the loading rail along the fly system. Choking back a curse, Newsie ran for the spiral stairs to the loading rail. Behind him, the workers scratched their heads.

"'Course, from down here, everyting looks kinda gray…"

"You're right dere, Bob. You sure are. You sure know your colors, Bob."

"Hard to tell from here, ya know. Dat guy's hair might only look gray. It might actually be…uh…uh…what's that color, you know, the color dat frog guy is?"

"Orange, Steve?"

"Orange! Dat's it. Might be orange. Hard to tell from here."

"It sure is, Steve. Sure is."

Scribbler hadn't expected the Newsman to actually pursue him at this height. He climbed the ladder to the front-of-house bays, ducking as he ran along the passage back to the trapdoor. Wow, the yellow geek must really be steamed! What a great follow-up this would make! He could picture the headline now: "CRAZED NEWSMAN ASSAULTS STAR REPORTER!" Heh, heh, heh…

The trapdoor wouldn't budge. Alarmed, Scribbler yanked on the handle. It had locked itself somehow when he'd come through it and now refused to open. He heard the Newsman's feet pounding along the boards of the first bay, searching for him. Trying to move silently, Scribbler dashed back the way he'd come, and suddenly the Newsman was right in front of him, swinging around the corner of the lighting bay into the access passage. "Gaaahhh!" Scribbler yelled, falling back and down. He threw himself to one side as the Newsman's right shoe came down hard where his hand had been a second ago. He kicked out and landed a blow with his own beat-up running shoe on Newsie's ankle, making Newsie hop in pain a moment. Scrambling to his feet, Scribbler hoofed it along the second lighting bay. He saw a small dark doorway at the end of it. Hastily he pulled himself through it as the Newsman came pounding after him again. It ran several claustrophobia-inducing feet before opening out to some kind of storage loft above the stage right wing; Scribbler could see all of backstage. Spotting a rope tied off to an unsteady-looking iron safety railing at the platform's edge, Scribbler quickly undid the knot holding it and took a flying leap.

Newsie leapt almost sideways through the small doorway, racing through the tiny passage, took two larger strides as the passage opened out and abruptly realized he'd run out of floor; the railing was crashing down even as he teetered on the edge. Waving his arms frantically, he tried to catch his balance; Scribbler swung across to the dressing-room stairs with a terrified howl, but landed more or less safely. Newsie grunted, trying to pull himself back, but his momentum was too great; down he fell.

"Meeeeeeep—oof!"

Dazed, Newsie and Beaker stared at one another, the rumpled Newsman on top of the flattened lab assistant. "Sorry," Newsie muttered awkwardly, then clambered to his feet and looked around for the hack reporter. He saw the clueless workmen trying to wedge a new stove through the back door; it completely blocked the entrance. He and Beaker were blocking the stage access. Gonzo and a few chickens were camped on the top of the stairs to the dressing-rooms, staring in surprise at him; they showed no sign of immediate disturbance. Scribbler hadn't tried to go past them. That only left one direction.

Panting, sore, Newsie got his feet moving again, heading for the lower stairs. The hack was somewhere below. This time he wasn't going to escape. Newsie would show them all he was man enough to take on a jerk like Scribbler and win. They wouldn't laugh at him after that! The thought quickening his heart, he skidded to a brief halt at the top of the stairs, grabbed the railing, and nearly slid down it.

Dr Honeydew looked up as every sensor in the lab spiked, alarms blaring. "Oh! Oh, dear!" Quickly he hurried from readout to readout. Beaker still wasn't back; Bunsen hoped his friend hadn't been hurt by the dangerous forces he'd been tracking. If that psychokinetic energy detector was destroyed, it would take him days to build another as good! Upset, Bunsen turned from his computer banks to see a wildly panting, skinny man in dirty, wet clothes dashing into the lab. "Oh! Excuse me! You aren't supposed to be in here!" Bunsen protested.

"Yeah, whatever, Doc," Scribbler said, looking around for someplace to hide.

The alarm screeched louder. With frightened meeps, Beaker ran in, waving his hands at Bunsen. Confused, Bunsen looked from Scribbler to Beaker and back. "Beaker! What on earth is going on?"

"Mee mee meepme, mee mee, mee mee mee!" Beaker choked out.

"What? Voodoo? Beaker, slow down, you're not making any sense!"

Ignoring them both, Scribbler concluded there simply wasn't enough room in the crowded lab to hide himself, and checked the closet instead. It seemed to be a bedroom, with camp cots taking up most of the space.

"Meeme meep, mee Mewsmeep, mee mee me meeee!" Beaker shouted, producing the strange little doll from his pocket and showing it to Bunsen. Despite the racket of the alarms and the frantic gesturing Beaker was doing as he spoke, Bunsen calmly lifted his glasses, stared at the doll, flipped them down again, stared some more, then shook his head as he took the tiny image of the Newsman. He held it up, turning it this way and that, looking closely at the heart sticker and the tiny ring of hair around its arm.

"Beaker, there is no such thing as a real voodoo doll, and at any rate, Miss Broucek said she was a Gypsy, not a witch doctor! I'm sure there's some logical explanation for this. Is the Newsman here? The psychokinetic energy alarms are going bananas!"

Just as Scribbler came out of the too-small bedroom, the Newsman stopped in the lab doorway. They stared at one another, both panting. "Ah-ha!" Newsie yelled, throwing himself into the lab.

"Oh! Beaker, hold this!" Bunsen cried, tossing the doll to Beaker, who caught it like a hot potato, squealing and shaking his head. Frantically he tossed it to Scribbler. Scribbler, startled, hauled back his arm to throw it at Newsie…then saw what it was.

"Hey! Look what I got!" he shouted, holding the doll aloft. The Newsman froze, for a moment sure it was one of Crazy Harry's bombs or something equally deadly. Then he frowned, trying to see exactly what his nemesis held. Scribbler laughed, and waved the doll at Newsie. "Looky here! It's a little voodoo doll! And who do you think it is?" He thrust it at Newsie a second. "It looks like you!"

Shocked, Newsie stared at it. Reflexively he reached for it, but Scribbler yanked it away. Beaker and Bunsen cowered off to one side, watching the exchange, both with hands to their mouths in worry. "Heh heh heh! Wonder what I could do with this, huh? It sure does look just like you: same yellow streak, same silly glasses, same ugly jacket!"

"I do not have a yellow streak!" Newsie growled, but the doll unnerved him. It did look scarily like him. Where the heck had Scribbler found a thing like that? Swallowing hard, he shot back, "And my nose is nowhere near that big!"

"Look in the mirror lately?" Scribbler cackled. He played with the doll's arms. Concerned, Newsie glanced down at his own, but he seemed unaffected. "Say, I wonder what would happen if I…stomped on this?" He made as if to throw it on the ground, and the Newsman cringed back. Ashamed of himself, Newsie scowled at Scribbler, and lunged for the hack. Scribbler danced behind the enormous pile of junk on the table in the middle of the room. "Or…boiled it in acid? Huh? Wanna try it, Newsie?"

"Erk!" Newsie choked, then immediately tried to go after Scribbler again. Bunsen waved his hands nervously.

"No, no, be careful! This is the psychokinetic energy specific gravity field reverse manifestational generator! I haven't recalibrated it for your new energy levels yet!"

"What?" Newsie demanded, shooting a look at Bunsen. What the heck? This was supposed to be a simple payback! Where did all this weirdness come from?

"Mee memergy mee mee meep me!" Beaker said, looking from Newsie to Bunsen. He dug the psychokinetic energy detector from his coat pocket and pressed it into Bunsen's hands. "Me meepmeep mippy-mippy, mee!"

"What?" Honeydew said, startled. "Oh my! Really?"

"So, Newsie! You gonna step aside and let me outta here, or am I gonna have to do something to this little mini-Newsie that you're really not gonna like?" Scribbler threatened, waggling the doll in his dirty hand.

"Over my dead body!" Newsie yelled without thinking.

"Well, okay," Scribbler laughed. He really had no idea if it would work, but watching the Newsman panic was half the fun. He lurched to one side, trying to get around the scientists, his elbow banging something on the odd-looking conglomeration of junk on the table. Instantly the sound of a small unlicensed nuclear accelerator powering up filled the room, a deep and growing subsonic hum making the racket of the alarms feel like nothing to everyone's eardrums.

"No! No! Not yet!" Honeydew shrieked.

"Meemeemeee!"

The floor began to shake. The readout screens cracked and splintered. The ceiling lamps swung crazily. The Newsman looked around, frightened, not knowing whether to run or try to seize Scribbler. Beaker, shrieking, dove under another desk. Bunsen backed away, his hands on his mouth in awe and terror. The generator shook wildly. The hubcap array blew completely off it with a burst of steam, nearly missing Scribbler. Deciding whatever was about to happen was not good, Scribbler broke for the door. Newsie lunged at him, missing, falling hard on the unstable floor. Pulling himself up by grabbing the table, he was about to run for the doorway when a huge tremor shook the whole room. Staggering, Newsie threw his arms out instinctively. One hand caught the generator.

"No, Newsman! Don't touch it!" Bunsen yelled, too late.

The room quieted. The shaking ceased. The generator began to hum steadily.

Bunsen and Newsie stared at one another. Beaker peeked out from under the desk. "Me meep?" he asked tentatively.

The alarms shut off. They all looked around. Slowly Newsie took his hand off the generator. Immediately the rumbling shook the room again, the alarms shrieked, and the lamp over the table blew out. Quickly Newsie grabbed the machine again, holding onto a long handle on one side. Everything calmed once more.

Newsie stared at it, his heart pounding, his breath coming hard through his open mouth. He could feel some kind of current flowing through him. It didn't hurt, but it was making him feel very anxious. He looked at Bunsen. "Wh-what now?" he demanded.

"Oh," Bunsen said, cautiously approaching and looking over the whole thing. Beaker got to his feet, hanging back. Bunsen shook his head. "Oh. Oh dear." The scientist turned to his assistant. "Ah, Beaker…"

"Mee?"

"Would you please go ask everyone to leave the building?"

Stunned, Beaker and Newsie stared wideyed at Honeydew. After a beat, Beaker ran screaming from the lab.