"Dead sure."

"Can you make a break for it?"

Harry blinked. "I could try. But it won't do any good."

"Well, at least try, Harry. Get here to the Hoffman Center. We'll help
you all we can."

"I'll try." Harry's words were hardly audible as he set the receiver
down with a trembling hand.

The room was silent. The footsteps had stopped. A wave of panic passed
up Harry's spine; he crossed the room, threw open the door, stared up
and down the hall, unbelieving.

The hall was empty. He started down toward the stairs at a dead run, and
then, too late, saw the faint golden glow of a Parkinson Field across
the dingy corridor. He gasped in fear, and screamed out once as he
struck it.

And then, for seconds stretching into hours, he heard his scream echoing
and re-echoing down long, bitter miles of hollow corridor.

2

George Webber leaned back in the soft chair, turning a quizzical glance
toward the younger man across the room. He lit a long black cigar.

"Well?" His heavy voice boomed out in the small room. "Now that we've
got him here, what do you think?"

The younger man glanced uncomfortably through the glass wall panel into
the small dark room beyond. In the dimness, he could barely make out the
still form on the bed, grotesque with the electrode-vernier apparatus
already in place at its temples. Dr. Manelli looked away sharply, and
leafed through the thick sheaf of chart papers in his hand.

"I don't know," he said dully. "I just don't know what to think."

The other man's laugh seemed to rise from the depths of his huge chest.
His heavy face creased into a thousand wrinkles. Dr. Webber was a large
man, his broad shoulders carrying a suggestion of immense power that
matched the intensity of his dark, wide-set eyes. He watched Dr.
Manelli's discomfort grow, saw the younger doctor's ears grow red, and
the almost cruel lines in his face were masked as he laughed still
louder.

"Trouble with you, Frank, you just don't have the courage of your
convictions."

"Well, I don't see anything so funny about it!" Manelli's eyes were
angry. "The man has a suspicious syndrome--so you've followed him, and
spied on him for weeks on end, which isn't exactly highest ethical
practice in collecting a history. I still can't see how you're
justified."

Dr. Webber snorted, tossing his cigar down on the desk with disgust.
"The man is insane. That's my justification. He's out of touch with
reality. He's wandered in