"Insane. Just like the others who started to
get somewhere along those lines of investigation. Try to analyze the
growing incidence of insanity in the population and you yourself go
insane. You've got to be crazy to be a psychiatrist. It's an old joke,
but it isn't very funny any more. And it's too much for coincidence.

"And then consider the nature of the insanity--a full-blown
paranoia--oh, it's amazing. A cunning organization of men who are
_not_-men, a regular fairy story, all straight from Harry Scott's agile
young mind. But now it's _we_ who are persecuting him, _and he still
believes his fairy tale_."

"So?"

Dr. Webber's eyes flashed angrily. "It's too neat, Frank. It's clever,
and it's powerful, whatever we've run up against. But I think we've got
an ace in the hole. We have Harry Scott."

"And you really think he'll lead us somewhere?"

Dr. Webber laughed. "That door I spoke of that Harry peeked through, I
think he'll go back to it again. I think he's started to open that door
already. And this time I'm going to follow him through."

4

It seemed incredible, yet Harry Scott knew he had not been mistaken. It
had been Dr. Webber's face he had seen, a face no one could forget, an
unmistakable face. And that meant that it had been Dr. Webber who had
been persecuting him.

But why? He had been going to report to Webber when he had run into that
golden field in the rooming-house hallway. And suddenly things had
changed.

Harry felt a chill reaching to his fingers and toes. Yes, something had
changed, all right. The attack on him had suddenly become butcherous,
cruel, sneaking into his mind somehow to use his most dreaded nightmares
against him. There was no telling what new horrors might be waiting for
him. But he knew that he would lose his mind unless he could find an
escape.

He was on his feet, his heart pounding. He had to get out of here,
wherever he was. He had to get back to town, back to the city, back to
where people were. If he could find a place to hide, a place where he
could rest, he could try to think his way out of this ridiculous maze,
or at least try to understand it.

He wrenched at the door to the passageway, started through, and smashed
face-up against a solid brick wall.

He cried out and jumped back from the wall. Blood trickled from his
nose. The door was _walled up_, the mortar dry and hard.

Frantically, he glanced around the room. There were no other doors, only