ause in some
way he had sensed them, and traced them, and discovered them; that he
had not one iota of proof, except that he was being followed by them,
hunted by them, even now, in a room in the Old City, waiting for them to
strike him down?

He shook his head, almost sobbing. That was what was so horrible. He
couldn't tell Webber, because Webber would be certain that he had gone
mad, just like the rest. He couldn't tell anyone, he couldn't do
anything. He could just wait, and run, and wait--

It was almost dark now and the creaking of the old board house
intensified the fear that tore at Harry Scott's mind. Tonight was the
night; he was sure of it. Maybe he had been foolish in coming here to
the slum area, where the buildings were relatively unguarded, where
anybody could come and go as he pleased. But the New City had hardly
been safer, even in the swankiest private chamber in the highest
building. They had had agents there, too, hunting him, driving home the
bitter lesson of fear they had to teach him. Now he was afraid enough;
now they were ready to kill him.

Down below he heard a door bang, and he froze, his back against the
wall. There were footsteps, quiet voices, barely audible. His whole body
shook and his eyes slid around to the window. The figure in the doorway
still waited--but the other figure was not visible. He heard the steps
on the stair, ascending slowly, steadily, a tread that paced itself with
the powerful throbbing of his own pulse.

Then the telephone screamed out--

Harry gasped. The footsteps were on the floor below, moving steadily
upward. The telephone rang again and again; the shrill jangling filled
the room insistently. He waited until he couldn't wait any longer. His
hand fumbled in a pocket and leveled a tiny, dull-gray metal object at
the door. With the other hand, he took the receiver from the hook.

"Harry! Is that you?"

His throat was like sandpaper and the words came out in a rasp. "What is
it?"

"Harry, this is George--George Webber."

His eyes were glued to the door. "All right. What do you want?"

"You've got to come talk to us, Harry. We've been waiting for weeks now.
You promised us. We've _got_ to talk to you."

Harry still watched the door, but his breath came easier. The footsteps
moved with ridiculous slowness up the stairs, down the hall toward the
room.

"What do you want me to do? They've come to kill me."

There was a long pause. "Harry, are you sure?"