."

Brink jerked a thumb toward a door.

"Come in the other office. Chairs there, and we can sit down. What's the
trouble? A complaint of some kind?"

* * * * *

He ushered Fitzgerald in before him. The detective found himself
scowling. He'd have felt better with a different kind of man to ask
questions of. This Brink looked untroubled and confident. It didn't
fit the situation. The inner office looked equally matter-of-fact.
No.... There was the shelf with the usual books of reference on textiles
and such items as a cleaner-and-dyer might need to have on hand.
But there were some others: "_Basic Principles of Psi_", "_Modern
Psychokinetic Theories_." There was a small, mostly-plastic machine on
another shelf. It had no obvious function. It looked as if it had some
unguessable but rarely-used purpose. There was dust on it.

"What's the complaint?" repeated Brink. "Hm-m-m. A cigar?"

"No," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. "I'll light my pipe." He did,
extracting tobacco and a pipe that was by no means a meerschaum from his
pocket. He puffed and said: "A guy who works for you caught himself on
fire this mornin'. It happened on a bus. Very peculiar. The guy's name
was Jacaro."

Brink did not look surprised.

"What happened?"

"It's kind of a strange thing," said Fitzgerald. "Accordin' to the
report he's ridin' this bus, readin' his paper, when all of a sudden he
yells an' jumps up. His pants are on fire. He gets 'em off fast and
chucks them out the bus window. He's blistered some but not serious, and
he clams up--but good--when the ambulance doc puts salve on him. He
won't say a word about what happened or how. They hadda call a ambulance
because he couldn't go huntin' a doc with no pants on."

"But he's not burned badly?" asked Brink.

"No. Blisters, yes. Scared, yes. And mad as hell. But he'll get along.
It's too bad. We've pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but
we couldn't make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy
stop playin' with matches--only this wasn't matches."

"I'm glad he's only a little bit scorched," said Brink. He considered.
"Did he say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don't
suppose he would."

The detective stared.

"He didn't. Say aren't you curious about how he came to catch on fire?
Or what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected
burnin' to start instead of his pants?"

Brink th