with
definite form. It was cradled in his hand like a weapon. It was pointed
almost at me.

I dropped my pencil and went in low, diving for his legs. I felt the air
crackle where I had just stood. As my arms encircled his legs I heard
thunder exploding nearby.

Training has its advantages. The moment I felt contact with Herb that
training took over. I jerked and rolled in a movement calculated to
throw him to the ground face down, the motion ending in a backbreaker
hold.

But only a part of my mind was concerned with that. The other part was
frozen with horror. Approximately a half acre of the cemetery was
glowing. I saw Steve in the center of it with Herb's weapon pointing his
way. The very inertia of matter held Steve together for that brief
instant, then he was falling apart, melting and evaporating at the same
time, just like the stone markers and the ground around him.

I had the thing away from him suddenly, and I wondered what to do next.
Running footsteps gave me the answer. It was other C.I. agents closing
in.

Seconds later they had Herb under control. Dotty was wringing her hands
and crying.

Me, I was holding the thing, afraid to let go of it and afraid to keep
on holding it. But as the seconds passed without it exploding into
destructive action again I began to let myself think I might live a
while longer.

The area of destruction was molten now. Its heat was like that of an
open blast furnace.

We skirted it and headed toward the road, lights in the distance telling
us that cars were on the way to get us.

I saw Dotty stumble. I took her arm. She looked up at me, recognized me
in the light from the glowing pool of bubbling lava, and tried to pull
away.

"Take it easy," I said gruffly. "I'm your friend. Maybe the only friend
you've got here."

Her look told me she didn't believe me, but she didn't pull away any
more.

We walked along, and after a moment she seemed to struggle up out of her
mental paralysis.

"Herb was right!" she said in a low, wondering tone. "He really did
remember."

"It was plain coincidence," I said sharply, "and don't ever let yourself
think differently. He's insane. It's a recognized form of insanity.
He'll be sent to a good mental hospital, and in a year or two he'll come
out good as new."

"Coincidence?" she echoed. Then she laughed. It was mirth that drifted
quickly into hysterical hopelessness. I dug my fingers into her flesh
until the pain brought her to