er very little of
Hungary. I came here when I was three. All I remember are the ignorant
peasants. Their dumb, blind superstition--their hatred for----"

"You're afraid of them, aren't you?" she said.

He started. "The peasants. I----" He shook his head. "Perhaps."

"You're afraid," she said. "Would you mind telling me, Doctor, how these
fears of yours manifest themselves?"

He hesitated; they walked. Finally he answered. "I've never told anyone
but you. There are hidden fears. And they reveal themselves consciously
in the absurd fear of seeing my own reflection. Of not seeing my shadow.
Of----"

She breathed sharply. She stopped walking, turned, stared at him.
"Not--not seeing your--reflection!"

He nodded.

"Not seeing your--shadow--!"

"Yes."

"And the full moon. A fear of the full moon, too?"

"But how did you know?"

"And you're allergic to certain metals, too. For instance--silver?"

He could only nod.

"And you go out in the night sometimes--and do things--but you don't
remember what?"

He nodded again.

Her eyes glowed brightly. "I know. I know. I've known those same
obsessions ever since I can remember."

Doctor Spechaug felt strangely uneasy then, a kind of dreadful
loneliness.

"Superstition," he said. "Our Old World background, where superstition
is the rule, old, very old superstition. Frightened by them when we were
young. Now those childhood fixations reveal themselves in crazy
symptoms."

He took off his coat, threw it into the brush. He rolled up his shirt
sleeves. No blood visible now. He should be able to catch the little
local passenger train out of Glen Oaks without any trouble. But why
should there be any trouble? The blood----

He thought too that he might have killed the tramp, that popping sound.

She seemed to sense his thoughts. She said quickly: "I'm going with you,
Doctor."

He said nothing. It seemed part of the inevitable pattern.

* * * * *

They entered the town. Even for mid-morning the place was strangely
silent, damply hot, and still. The 'town' consisted of five blocks of
main street from which cow paths wound off aimlessly into fields, woods,
meadows and hills. There was always a few shuffling, dull-eyed people
lolling about in the dusty heat. Now there were no people at all.

As they crossed over toward the shady side, two freshly clothed kids ran
out of Davis' Filling Station, stared at them like vacant-eyed lambs,
t