uite human to a child. And that
literal-minded self, your subconscious, saw him after he died. So there
are alien monsters who return from death. Then you come to from a
concussion. Harding is sprawled out unconscious, covered with
blood--probably your blood, since you say he wasn't wounded, later.

"But after seeing your father, you can't associate blood with
yourself--you see it as a horrible wound on Harding. When he turns out
to be alive, you're still in partial shock, with your subconscious
dominant. And that has the answer already. There are monsters who come
back from the dead! An exaggerated reaction, but nothing really
abnormal. We'll have you out of here in no time."

No non-directive psychiatry for Buehl. The man beamed paternally,
chuckling as he added what he must have considered the clincher.
"Anyhow, even zombies can't stand fire, Dane, so you can stop worrying
about Harding. I checked up on him. He was burned to a crisp in a hotel
fire two months ago."

It was logical enough to shake Dane's faith, until he came across Milo
Blanding's picture in a magazine article on society in St. Louis.
According to the item, Milo was a cousin of _the_ Blandings, whose
father had vanished in Chile as a young man, and who had just rejoined
the family. The picture was of Harding!

An alien could have gotten away by simply committing suicide and being
carried from the rest home, but Dane had to do it the hard way, watching
his chance and using commando tactics on a guard who had come to accept
him as a harmless nut.

In St. Louis, he'd used the "Purloined Letter" technique to hide--going
back to newspaper work and using almost his real name. It had seemed to
work, too. But he'd been less lucky about Harding-Blanding. The man had
been in Europe on some kind of a tour until his return only this last
week.

Dane had seen him just once then--but long enough to be sure it was
Harding--before he died again.

This time, it was in a drunken auto accident that seemed to be none of
his fault, but left his body a mangled wreck.

* * * * *

It was almost dark when Dane dismissed the taxi at the false address, a
mile from the entrance to the cemetery. He watched it turn back down the
road, then picked up the valise with his camera and folding shovel. He
shivered as he moved reluctantly ahead. War had proved that he would
never be a brave man and the old fears of darkness and graveyards were
st