nding.
Hell, the man's just buried, and his relatives and friends--"

"But that's the proof!" Phillips stared at the editor, trying to
penetrate through the haze of hope that had somehow grown chilled and
unreal. His thoughts were abruptly disorganized and out of his control.
Only the urgency remained. "It's the key evidence. And we've got to move
fast! I don't know how long it takes, but even one more day may be too
late!"

Jordan nearly dropped the pipe from his lips as he jerked upright to
peer sharply at the younger man. "Are you crazy? Do you seriously expect
me to get an order to exhume him now? What would it get us, other than
lawsuits? Even if we could get the order without cause--which we can't!"

Then the pipe did fall as he gaped open-mouthed. "My God, you believe
all that stuff. You expected us to publish it _straight_!"

"No," Dane said thickly. The hope was gone now, as if it had never
existed, leaving a numb emptiness where nothing mattered. "No, I guess I
didn't really expect anything. But I believe the facts. Why shouldn't
I?"

He reached for the papers with hands he could hardly control and began
stuffing them back into the folder. All the careful documentation, the
fingerprints--smudged, perhaps, in some cases, but still evidence enough
for anyone but a fool--

"Phillips?" Jordan said questioningly to himself, and then his voice was
taking on a new edge. "Phillips! Wait a minute, I've got it now! _Dane_
Phillips, not _Arthur_! Two years on the _Trib._ Then you turned up on
the _Register_ in Seattle? Phillip Dean, or some such name there."

"Yeah," Dane agreed. There was no use in denying anything now. "Yeah,
Dane Arthur Phillips. So I suppose I'm through here?"

Jordan nodded again and there was a faint look of fear in his
expression. "You can pick up your pay on the way out. And make it
quick, before I change my mind and call the boys in white!"

* * * * *

It could have been worse. It had been worse before. And there was enough
in the pay envelope to buy what he needed--a flash camera, a little
folding shovel from one of the surplus houses, and a bottle of good
scotch. It would be dark enough for him to taxi out to Oakhaven
Cemetery, where Blanding had been buried.

It wouldn't change the minds of the fools, of course. Even if he could
drag back what he might find, without the change being completed, they
wouldn't accept the evidence. He'd been crazy to th