turned Smithy. He had already decided not to be
patronizing, but to take a bold, frank, comradely course with the lad.

"Herbux," he said, "Professor von Possenfeller has been telling me the
story of your life. Now you tell me, Herbux. Not _what_ you want to be
when you grow up, but _why_."

"I don't know why, sir," Herbux replied easily. "I only know that I want
to be a Destructor."

"But, Herbux, what _is_ a Destructor?"

Herbux looked around the room. He saw Smithy's birdcage, walked over to
it and stared for a moment quietly at Dicky, the doctor's parakeet.

Dicky looked back, chirped angrily twice and toppled from his perch. He
landed on his back, his tiny feet rigid and unmoving. He was quite dead,
Smithy observed, with a sudden, detached, unbelieving horror. Why, Dicky
was seven years old and he had been as good a pet as any lonely old
professor could have desired as a cheery avian companion.

"Look here, young man," he began sternly. Then, as the shock passed, he
hastily changed his tone. Suppose this child _did_ have some strange
sort of power--mystic perhaps, but definitely abnormal. He may belong in
the School of the Future, Smithy thought. Or perhaps in the School of
the Past--the Dark Ages Department. But not here!

"Don't worry, sir," Herbux said. "I can't do it to you."

"But--do _what_?" Smithy cried. "What did you do?"

"I destructed."

Smithy took a deep breath. He felt as though a cruel hoax had been
played on him. After all, Possy could have lied about the cat and the
other creatures. And the boy was quite obviously bright enough to learn
lines and play a part. But how explain Dicky?

He tried to calculate the coincidental odds that might have caused Dicky
to die a natural death at one precise instant in time under unusual and
exact circumstances. They proved to be incalculable to his
unmathematical brain. He rubbed his face with the palms of both hands.
Then he turned abruptly to Possy.

"I just don't know what to say about it," he explained. "How _could_ I
know? How could anybody know?"

He faced the boy again. "Look here, Herbux. This--this power of yours.
When did you first notice you had it?"

"Last year, sir. I always knew I would do it sometime. But one day I was
looking at a bird perched on my windowsill, and it fell over dead, just
as your parakeet did. I thought it was an accident or a coincidence. But
then the next day it happened again--with a squirrel. Soon I got to
wher