ill and
Testament, duly signed, sealed, published and declared, left one-half
of the immediately-to-be-liquidated estate to her son outright. The
other half was put in trust.

Under the trust Martin was to receive the income until he was thirty.
If then an audit showed that his net worth, exclusive of the trust,
had increased by thirty percent the trust was to end and Martin was to
receive the principal. If not, the trust would end and the full amount
thereof would go to his uncle Ralph, a prospect which caused Martin
completely to lose his stability whenever he allowed himself to think
of it. He just _had_ to make the thirty percent!

R. W. Standskill was trustee, and the will gave him full power to
invest the trust estate as he saw fit and without liability if his
investments went bad and without any bond or security required of him
whatsoever. More in token of appreciation of his services than
anything else, Standskill was to receive one percent of the trust as
long as he was trustee.

Martin Black's mind dwelled on the thought of the thirty percent
increase. After five years of conservative investing he had taken some
bad advice in the past year. And now he had to make some money fast in
order to catch up to the quota which was necessary if he were to
achieve his goal.

The Lawrence deal would give him his chance. But not if Standskill
knew about it. The Lawrence deal seemed a good thing, but perhaps it
was only a _sure_ thing if he kept to himself, for the time being at
least.

He was so tired.... _Fatigue._ The French for tired. Funny, he did
remember some of the French from school. Standskill was in Paris.
Association. _Fatigue._ The word stuck. That club--Bob Standskill's
favorite--_Le Cheval Fatigue_ in Montmartre. The Tired Horse.
Tired....

Sleep closed in.... He drifted ... and came to with a sudden start as
a hand roughly shook his shoulder. It seemed as though he had been
hovering mentally in a dimly-lighted cellar cafe, where there was a
babel of voices speaking continental languages, and Standskill was
there.

But, _no!_ he couldn't have been in Paris any more than he had been on
the meteor-pounded wastes of the moon! It was ridiculous. As far as he
knew, no psi had ever been known consciously to flit to the moon--or
unconsciously, for that matter--or to the other side of an ocean!

Standskill's partner, G. D. Rich, was shaking his shoulder. "What's
the matter, Marty? Big night?"

"Big day,