to bed that night. The
man from the Narcotics Squad had left peaceably. There were answers to
all the questions, and it wasn't his worry anyway. He'd be glad when
the little girl had her operation. Grafting bones and muscles might be
miraculous, but they were explicable and everybody understood them.
Talk of the FCC investigation had died aborning, but talk like that
was enough to upset anybody. Everything had been upsetting recently,
even though the up-curve on Witch products was holding steady.

* * * * *

The American dome landed on the moon the morning of the day that the
crippled child was scheduled to come on the Witch program.

For the American people it was a day of celebration comparable to the
Fourth of July. In the White House gloom hung like a palpable shroud.

"They'll have to move fast now," the Secretary of War was reporting to
his chief. "They can't afford to let us get our man up there. Even if
we could shoot him off successfully."

"We can't shoot a man up there until we've proved in at least two more
successful shots that we can get him there," Security declared
forcefully. "The threat from our enemies is as nothing to the threat
from the vote-wielding public if we tried and failed when a human life
is at stake."

"Formosa is leaking," admitted the CIA chief. "We can't hold it more
than three days now at the outside."

The President rested a hand on his desk. "Two more shots mean at least
six months before a man is up there, armed. Three days means Formosa
is in the news this week. When the news breaks, credit our doctors and
bacteriologists with being on the way to a cure. Fix it so that if
they clean up their epidemic, the way they did Suez, we get the
credit.

"That's the best we can do right now. Besides looking for a miracle.
But miracles are popular these days," he added ruefully.

* * * * *

It was Bill Howard who stood outside when Randolph answered his
doorbell next morning. He let the big, homely, almost shambling figure
in without a word.

"I came to ask you a question I don't think you can answer," Howard
said morosely, not moving farther than the foyer.

"I came to ask you what it is about the witches?"

Randolph chewed his lip, standing there beside his much-larger guest,
conscious of his own prim--almost prissy--neatness as it contrasted to
the other's shaggy look. Shaggy dog, thought Randolph. Big, unkempt,