dence, the devices
apparently existed.

The police weren't in on it, that much was certain. It was more than a
hunt for a criminal. What had been going on during the months he had
missed?

His mind shuttled over the spy-thrillers he had seen. If some nation
had the secrets, and he had discovered them.... But the heat ray would
never have been used openly, then; they wouldn't tip their hand.
Anyhow, the cold war was still going on, and that would have been
pointless when any nation had such power.

And if the secret belonged to the United States, the young man would
never have levitated to avoid police at the greater risk of tipping
off anyone who saw that such things could be done.

Nothing made sense--not even the crazy feeling of fear that had warned
him on some occasions and failed him this last time. The only
explanation that was credible was the totally incredible idea that
some life, alien to earth and with strange unearthly powers, was after
him--or that he was insane.

He fumbled through a pack of cigarettes until he located the last one,
streaked with sweat that was still pouring down from his armpit, and
lighted it. It was all answer-less--just as his sudden need for
smoking was.

III

Hawkes crushed out the cigarette and began climbing the wide stairs
slowly. It was probably an ambush into which he was heading--but
without this place, he had no chance of resting. He stared at the
numbers painted on the dirty red doors, and went on up a second flight
of stairs. The number he wanted was at the end of the hall, dimly
lighted. He dropped to the keyhole, but found it had been filled long
ago, probably when the Yale lock was installed.

He put his ear against the door and listened. There was no sound from
inside except a monotonous noise that must be water dripping from a
leaky faucet. Finally, he climbed to his feet and reached for his
keys. The third one he tried fitted, and the door swung open.

He fumbled about, looking for a light switch, and finally struck a
match. The switch was a string hanging down from a bare bulb. He
pulled it, to find he stood inside one of the old monstrosities with
which New York is filled--a combination kitchen and bathroom, with a
tiny closet for the toilet in one corner. There was an ice-box, a
dirty stove, a Franklin heater connected to the chimney, a small sink,
and a rickety table with four folding chairs. In a closet, cheap china
showed.

He went through that,