ading
outwards in a rough equivalent of his shape. A spurt of steam leaped
upwards savagely, and the smoke seemed darker. It began to drift on
the air, touched a building, and left a spot of smudginess, before it
drifted on, getting thinner with each gust of wind. It was as if every
atom of his body had suddenly disassociated itself from every other
atom.

* * * * *

Hawkes found his fingernails cutting his palms, and there was blood
flowing from his bitten tongue. He heard a hacking moan in his throat.
He struggled against something that seemed to be holding him down, and
then leaped at least ten feet, to land running.

The alley was twisted and narrow. He shot down it and around a corner.
An ice-house stood there, and he barely avoided the loading trucks. He
was back near the apartment building where he'd found the girl, and he
doubled to a door that showed. It seemed to be locked, but somehow, he
got through it. He seemed to melt through the door, though he wasn't
sure whether his lunge smashed it or whether his fingers had found
the latch in time.

He ducked around loose-hanging electric wires, under twisted pipes,
and across a pile of coal around a hot-water heater. He twisted and
turned, to come into complete darkness, and halt short, listening.

The fear was going--and there were again no sounds of pursuit. But he
couldn't be sure. He'd heard no sounds when the fat man had leaped
out, but they had been there.

Silently and thickly, he cursed. To find a man who seemed to be his
friend, and who knew about him--and then to have them kill that man
with such horrible efficiency before he could learn what it was all
about!

He gagged in the darkness, almost fainting again.

Then, slowly, it was too much. For the moment, he could run no more,
and nothing seemed to matter. He understood his sudden bravado no
better than the unnatural cowardice that had been riding his
shoulders, but he shrugged, and moved forward.

The dark passage led out to steps, that carried him up to the
sidewalk, in front of the building. Ellen Ibanez--or Bennett--was less
than five feet from him, and her eyes were fixed firmly on his face.

IV

She seemed surprised, but tried to smile. "I thought I left you
asleep, Will," she said, in a tone that was meant to be bantering.
"'Smatter, the fuse blow?"

He accepted the excuse for his presence in the basement. "Yeah, it
did. You left the iron on. I won