thing new. He'd studied the statistical analysis of mob psychology
at times, and felt sure he could spot the signs.

He skimmed on, without results, until he finally came to the current
paper. This he read more carefully. There was no mention of him. But
he found something on the fat man. It was a simple followup to the
story about the scientist who'd turned himself in at Bellevue--the man
had mysteriously disappeared, three hours later. And there was a
picture--the face of the fat man, with "Professor Arthur Meinzer"
under it.

It didn't help.

Hawkes shoved the magazines and papers back, and went through the
series of halls and stairs that led him to the main reference room,
inconveniently located on the top floor. He found the book he wanted,
and thumbed rapidly through it. Meinzer was listed on the bottom of
page 972--but as he looked for 973, a pile of ashes dribbled onto the
floor.

There was no use. They'd gotten there ahead of him.

He made one final attempt. He called the college, asking for Meinzer,
to find that nobody even knew the name! He knew they were lying--but
he could do nothing about that. Maybe it was only because of the
publicity--or maybe because someone or something had gotten to them
first!

* * * * *

Fear was growing with him as he came out on the street. He ducked into
a crowd, and headed slowly into a corner drug store, trying to seem
inconspicuous, but the fear mounted. They were near--they would get
him! Run, GO!

He fought it down, and found that it was weakened, either by his
becoming used to it or because the urgency was less than it had been.

He ducked into a phone-booth and called the newspaper, keeping his eye
on both entrances to the store. It seemed to take forever to locate
the proper man there, but finally he had his connection.

"Meinzer," the voice said, with a curious doubtfulness.

"Oh, yeah. Mister, that story's dead! Call up...."

The telephone melted slowly, dropping into a little cold puddle on the
floor!

Hawkes had felt the tension mounting, and he was prepared for
anything. Now he found himself on the street, darting across
Forty-second Street against the light, without even remembering having
left the booth. He stole a quick glance back, to see people staring at
him with open mouths. He thought he saw a slim figure in gray tweeds,
but he couldn't be sure--and there were probably thousands of such men
in New York.

He