ng end of things. Now I knew. That
had been the TV "eye," and somewhere there was a framed picture hanging
on the wall, bringing in everything that took place in the cafe,
including everything that was said. Everything _I_ had said, too. It was
an ominous feeling.

Aunt Matilda had almost had a stroke trying to get me out of town. Now I
knew why. She was caught in this thing and wanted to save me. Four days
ago she had probably not fully realized the potentiality for evil of the
invention, but by the time I showed up she knew it.

Well, she was right. This was not something for me to tackle. I would
keep up my appearance of not suspecting anything, and catch that train
Aunt Matilda wanted me to catch.

* * * * *

From way out in the country came the whistle of the approaching milk
run, the train that would take me back to Chicago. In Chicago I would go
to the F.B.I, and tell them the whole thing. They wouldn't believe me,
of course, but they would investigate. If the thing hadn't spread any
farther than Sumac it would be a simple matter to stop it.

I'd hurry back to the cafe and get my suitcase and tell the waitress
I'd decided to catch the train after all.

I turned around.

Only I didn't turn around.

That's as nearly as I can describe it. I did turn around. I know I did.
But the town turned around with me, and the sun and the clouds and the
countryside. So maybe I only thought I turned around.

When I tried to stop walking it was different. I simply could not stop
walking. Nothing was in control of my mind. It was more like stepping on
the brakes and the brakes not responding.

I gave up trying, more curious about what was happening than alarmed. I
walked two blocks along Main Street. Ahead of me I saw a sign. It was
the only new sign I had seen in Sumac. In ornate Neon script it said,
"PORTRAITS by Lana."

* * * * *

I don't know whether my feet took me inside independently of my mind or
not, because I was sure that this was the place and I wanted to go in
anyway.

Not much had been done to modernize the interior of the shop. I
remembered that the last time I had been here it had been a stamp
collector headquarters run by Mr. Mason and his wife. The counter was
still there, but instead of stamp displays it held a variety of standard
portraits such as you can see in any portrait studio. None of the TV
portraits were on display here.

Th