o
circulate the results as 'evidence' to support his delusions. Look,
here's a sample."

Dr. Manschoff passed a square of glossy paper to Harry, who scanned it
quickly. It was another laboratory report similar to the one Ritchie
had shown him, but containing a different set of names.

"No telling how long this sort of thing has been going on," Manschoff
said. "He may have made dozens. Naturally, the moment we discovered
it, we realized prompt action was necessary. He'll need special
attention."

"But what's wrong with him?"

"It's a long story. He was a reporter at one time--he may have told
you that. The death of his wife precipitated a severe trauma and
brought him to our attention. Actually, I'm not at liberty to say any
more regarding his case; you understand, I'm sure."

"Then you're telling me that everything he had to say was a product of
his imagination?"

"No, don't misunderstand. It would be more correct to state that he
merely distorted reality. For example, there _is_ a Dr. Leffingwell on
the staff here; he is a diagnostician and has nothing to do with
psychotherapy _per se_. And he has charge of the hospital ward in Unit
Three, the third building you may have noticed behind Administration.
That's where the nurses maintain residence, of course. Incidentally,
when any nurses take on a--special assignment, as it were, such as
yours, Leffingwell does examine and treat them. There's a new oral
contraception technique he's evolved which may be quite efficacious.
But I'd hardly call it an example of sinister experimentation under
the circumstances, would you?"

Harry shook his head. "About Ritchie, though," he said. "What will
happen to him?"

"I can't offer any prognosis. In view of my recent error in judgment
concerning him, it's hard to say how he'll respond to further
treatment. But rest assured that I'll do my best for his case. Chances
are you'll be seeing him again before very long."

Dr. Manschoff glanced at his watch. "Shall we go back now?" he
suggested. "Supper will be served soon."

The two men toiled up the bank.

Harry discovered that the doctor was right about supper. It was being
served as he returned to his room. But the predictions concerning
Ritchie didn't work out quite as well.

It was after supper--indeed, quite some hours afterwards, while Harry
sat at his window and stared sleeplessly out into the night--that he
noted the thick, greasy spirals of black smoke rising suddenly