e so much. But I'm not going to let you win this one, either,
Paul. You're wrong. I'm going to prove it if it kills me."

V

"Well, try his home number, then," Dan Fowler snarled into the
speaker. He gnawed his cigar and fumed as long minutes spun off the
wall clock. His fingers drummed the wall. "How's that? Dammit, I want
to speak to Dwight McKenzie, his aide will _not_ do--well, of course
he's in town. I just saw him yesterday--"

He waited another five minutes, and then his half dollar clanked back
in the return, with apologies. "All right, get his office when it
opens, and call me back." He reeled off the number of the private
booth.

Carl Golden looked up as he came back to the table and stirred
sugar-cream into half-cold coffee. "No luck?"

"Son of a bitch has vanished." Dan leaned back against the wall,
glowering at Carl and Jean. Through the transparent walls of the
glassed-in booth, they could see the morning breakfast-seekers
drifting into the place. "We should have him pretty soon." He bit off
the end of a fresh cigar, and assaulted it with a match.

"Dad, you know what Dr. Moss said--"

"Look, little girl--if I'm going to die in ten minutes, I'm going to
smoke for those ten minutes and enjoy them," Dan snapped. The coffee
was like lukewarm dishwater. Both the young people sipped theirs with
bleary early-morning resignation. Carl Golden needed a shave badly. He
opened his second pack of cigarettes. "Did you sleep on the way back?"

Dan snorted. "What do you think?"

"I think Paul might be lying to you."

Dan shot him a sharp glance. "Maybe--but I don't think so. Paul has
always been fussy about telling the truth. He's all wrong, of
course--" (fresh coffee, sugar-cream)--"but I think _he_ believes his
tale. Does it sound like he's lying to you?"

Carl sighed and shook his head. "No. I don't like it. It sounds to me
as though he's pretty sure he's right."

Dan clanked the cup down and swore. "He's demented, that's what he is!
He's waited too long, his brain's starting to go. If that story of his
were true, why has he waited so long to tell somebody about it?"

"Maybe he wanted to see you hang yourself."

"But I can only hang myself on facts, not on the paranoid ramblings of
a sick old man. The horrible thing is that he probably believes it--he
almost had me believing it, for a while. But it isn't true. He's
wrong--good lord, he's _got_ to be wrong." Dan broke off, staring
across at Carl. He