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 wondered what happened to you?"

"Nothing. Just shopping. There wasn't a bit of food in the place--and

I must say, Will, you aren't much of a housekeeper. I bought pounds of

soap!"

He followed her up the stairs, and his key opened the door. He was

still operating on the general belief that they'd be least likely to

spot him where they had already found him once. If the girl had tipped

them off, then they had it figured out that he had run off, and

probably wouldn't be back.

He hoped so, at any rate.

She was talking too briskly, and she was too careful not to mention

that the iron was cool, with its cord wrapped neatly around the

handle. He offered no explanation, but let her babble on about the

strange coincidence of his being _the_ Will Hawkes, and how she'd

almost forgotten the childhood days.

"How come the Ibanez?" he asked, finally.

"Stage name! I tried to make a go of the musicals, but it wasn't my

line, I found. But the name stuck."

"And where'd you learn how to drug coffee that way?"

She didn't change expression. There was even a touch of a twinkle in

her eye. "Waitress in a combination bar and restaurant. You needed the

sleep, Will. And I guess I still feel as much of a mother to you as I

did when you used to get hurt, so long ago."

She had things out of the bags now, and he saw that she had been doing

a lot of shopping. There had still been time enough to call the slim

young man, though--or, he suddenly realized, the fat man. He had no

more reason to believe her an enemy than a friend. Then he corrected

that. If she'd known enough to call the fat man, and had been his

friend, she could have told him things. She'd denied knowing anything,

though.

He couldn't understand why he trusted her--and yet, somehow, he did.

Even if he knew she'd called them, he would still have to trust her.

He was sure now that she was lying, and that she had been the girl at

the door--but that meant she'd been with the fat man. And the fat man

had seemed to be his friend. Or, had the man been set to lure him out,

but miscalculated, and gotten only what had been meant for him?

His head was spinning, and he gave it up. He was a fool to trust her

simply because the fear feeling subsided around her--but he had

nothing better to do than to follow his hunches, and then try to play

the odds as best he could.

* * * * *

"Cigarettes," she said, handing him a pack of his brand. "And for me.

Shoe dye--your shoes need it, and I couldn't find a shoe store. I did

get a shirt though, and a tie. You'll find a hat in that bag. Size

seven and a quarter?"

He nodded gratefully, and went in to change. His old shirt had caught

most of the cat's blood, and he needed a fresh one. There were a

couple of spots on his trousers, but they'd do. And the sports jacket

matched well enough. He daubed the dye onto his shoes--one of the

combined polish and dye things.

"Cold-cuts all right?" she asked, and he called back a vague answer

that seemed to satisfy her. He was staring at the shoe dye.

It worked fairly well, when he experimented. He daubed it onto his

hair with a wisp of cotton. His hair began to mat down, but he found

that combing it out as he went along removed the worst of the wax and

still left some of the color. It worked better than it should have

done.

He found a bottle of something that smelled of alcohol and belonged in

her cosmetics, and began removing most of the mess. By being careful,

he got the wax and most of the dye smell off, while leaving his hair

darker.

"Better wash up," she called.

There was a razor among the things she had bought. He daubed some of

the dye on his upper lip, where the stubble of a mustache was showing.

It was easier there, if it didn't wash off in soap and water.

Some of it did, but when he finished shaving, he felt better. It

wouldn't pass close inspection, but he now seemed to have darker hair,

and the dye had exaggerated the little beginning of a mustache enough

to make some change in his appearance.

He waited for her to comment, but she said nothing. He waited for her

questions about what he was going to do, and her explanations that of

course he couldn't stay there. She merely went on talking idly, while

they ate. It didn't fit.

Finally he stood up and began taking down the rope that was strung up

over one end of the room, to use as a clothes line, he supposed. She

looked up at that. "What--"

"You can fight, if you want to," he told her. "Or you can save

yourself the headache of being knocked out. Take your choice. People

don't pay much attention to screams in a place like this. And I'm not

going to harm you, if you'll take it easily."

"You mean it!" Her eyes were huge in her face, and there was a touch

of fright now. She gulped visibly, and then seemed to go limp. "All

right, Will. In the bedroom?"

He nodded, and she went ahead of him. She didn't struggle, until he

was about to gag her. Then she drew her head aside. "There's money in

my bag, if you're going out."

* * * * *

He swore, hotly and sickly. If she'd only act just once as a normal

female should! Maybe Irma had been a hysterical, cold-blooded fool,

but she couldn't have been that much different from other women--even

the books indicated Ellen should be anything but so damned

cooperative!

"If you'll tell me what's going on, I'll still let you go," he

suggested, drawing her hands tighter together.

"I can't, Will. I don't know."

He had to believe her--he knew she was telling the truth, at least to

some extent. And that made it just so much worse. He bound the gag

over her mouth as gently as he could, and closed the door behind him.

Her big eyes haunted him as he turned to the telephone.

The information girl at CCNY could only tell him that Wilbur Hawkes

had resigned abruptly seven months before, and no one knew where he

was--they had heard he was doing government research. He snorted at

that--it was always the excuse, when nobody knew anything.

He tried a few other numbers, and gave up. Nobody knew--and nobody

seemed to react to his name any differently from what they would have

done had he remained a quiet, professorish man, minding his own

business, instead of being chased by....

He couldn't complete that. The idea was still too fantastic. Even if

there were alien life-forms that were subtly invading Earth, why

should they pick on him? What good could a little, unimportant

mathematician do them--particularly if they had the powers he already

knew they possessed? It was a poor answer, though no harder to believe

than that any group on Earth could so suddenly come up with miracles.

Anyhow, men knew enough already to be pretty sure that Mars and Venus

wouldn't have creatures that could invade Earth--and the other planets

were hopeless. Perhaps from another star--but that would mean

violating the theories of mass-increase with the speed of light, and

he was not ready to accept that, yet.

This time, he went out of the building without looking first. It could

do no good--they could hide from him, he knew, and he would only call

attention to himself by looking around. With the change in appearance,

he might get by. He moved rapidly up to Broadway, where he found a

little clothing store and a ready-made suit that nearly fitted him.

The tailor there seemed unconcerned when he insisted the cuffs be

turned up at once, and that he wanted to wear it immediately. It took

nearly an hour, but he felt safe, for a change. A five-and-ten

furnished a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses that seemed to have blanks in

them, and he decided he might get by.

There was no evidence of pursuit. He caught a cab, and headed for the

library. Ellen had been well-heeled--suspiciously so for a girl who

lived in a cold-water flat like that; he'd peeled fifteen tens from

her wallet, and there'd been more, not to mention the twenties. His

conscience bothered him a bit, but he was in no position to worry too

much.

* * * * *

The library was still the puzzle of the ages to him--he'd used it half

his life, and still found it impossible to guess why such a building

had been chosen. But eventually, he found the periodical room, and

managed to get through the red tape enough to be given a small table

with a stack of newspapers and magazines.

The mathematics magazines interested him most. He pored through them,

looking for a single hint of the things he had seen. Einstein's work

with gravity stood out, but no real advances had come from it. It was

still a philosophical rather than an actual attack on physics--as

beautiful as a new theology, and about as hard to utilize. He skimmed,

through the pages, but nothing showed. No real advance had been made

since his memory blanked out, except for one paper on variable stars

which was interesting, but unhelpful.

He threw them aside in disgust. He knew that it was useless to look in

other languages. Work couldn't be done without some first stages that

would be reported, and any significant new theory would be picked up

and spread. Science wasn't yet completely under political wraps.

For a second, he stopped as he came to a paper bearing his by-line.

Then he grimaced--it was an old one, just published--his attempt to

find how the phenomena of poltergeists could be fitted into the

conservation of energy, and his final proof that the whole business

was sheer rubbish. It would be nice to be able to get back to a life

where he could fool around with such learned jokes.

The newspapers, beginning with the last day he could remember, were

almost as barren of results. There was the story of the cold war,

without the strange overtones that should be there if any of the major

powers--where all the major scientists would tend to be--had found

something 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 ducked into a bank, wormed his way around the various aisles, and

out the back entrance. A cab was waiting there, and he held out a

bill.

"I'm late, buddy. Penn Station!"

The cab-driver took the bill and the hint, and darted out, just as the

light was changing.

Penn Station was as good a place to try to get lost from pursuit as

any. Hawkes examined his wallet, considering trying to get a train

out--but he'd used up nearly all he had taken from Ellen.

And all his careful disguise had proved useless. They weren't

fooled--and this business of dodging was wearing thin. By now, they'd

know his habits!

He drew out a coin, flipping it. It came up heads. He frowned, but

there was nothing else to do. He moved down the ramp toward the subway

that would carry him back to Sixty-sixth and Broadway. He was probably

walking into their trap by now, but the coin was right. He had to free

Ellen. If they got him, it couldn't be much worse for him.

Then he shuddered. He couldn't know whether it would be worse for his

country, or even his world. He couldn't really know anything.

V

It was growing dark as he walked down Sixty-sixth, eyeing every man

suspiciously, and knowing his suspicion would do no good. He was still

trying to think, though he knew his thoughts were as useless as his

suspicions.

If he could remember! His mind came up sharply against leaving Irma

and taking out the mail; then it went abruptly blank. What had been in

the letter? It had been from a professor--it might have been from

Professor Meinzer. That would tie in neatly. But Meinzer was dead, and

he couldn't remember. They'd stripped him of his memory. How? Why?

Were they trying to prevent his giving information to others--or were

they trying to get something from him? And what could he know?

He'd dabbled with ESP mathematically, but now he found himself

wondering if it could exist. Could they be tracking him by some

natural or mechanical ability to read his mind? He strained his own

mind to find a whisper of foreign thought, outside his brain. He drew

a blank, of course, as he'd expected.

There were no answers. They could play with him, like a cat juggling a

mouse, letting him almost learn something--and then, always, they

arrived just in time to prevent his success!

Put a rat in a maze where it can't learn the path, and it goes insane.

But what good would he be to anyone if they drove him insane? And why

bother with all that when they could silence him as well by killing

him?

He'd forgotten to watch, and was surprised to find his feet on the

steps of the apartment building. He jerked back, and bumped into

someone.

"Sorry." The words came from behind him, automatically, and he turned

to see the slim young man stepping aside. For a second, their eyes met

squarely. A row of teeth flashed in a brief smile as the man started

around him. "Guess I was thinking. Should have watched where I was

going."

The man went on down the street, and turned in at the restaurant

entrance.

* * * * *

Hawkes lifted a foot that weighed a ton and slowly closed his mouth.

He'd been facing away from the street light--and his face might have

been hard to see. Yet....

It didn't fit. The young man must have known him!

He blanked it from his mind. He couldn't believe that it was anything

but lack of recognition. It was hard to see here, where the other was

facing the light, and he was in the shadow.

But it still meant that they were waiting, nearby.

He dashed up the stairs, expecting a rush at both landings. The normal

sounds of the apartment house went on. He listened at his door, but he

could hear nothing except the same drip he had heard before. Slowly,

he inserted the key and went in. The small bulb was still on. He crept

along, trying to move silently on floors that insisted on creaking.

The living room was as he had left it, and he caught sight of Ellen on

the bed.

He spotted a mirror over one of the dressers, and used that to study

more of the bedroom. It seemed as empty as before.

Finally, he stepped inside. There was no one there but Ellen, and she

seemed to be asleep, doubled up in a position that might have made the

unkind cords easier to stand. She moaned slightly as he untied her

gently, but didn't awaken. Her breathing was regular, and her breath

had the odd muskiness of someone who has slept for several hours.

He found a bottle of liquor on the shelf where she had put it, and

rinsed out a couple of glasses. It was good liquor--good enough to

take without mixers, as they'd have to do.

She came awake when he called her, rubbing her eyes and then her

wrists, where the cords had left a mark. But she was smiling. "Hi,

Will. I knew you'd come back. Hey, not on an empty stomach."

"You need it--and so do I," he told her. "Bottoms up!"

They were big glasses. She gasped over it, but she downed it, then

reached for the water he had brought as a chaser. She swallowed, and

blinked tears out of her eyes. "I don't usually drink."

He made no comment, but refilled the glass. The liquor had less effect

on him than he'd expected, though he'd always had a good head for it.

It took some of the edge off his worrying, though.

She giggled suddenly, and he frowned. She couldn't take much on an

empty stomach, it seemed. Then he shrugged. Let her drink--maybe if he

could get her drunk, he could find something out; at least he might

learn whether the slim young man had been there during the day.

"Like when you found your dad's cider," she said, and giggled again.

"You got awful--hp!--awful drunk, Willy, din't you? You

were--so--funny!"

She was trying to be careful with her words already. She slid around,

doing things that brought more honestly beautiful thigh into the light

than Will had seen in ten years. He reached to adjust her dress, and

she giggled again, sliding against him.

"You kissed me then, Willy. Remember? Bet you don' remember!"

* * * * *

He began it coldly, deliberately. If he could work on her emotions

enough, he'd crack the wall of evasion and lies, somehow. He reached

for her, calculating what would arouse her without causing any shock

to bring her back to her senses.

He hadn't counted on the quickness of her reponse, nor the complete

acceptance of his right with which she took it. The liquor had reduced

her to the stage of a little girl who competely trusted her companion.

She seemed as unconscious of her body as a child might be.

Instead of protesting, she reached down and began unfastening the

buttons on her dress. "'Syour turn now, Willy. Put you to bed last

night, you put me to bed t'-night. Then you gotta kiss me good-night.

Nighty-night, nighty-night."

He felt like a heel at first. And then he began to feel like a

man--any man around a beautiful girl half-undressed, and getting more

so.

She slipped under the sheets, tossing out the last of her clothing,

and crooning happily. "Gotta kiss me good-night, Willy. Nighty-night!"

He yanked the pull-cord savagely, cutting off the light, and fumbling

in the darkness. After what seemed hours of awkwardness, he slid in

beside her, feeling her arms go around him in complete acceptance. To

hell with _them_! They could chase him some other time!

He pulled her to him, while his blood beat in his neck, and he began

to lose any conscious volition of what he was doing. He drew her

tighter, while a great clot of emotion set fire to his brain. He--

Cold beyond anything he had known bit at him. A tremendous pressure

within him seemed about to force him to explode outwards, and the

shock jerked him into full awareness.

In a split second, he swung his eyes from the great, jagged landscape

on which he stood, up an impossible range of mountains that were all

harsh blacks and cold whites, to a cold black sky in which the stars

were blazing specks without a flicker. He saw the Earth above him,

bigger than the moon had ever been, and with the dim outlines of

continents showing through the soft stuff that must be clouds.

He was on the moon! And naked, without air!

* * * * *

Almost at once, something clapped down around him, and the pressure

let up, while heat seemed to leap into the rocks under his feet and

make them comfortable. He gulped down the air that somehow seemed to

stay close to him, instead of evaporating into the vacuum.

The moon! Now they had him!

Fear blazed in him--a stark, unreasoning terror that was like a

physical thing. _Run--but you can't run! They've got you! You can't

escape!_

The light blotted out, and then snapped on, more strongly. He stood in

the kitchen of the cold-water apartment, still naked, with bits of

chalky dust between his toes.

He had no time for reason. His brain seemed to have jumped over a

hurdle and come down in a puddle beyond, foul with the stuff it had

found there. He heard Ellen shriek, and then cry out again.

He lurched into the bedroom, while she let out another gurgling cry as

the light showed him in the doorway. She came out of the bed, leaping

for him, crying his name--cold sober! But he wanted none of her act.

He shook her off.

"You damned alien! You filthy monster, disguised as a girl! When you

get in a spot where I'm sure to find you out, you have a cute trick up

your sleeve--but it won't work. You can send me back there--back to

the rest of your kind, from wherever they came. But you won't fool me

into thinking you're human again. You can't pass one test!"

He wouldn't be fooled into thinking it was a dream, either. He'd been

physically on the moon--the very dust on his feet proved that. They

might drive him insane, but they wouldn't do it that way.

She was crying now, gasping out words that he only half heard. "I'm

human, Will. Oh, I'm human!"

"Then prove it! Come here, and prove it!"

She cried again at that, as he pulled her down with him. But slowly

her crying quieted.

He awoke slowly, with sun-light streaming in the windows, and reached

for her. He owed her more apologies than one, though he wasn't too

sorry about most of it. She had proven herself human. And virginally

so. Her complete surrender still left something warm inside him,

where only the madness and the fear had been before.

Then he jerked upright, as he found her gone. He cursed himself for a

fool, and listened for a stir and bustle from the kitchen, but there

was none.

* * * * *

He was getting used to dressing with a feeling of dire pressure

driving him on. He finished rapidly, and yanked the bedroom door open,

just as he heard the outer lock click. She was coming in with a bottle

of cream and a package of sausage as he reached the kitchen, and there

was a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth.

And this time, he knew she wouldn't have betrayed him. Yet the fear

increased in him. He darted past her as she leaned to kiss him,

heading for the door. The room seemed to quiver. The hall was filled

with a faint golden haze!

He had to get out! He jerked backwards, caught her hand, and pulled

her. "Ellen! We've got to get out!"

It was a half-articulate shout, and she resisted, but he began

dragging her after him. Something fumbled at the lock, and a key

slipped into it. The door opened.

Hawkes didn't know what kind of an alien he expected. He knew that men

could never have thrown him to the moon and back, not in another

thousand years. It had to be a monster.

But he should have known that monsters here came in human form--they'd

have to.

The fear rose to a shriek in his brain, and then died down as the

human form entered. It was too normal--too familiar. A medium-sized

man, dressed in a suit as inconspicuous as his own, wearing a silly

little mustache that no outland monster should ever wear.

The creature jumped in, slamming the door behind it. "Stay there! You

can't risk it outside now! We've got to--"

Hawkes hit the figure with his shoulder, in the best football fashion

he could muster. It could try--but it couldn't keep him and Ellen here

to be burned in their heat-ray bath, or treated to whatever alien

torture they had in mind. He felt his shoulder hit. And he knew he'd

missed. It was an arm that he struck against, and the arm brought him

upright, while a second arm drew back and came forward with a savage

right to his jaw.

He went out with a dull plopping sound in his brain. Then, slowly, an

ache came out of the blackness, and the beginning of sound. He was

fighting out of the unconsciousness, fighting against time and the

monster who'd try to steal Ellen.

But Ellen's hands were on his head, and an ice-cold towel was wet

against his forehead. "Will! Will!"

* * * * *

He groaned and sat up. The other--alien or human--was gone.

"Where--?" he began.

She was trying to help him to his feet, and he got up groggily, with

his head beginning to clear.

"He just ran out, Will." Ellen was crying, this time almost silently,

with the words coming out between shakes of her shoulders. "Will,

we've got to get out. We've got to. The men are coming for you.

They'll be here any minute. And it's wrong--it won't work! Oh, Will,

hurry!"

"Men? Men are coming?" He'd almost forgotten that it could be men who

were after him.

"I called them, Will. I thought I had to. But it won't work. Will, do

anything you like, but _get_ out! They are fools. They...."

He opened the door and peered out the doorway into the hall, which

seemed quiet. He'd been a fool again. He'd trusted her for some

reason, as if a body and loyalty had to go together. They'd been

smart, picking a virgin for the job. It must have cost them plenty,

unless they'd twisted her mind somehow. Maybe they could do it.

But he knew that whatever they looked like, it couldn't be real men

who'd meet him out there.

"Why?" he asked, and was surprised at the flatness of his voice.

She shook her head. "Because I'm a fool, Will. Because I thought they

could help you--until _he_ came! And because I'm still in love with

you, even if you'd forgotten me."

But the fear inside him was drowning out her words, and the golden

haze was faint in the air again.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay, don't burn her, too, now that she's

done your dirty work. I'm coming."

The haze disappeared slowly, and he started down the stairs, still

holding her hand.