Foster shook his head. "It started almost thirty years ago," he said. "I was driving south from Albany, New York, at night. It was a long straight stretch of road, no houses. I noticed lights following me. Not headlights--something that bobbed along, off in the fields along the road. But they kept pace, gradually moving alongside. Then they closed in ahead, keeping out of range of my headlights. I stopped the car. I wasn't seriously alarmed, just curious. I wanted a better look, so I switched on my spotlight and played it on the lights. They disappeared as the light touched them. After half a dozen were gone the rest began closing in. I kept picking them off. There was a sound, too, a sort of high-pitched humming. I caught a whiff of sulphur then, and suddenly I was afraid--deathly afraid. I caught the last one in the beam no more than ten feet from the car. I can't describe the horror of the moment--" "It sounds pretty weird," I said. "But what was there to be afraid of? It must have been some kind of heat lightning." "There is always the pat explanation," Foster said. "But no explanation can rationalize the instinctive dread I felt. I started up the car and drove on--right through the night and the next day. I sensed that I must put distance between myself and whatever it was I had met. I bought a home in California and tried to put the incident out of my mind--with limited success. Then it happened again." "The same thing? Lights?" "It was more sophisticated the next time. It started with interference--static--on my radio. Then it affected the wiring in the house. All the lights began to glow weakly, even though they were switched off. I could feel it--feel it in my bones--moving closer, hemming me in. I tried the car; it wouldn't start. Fortunately, I kept a few horses at that time. I mounted and rode into town--and at a fair gallop, you may be sure. I saw the lights, but out-distanced them. I caught a train and kept going." "I don't see--" "It happened again; four times in all. I thought perhaps I had succeeded in eluding it at last. I was mistaken. I have had definite indications that my time here is drawing to a close. I would have been gone before now, but there were certain arrangements to be made." "Look," I said. "This is all wrong. You need a psychiatrist, not an ex-tough guy. Delusions of persecution--" * * * * * "It seemed obvious that the explanation was to be found somewhere in my past life," Foster went on. "I turned to the notebook, my only link. I copied it out, including the encrypted portion. I had photostatic enlargements made of the initial section--the part written in unfamiliar characters. None of the experts who have examined the script have been able to identify it.