The words were: A fingernail has flicked a psychic filament. He shook his head, jumbling the type. The words vanished. There were thirty minutes of class time left. He wanted to get away. He announced a surprise quiz, chalked up two questions, and left the room. * * * * * The cut finger had started to bleed again through the bandage, and there was blood on the chalk. And dried blood on the obsidian knife. He resisted the impulse to finger it, and sat staring at the top of his desk. It all went back to that witchcraft business, he told himself. It had shaken him much more than he had dared to admit. He had tried to put it out of his mind too quickly. And Tansy had appeared to forget it too quickly, too. A person could not shake an obsession that easily. He must thrash it out with her, again and again, or the thing would fester. But with Tansy seeming so happy and relieved the last three days, that might be the wrong course to take, the selfish course-- His eyes started to stray toward the window, but the telephone recalled him. "Professor Saylor?... I'm calling for Dr. Pollard. Could you come in and see Dr. Pollard this afternoon?... Four o'clock?... Thank you." He leaned back with a smile. At least he had gotten the chairmanship. It grew darker as the day progressed, the ragged clouds sweeping lower and lower. But the storm held off until almost four. Big raindrops splattered the dusty steps as he ducked into the portico of the Administration Building. Thunder crackled and crashed, as if acres of metal sheeting were being shaken above the clouds. He turned back to watch. Lightning threw the Gothic roofs and towers into sharp relief. Again the crackle, building to a crash. He remembered he had left a window open in his office. But there was nothing that would be damaged by the wet. Wind swooped down past the portico with a strident, pulsating roar. The unmusical voice that spoke into his ear had the same quality. "Isn't it a pretty storm?" Evelyn Sawtelle was smiling for once. It had a grotesque effect on her features, as if a horse had suddenly discovered how to smirk. "You've heard the news, of course?" she went on. "About Hervey?" Hervey popped out from behind her. He was grinning, too, but embarrassedly. He mumbled something that was lost in the storm, and extended his hand vaguely, as if he were in a receiving line. Evelyn never took her eyes off Norman. "Isn't it wonderful?" she hissed. "Of course, we expected it, but still--" Norman guessed. He forced himself to grasp Hervey's hand, just as the latter was withdrawing it flusteredly. "Congratulations, old man," he said briefly. "I'm very proud of Hervey," Evelyn announced possessively, as if he were a small boy who had won a prize for good behavior.