He found himself thumbing through a dog-eared copy of his own "Parallelisms in Superstition and Neurosis." It looked like the one he had lost around the house--was it eight years ago? Beside a formula for conjuration was a marginal notation in Tansy's script: "Doesn't work. Substitute copper filings for brass. Try in dark of moon instead of full." "Norman--" Tansy was standing in the doorway, her hand stopped in the moment of drawing off the little half hat of deep-rose felt that matched her trim dress. Never before had he had such a feeling that a human face was only an arbitrary arrangement of curved surfaces and colors. The tapering chin--an ellipsoid. The full lips--a complex arrangement of cycloids and other curves. The eyes--white spheres inscribed with gray-green circles centered with black. Without familiarity or significance. And yet, in the same instant he felt that it was desperately important that he spy out a significance. For a faint distortion of those angles and curves--a distortion so subtle as to be almost indiscernible--might signify ... yes, why not say it?... insanity. The ghost of a smile curved Tansy's lips, and familiarity flooded back into her face. "So you've found out," she sighed. And although it seemed incredible, he thought she sighed with relief. For a moment he stood there confused, like a district attorney caught arranging evidence. Then he began his cross-examination. "It all started so foolishly," she was saying soon. "Just before you came to Hempnell. I felt it was tremendously important that you get the appointment and just to relieve my nerves--no other reason--I did silly things. Put mild curses on the two other applicants, to confuse their thoughts during the interviews. I got the curses from your notes. I surrounded you with a web of protective magic, charmed the sociology faculty to make them regard you favorably. "Well, you got the job, and I forgot all about my stupid private joke. "Then, when your first book was at the publishers--you remember, Norm, in 1930--I tried again. We were so sure it would be rejected. I was planning to tell you all about my idiotic conjures as soon as it came back, so at least we'd have a laugh. But it was accepted. And I didn't tell you. "Then in 1931, when you had pneumonia. I didn't want to, because it was too serious this time, but you got worse and I couldn't help myself. And you got well. "That was the real beginning. Not that I was certain--I've never been certain--but I didn't dare take chances. Careers hang on such little strings, and Hempnell can be so vindictive. You know. "But I wasn't superstitious. No, I wasn't! At least, I didn't have what you'd call the superstitious feeling. In a twisted logical way, I was trying to be empirical. I judged everything by results, step by step.