"Hurry," he said to the cashier. The woman sat glassy-eyed, staring at nothing. The music died. The lights flickered, went off. In the gloom Brett saw a fluid shape rise up-- He ran, pounding down the stairs. The fat man was just rounding the corner. Brett opened his mouth to call--and went rigid, as a translucent shape of mud shot from the door, rose up to tower before him. Brett stood, mouth half open, eyes staring, leaning forward with hands outflung. The Gel loomed, its surface flickering--waiting. Brett caught an acrid odor of geraniums. A minute passed. Brett's cheek itched. He fought a desire to blink, to swallow--to turn and run. The high sun beat down on the silent street, the still window displays. Then the Gel broke form, slumped, flashed away. Brett tottered back against the wall, let his breath out in a harsh sigh. Across the street he saw a window with a display of camping equipment, portable stoves, boots, rifles. He crossed the street, tried the door. It was locked. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. He kicked in the glass beside the latch, reached through and turned the knob. Inside he looked over the shelves, selected a heavy coil of nylon rope, a sheath knife, a canteen. He examined a Winchester repeating rifle with a telescopic sight, then put it back and strapped on a .22 revolver. He emptied two boxes of long rifle cartridges into his pocket, then loaded the pistol. He coiled the rope over his shoulder and went back out into the empty street. * * * The fat man was standing in front of a shop in the next block, picking at a blemish on his chin and eyeing the window display. He looked up with a frown, started away as Brett came up. "Wait a minute," Brett called. "Didn't you see the Gel? the one that cornered me back there?" The fat man looked back suspiciously, kept going. "Wait!" Brett caught his arm. "I know you're real. I've seen you belch and sweat and scratch. You're the only one I can call on--and I need help. My friend is trapped--" The fat man pulled away, his face flushed an even deeper red. "I'm warning you, you maniac: get away from me...!" Brett stepped close, rammed the fat man hard in the ribs. He sank to his knees, gasping. The panama hat rolled away. Brett grabbed his arm, steadied him. "Sorry," he said. "I had to be sure. You're real, all right. We've got to rescue my friend, Dhuva--" The fat man leaned against the glass, rolling terrified eyes, rubbing his stomach. "I'll call the police!" he gasped. "What police?" Brett waved an arm. "Look. Not a car in sight. Did you ever see the street that empty before?" "Wednesday afternoon," the fat man gasped. "Come with me. I want to show you. It's all hollow. There's nothing behind these walls--" "Why doesn't somebody come along?" the fat man moaned. "The masonry is only a quarter-inch thick," Brett said. "Come on; I'll show you."