C. I. knew his political feelings. Seems he'd been talking wild about the upcoming presidential election and had sworn he'd nip the draft-Cadigan movement in the bud. Cadigan's Mayor of New York City. He's anti-space. In fact, Cadigan's anti just about everything in science except intercontinental missiles. Strictly for defense, of course. Cadigan says. * * * * * A weathercaster was making rash promises on the stereo when the potray dinged. The potray? I certainly wasn't expecting mail. Only C. I. knew where I was and they'd have closed-circuited me on visio if they wanted contact. The potray dinged and there was a package in it. Now matter transference I knew. It put mailmen out of business. There's a potray in every domicile and you can put things in it, dial the destination and they come out there. They come out the same size and weight and in the same condition as they went in, provided they didn't go in alive. Life loses, as many a shade of a hopeful guinea pig could relate. So the potray dinged and here was this package. At first glance it looked like one of those cereal samples manufacturers have been everlastingly sending through since postal rates dropped after cost of the potrays had been amortized. But cereal samples don't come through at midday; they're night traffic stuff. The package was light, its wrapping curiously smooth. There was an envelope attached with my correct name and potray number. Whoever had mailed it must be in C. I. or must know someone in C. I. who knew where I was. The postmark was blurred but I could make out that it had been cast from Grand Central. Time didn't matter. It couldn't have been cast more than a microsecond earlier. The envelope contained a card upon which was typed: "Caution! Site on cylinder of 2 ft. radius and 6 ft. height. Unwrap at armslength." Now what? A practical joke? If so, it must be Benson's work. He's played plenty, from pumping hydrogen sulphide (that's rotten egg gas, as you know) into the air-conditioning system at high school to calling a gynecologist to the launching stage at the Sands to sever an umbilical cord which he neglected to say was on a Viking rocket. I followed the instructions. As I bent back the first fold of the strange wrapping it came alive, unfolding itself with incredible swiftness. Something burst forth like a freed djinn--almost instantaneously lengthening, spreading--a thing with beetling brows, low, broad forehead, prognathous jaw, and a hunched, brutally muscular body, with a great club over its swollen shoulder. I went precipitously backward over a coffee table. It stabilized, a dead mockery, replica of a Neanderthal. A placard hung on its chest. I read this: "Even some of the early huntsmen weren't successful. Abandon the chase, Monk. I've things to do and this--your blood brother, no doubt--couldn't catch me any more than you can!" Which positively infuriated me. Do you blame me?