After checking with Cavendish to find out just how much time would have to be invested in the experiments, Johnson arranged his affairs into the hands of several trusted managers--trusted because they were owned, body and soul, by Johnson. On the morning of the third day, as the last of the Public Power trucks was leaving the warehouse in which Cavendish had set up his laboratory, Johnson presented himself at the door. * * * * * "Ah, Mr. Johnson." His eyes lit up. "Right on time. I suppose you are as anxious as I to get on with the experiments." "Time is valuable," said Johnson. "I don't believe in wasting it. Shall we get on with it?" "Of course." The lab seemed little changed from Johnson's earlier visit. An adjustable lounge chair had been set up near the screen; from it, lines ran into a panel of equipment that the industrialist found incomprehensible. At Cavendish's gesture, he sat down and permitted electrodes to be attached to his head and arms. "Comfortable, Sir?" "Quite." Cavendish adjusted switches; the screen came to life, showing the earlier scene with the youthful Johnson just beginning his dash into the alley. "We regress some twenty-seven hours more," he said. The scene dissolved and was replaced by one with the boy in a classroom. The clock on the wall read three-thirty; school had been out some fifteen minutes. Timmy Johnson placed the last of the erasers in the blackboard trough and checked the stack of workbooks with his eye, stopping to shift the top one a quarter of an inch into better alignment. "We are now approaching the crisis point," said Cavendish. "The blending of the adult Id with that of the boy will enable you to control the actions of the boy." "Get on with it!" said Johnson, impatiently, anxious to have the affair over with. "Very well." Cavendish closed several switches and the hum of vast amounts of power pouring into the little room rose until it set the hackles of the men's necks rising. Still it rose, until Cavendish closed one final switch-- * * * * * "All done, Mrs. Taylor." "Thank you, Timmy." She glanced up from the stack of papers and smiled at the boy. "I swear, I don't know what I'd do without you. You're the best helper I ever had." Timmy glowed at the praise; he felt the back of his neck warming. It was fun helping her out, no matter what the other kids said or thought. He scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the heel of the other one. "Well, I guess I'd better be getting home, Mrs. Taylor. Mom usually wants me to run to the store for her after school." "All right, Timmy. Good night." "Good night." He lingered in the door for a last smile from the woman, then ran down the stairs to the lockers on the basement corridors. He stowed his books in his locker, then twirled the dial on the combination lock, bought with money saved out of his allowance.