I broke off and goggled. The young man had completely disappeared. My forehead was suddenly damp with nervous perspiration. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think calmly. This was some trick of my imagination. I'd been working too hard. My nerves were shot. I'd have to take a rest. I opened my eyes cautiously. The room was empty. I drew a relieved breath. "I'm sorry if I frightened you," a familiar voice said apologetically. "But, you see, I can't help it." I stood up warily and peered about the room. "Where are you?" I whispered. "Right here in front of you." "If you're a mahout for pink elephants, I don't want to see you," I said. "Go away." "Please," the young man's voice was plaintive, "I need your advice. I'm in trouble." "That's too bad," I said, edging toward the door. "Please listen to me. There's nothing to be afraid of." "From your viewpoint, no," I said. "If you'll look carefully you can see me," the voice said. "That's what bothers most people. I mean not being able to see me." "How stupid of them to be bothered by a little thing like that," I said, trying not to gibber. But in spite of my common sense I did peer closely at the area the young man had occupied and I saw a very remarkable thing. * * * * * I saw the vague, indistinct shape of the straw-haired, blue-eyed young man standing exactly where I had seen him the first time. But the effect was so uncertain and shadowy that I was hardly able to trust my eyes. The young man seemed to blend into the background, which happened to be a desk, water cooler and wall, so evenly and completely that it was impossible to see him at all. But even so, seeing him, however fuzzily, was a relief. "It's a good trick," I said cautiously. "It's not a trick," the young man said, aggrieved. "It's something I can't help." "Oh yeah? Well how does it happen that I was able to see you when you came in?" "I was exerting my will power," the young man said. "But that's awfully tiring. I had to relax a moment or so and when I did you weren't able to see me quite so distinctly." I found my curiosity stirring. Maybe the guy was a crackpot or phony, but it wouldn't hurt to hear his story. In my line, with things as lean as they are, you can't afford to miss any bets. "What makes you pop on and off like an electric light?" I asked. "Must be a tiring way to go through life." "You don't know the half of it," the young man said mournfully. "I've only been this way for a few months, but it seems like it's been years." "Well, go on," I said. "Spill your troubles. Why should Mr. Anthony have all the fun?" "What?" "Never mind. Shoot."