His throat was like sandpaper and the words came out in a rasp. "What is it?" "Harry, this is George--George Webber." His eyes were glued to the door. "All right. What do you want?" "You've got to come talk to us, Harry. We've been waiting for weeks now. You promised us. We've _got_ to talk to you." Harry still watched the door, but his breath came easier. The footsteps moved with ridiculous slowness up the stairs, down the hall toward the room. "What do you want me to do? They've come to kill me." There was a long pause. "Harry, are you sure?" "Dead sure." "Can you make a break for it?" Harry blinked. "I could try. But it won't do any good." "Well, at least try, Harry. Get here to the Hoffman Center. We'll help you all we can." "I'll try." Harry's words were hardly audible as he set the receiver down with a trembling hand. The room was silent. The footsteps had stopped. A wave of panic passed up Harry's spine; he crossed the room, threw open the door, stared up and down the hall, unbelieving. The hall was empty. He started down toward the stairs at a dead run, and then, too late, saw the faint golden glow of a Parkinson Field across the dingy corridor. He gasped in fear, and screamed out once as he struck it. And then, for seconds stretching into hours, he heard his scream echoing and re-echoing down long, bitter miles of hollow corridor. 2 George Webber leaned back in the soft chair, turning a quizzical glance toward the younger man across the room. He lit a long black cigar. "Well?" His heavy voice boomed out in the small room. "Now that we've got him here, what do you think?" The younger man glanced uncomfortably through the glass wall panel into the small dark room beyond. In the dimness, he could barely make out the still form on the bed, grotesque with the electrode-vernier apparatus already in place at its temples. Dr. Manelli looked away sharply, and leafed through the thick sheaf of chart papers in his hand. "I don't know," he said dully. "I just don't know what to think." The other man's laugh seemed to rise from the depths of his huge chest. His heavy face creased into a thousand wrinkles. Dr. Webber was a large man, his broad shoulders carrying a suggestion of immense power that matched the intensity of his dark, wide-set eyes. He watched Dr. Manelli's discomfort grow, saw the younger doctor's ears grow red, and the almost cruel lines in his face were masked as he laughed still louder. "Trouble with you, Frank, you just don't have the courage of your convictions." "Well, I don't see anything so funny about it!" Manelli's eyes were angry. "The man has a suspicious syndrome--so you've followed him, and spied on him for weeks on end, which isn't exactly highest ethical practice in collecting a history. I still can't see how you're justified."