From a corner of the room came an elderly, half-bald man with tangled gray brows and a rueful smile. A pencil was balanced over his ear, and a note-book was clutched in his hand. "You, too!" he said. "I had hoped I was the only one--" Miller went forward hurriedly to grip his hand. "I'm afraid I'm not so unselfish," he admitted. "I've been hoping for two hours that I'd run into some other poor soul." "Quite understandable," the stranger murmured sympathetically. "But in my case it is different. You see--I am responsible for this whole tragic business!" "You!" Dave Miller gulped the word. "I--I thought--" The man wagged his head, staring at his note pad, which was littered with jumbled calculations. Miller had a chance to study him. He was tall, heavily built, with wide, sturdy shoulders despite his sixty years. Oddly, he wore a gray-green smock. His eyes, narrowed and intent, looked gimlet-sharp beneath those toothbrush brows of his, as he stared at the pad. "There's the trouble, right there," he muttered. "I provided only three stages of amplification, whereas four would have been barely enough. No wonder the phase didn't carry through!" "I guess I don't follow you," Miller faltered. "You mean--something you did--" "I should think it was something I did!" The baldish stranger scratched his head with the tip of his pencil. "I'm John Erickson--you know, the Wanamaker Institute." Miller said: "Oh!" in an understanding voice. Erickson was head of Wanamaker Institute, first laboratory of them all when it came to exploding atoms and blazing trails into the wildernesses of science. * * * * * Erickson's piercing eyes were suddenly boring into the younger man. "You've been sick, haven't you?" he demanded. "Well--no--not really sick." The druggist colored. "I'll have to admit to being drunk a few hours ago, though." "Drunk--" Erickson stuck his tongue in his cheek, shook his head, scowled. "No, that would hardly do it. There must have been something else. The impulsor isn't _that_ powerful. I can understand about the dog, poor fellow. He must have been run over, and I caught him just at the instant of passing from life to death." "Oh!" Dave Miller lifted his head, knowing now what Erickson was driving at. "Well, I may as well be frank. I'm--I committed suicide. That's how drunk I was. There hasn't been a suicide in the Miller family in centuries. It took a skinful of liquor to set the precedent." Erickson nodded wisely. "Perhaps we will find the precedent hasn't really been set! But no matter--" His lifted hand stopped Miller's eager, wondering exclamation. "The point is, young man, we three are in a tough spot, and it's up to us to get out of it. And not only we, but heaven knows how many others the world over!" "Would you--maybe you can explain to my lay mind what's happened," Miller suggested. "Of course. Forgive me. You see, Mr.--" "Miller. Dave Miller."