The soft breeze seemed to turn chill. The Sun was still high and unclouded, but its warmth was gone. With the girl, he felt a prickling along the spine. She turned her head slightly and, through her eyes, he saw, a few yards away in tall grass, a creeping man. The eyes of the man were fixed on the girl's body and the traveler felt her thrill of terror. The man lay there for a moment, hands flat on the ground under his chest. Then he moved forward, inching toward her. The girl screamed. Her terror gripped the visitor. He was helpless. His thoughts whirled into chaos, following hers. The eyes of the creeping man flicked from side to side, then up. The visitor quivered and cringed with the girl when she screamed again. As the torrent of frightened sound poured from her throat, the creeping man looked into her eyes. Instantly the visitor was sucked into his mind. It was a maelstrom. A tremendous conflict was going on in it. One part of it was urging the body on in its fantastic crawl toward the young woman frozen in terror against the sky. The visitor was aware of the other part, submerged and struggling feebly, trying to get through with a message of reason. But it was handicapped. The visitor sensed these efforts being nullified by a crushing weight of shame. The traveler fought against full identification with the deranged part of the mind. Nevertheless, he sought to understand it, as he had understood the other minds he'd visited. But there was nothing to understand. The creeping man had no plan. There was no reason for his action. The visitor felt only a compulsion which said, "You must! You must!" The visitor was frightened. And then he realized that he was less frightened than the man was. The terror felt by the creeping man was greater than the fear the visitor had experienced with the girl. There were shouts and barking. He heard the shrill cry of a boy. "Go get him, Max!" There was a squeal of brakes from the road and a pounding of heavy footsteps coming toward them. With the man, the visitor rose up, confused, scared. A great shaggy weight hurled itself and a growling, sharp-toothed mouth sought a throat. A voice yelled, "Don't shoot! The dog's got him!" Then blackness. * * * * * "Mersey." The voice summoned the visitor, huddling in a corner of the deranged mind, fearing contamination. The eyes opened, looked up at the ceiling of a barred cell. "Dr. Cloyd is here to see you," the voice said. The visitor felt the mind of his host seeking to close out the words and the world, to return to sheltering darkness. There was a rattle of keys and the opening of an iron door. The eyes opened as a hand shook the psychotic Mersey by the shoulder. The visitor sought escape, but the eyes avoided those of the other. "Come with me, son," the doctor's voice said. "Don't be frightened. No one will hurt you. We'll have a talk." Mersey shook off the hand on his shoulder. "Drop dead," he muttered.