Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: Illustrated by CONNELL] the Leech By PHILLIPS BARBEE _A visitor should be fed, but this one could eat you out of house and home ... literally!_ The leech was waiting for food. For millennia it had been drifting across the vast emptiness of space. Without consciousness, it had spent the countless centuries in the void between the stars. It was unaware when it finally reached a sun. Life-giving radiation flared around the hard, dry spore. Gravitation tugged at it. A planet claimed it, with other stellar debris, and the leech fell, still dead-seeming within its tough spore case. One speck of dust among many, the winds blew it around the Earth, played with it, and let it fall. On the ground, it began to stir. Nourishment soaked in, permeating the spore case. It grew--and fed. * * * * * Frank Conners came up on the porch and coughed twice. "Say, pardon me, Professor," he said. The long, pale man didn't stir from the sagging couch. His horn-rimmed glasses were perched on his forehead, and he was snoring very gently. "I'm awful sorry to disturb you," Conners said, pushing back his battered felt hat. "I know it's your restin' week and all, but there's something damned funny in the ditch." The pale man's left eyebrow twitched, but he showed no other sign of having heard. Frank Conners coughed again, holding his spade in one purple-veined hand. "Didja hear me, Professor?" "Of course I heard you," Micheals said in a muffled voice, his eyes still closed. "You found a pixie." "A what?" Conners asked, squinting at Micheals. "A little man in a green suit. Feed him milk, Conners." "No, sir. I think it's a rock." Micheals opened one eye and focused it in Conners' general direction. "I'm awfully sorry about it," Conners said. Professor Micheals' resting week was a ten-year-old custom, and his only eccentricity. All winter Micheals taught anthropology, worked on half a dozen committees, dabbled in physics and chemistry, and still found time to write a book a year. When summer came, he was tired. Arriving at his worked-out New York State farm, it was his invariable rule to do absolutely nothing for a week. He hired Frank Conners to cook for that week and generally make himself useful, while Professor Micheals slept. During the second week, Micheals would wander around, look at the trees and fish. By the third week he would be getting a tan, reading, repairing the sheds and climbing mountains. At the end of four weeks, he could hardly wait to get back to the city. But the resting week was sacred. "I really wouldn't bother you for anything small," Conners said apologetically. "But that damned rock melted two inches off my spade."