"Forget!" Joey's hands clenched and unclenched in mounting desperation. "You can't start a guy on a thing like this, Ewing, and then tell him to forget it!" For a long second, they stared at each other. Ewing was breathing heavily and perspiration beaded the parchment face. * * * * * Joey tried another tactic: "Look ... if you don't want to give me the formula, at least let me have a few of the pictures in that album. Whatever I get out of them, I'll split with you." He reached out tentatively. Ewing shrank back. "Go away. Let me alone. There's nothing in the album. I burned the pictures." "You're lying!" The thought of the money the old fool had thrown away cut into Joey like a knife. "You wouldn't do a crazy thing like that." "Only two left. Should have burned them." Panic seized Joey. He grabbed at the red-plush album. "I don't believe you. Let me see." Ewing held onto the book with the tenacity of an aged crab. "You mustn't," he croaked. "You're destroying yourself. Don't." But the old man's stubborn and futile resistance stoked the smouldering fires of Joey's anger. He gripped one corner of the coveted trophy with his left hand, and with his right, gave Ewing a vicious shove. With a rattling cry, the old man staggered back and fell with a clatter into the fireplace. The book was in Joey's hand. He didn't look at Ewing. The clasp was not locked. Feverishly, he opened the heavy cover. The truth took his breath away. Ewing hadn't lied. The pages were empty. He had burned the pictures. The crazy old fool! But he had said there were two pictures left. Joey thumbed hastily through the empty album till he reached the first of the remaining pictures. He cried out. It was a self-portrait of Ewing. He lay sprawled on the floor before the fireplace, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood smearing his temple and one of the massive brass andirons. Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed his eyes. "Oh, God!" he whispered. "No! No!" Like a sleep-walker, he moved to the silent figure, knelt, searched in vain for pulse or heart-beat. There was none. Jason Ewing was dead. Joey stared at the andiron with its tell-tale stain. He pulled himself up to a half-crouch and looked wildly around the dark living-room. The camera was an accusing eye. "It was an accident," he murmured. "His heart. He was an old man." The photo album still lay open on the table. Ewing had saved two pictures. One of himself. The other.... There was a heavy knocking at the front door. Joey went shakily to the album. Gripping the table's edge, he turned to the second picture: Joey Barrett sat in a chair. His trousers were slit. His head was shaved and there were straps and electrodes. It was the kind of picture that would sell a thousand extra copies.