The Scientific Pioneer Returns By Nelson S. Bond Time was no barrier to Lancelot Biggs when he found out Horse-sense Hank alone could solve his problem. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Illustration: Before their eyes a strange figure materialized. It was Lancelot Biggs--out of the future!] This sounds silly. At half past three on a Tuesday afternoon, in broad daylight, Professor Hallowell of the Midland University physics department left Jurnegan Hall, walked down a campus path clogged to the gutters with students--and disappeared into thin air. This sounds even sillier. At nine-fifteen the next Friday morning, Travis Tomkins, chief technician of Midland's new observatory, stepped to the platform of Old Main to speak before an attentive crowd of twelve hundred undergraduates--and vanished before their eyes! But this sounds silliest. H. Logan MacDowell, fat, fifty, feverish, and president of our institute of (alleged) learning, came to _me_ about it! He came on the run. That is, he came at a brisk, lurching shamble. Which is, to him, the equivalent of a Cunningham four-minute mile. He collapsed on my studio couch, gasped and panted like the White King for a minute, then wheezed out a strangled plea. "Blakeson, you--you've got to do something!" I looked at his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, and nodded. "Right!" I remembered. "I've got to rewind my bass rod and see that the reel is oiled. They'll be running in a week or so." "No, you impertinent young snippet! I mean, you've got to do something about these mysterious disappearances." I laughed right out loud. I bared my arms frankly. I said, "Grab a look, Prexy! Nothing up the right sleeve; nothing up the left sleeve. I didn't snatch your pedagogues. After all, just because certain members of the faculty find it expedient to take a powder--" "A what?" "Powder," I repeated. "Can't you understand plain English? To lift one's feet. Scram. Blow. Take it on the lam. Sweet whistleberries, Doc, I'm not something from the 'FOLLOW THAT MAN!' advertisements. I'm just the publicity expert for this football-team-with-a-campus. If you want to learn what happened to Hallowell and Tomkins, why don't you get a dick?" His jowls sagged to his breastbone. He said in an anguished tone, "I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one." "Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints? Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of them?"