"He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson. _He_ disappeared, too!" * * * * * I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit into the picture? Why ask me to do something?" H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment. Then, suddenly, "Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?" Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel along the right-of-way. The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the worst of the bargain. Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt, leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his beloved cabbage patch on his farm. To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that nice people disapprove of _Herr_ Hitler. About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red hot needles. The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver! I said, "So you're going to call in 'Horse-sense' Hank."[1] [Footnote 1: Horse-sense Hank Cleaver, one of the best-known characters in modern science fiction. Hank, a dirt farmer never subjected to education, has an amazing ability to fix things of a mechanical nature when they go wrong, make infinitely accurate mathematical calculations and, above all, foretell the future in his own homely and intimate fashion.--Ed.] "Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined. Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of scandal--" "Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see what I can do, Doc." He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone. But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first call. The local operator at Westville intoned, "No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under the name of 'Gleeber'--" "Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! 'C' as in cuckoo; 'l' as in lunkhead, 'e' as in--" "Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?" "Yeah," I said. "Gimme." Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and his income to me.