"Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant 'em, or where, or when, or what you do--they don't never act like you'd expect 'em to. I plant 'em wide, I plant 'em close; I plant 'em in cuts an' slips an' seeds; I plant 'em yeller, white an' mottled. I water 'em an' potash 'em an' treat 'em like babies--an' I _still_ can't make 'em behave!" He wedged a bulldog-tipped toe into the rug and looked at me from under his bushy brows. "Helen?" he asked. "How's Helen?" "Iroquois!" I told him grimly. "Come again?" "After your scalp. Didn't you ever hear the adage about Satan's old homestead having no fury like a woman left out on the limb? If you bump into Helen MacDowell, pal, you better fly, not run, to the nearest cavern." Hank cracked his knuckles in misery. "Couldn't do nothin' else, Jim. Couldn't marry her. 'T'warn't logical."[2] [Footnote 2: In "The Scientific Pioneer," AMAZING STORIES for March, 1940 Horse-sense Hank refused to marry Helen MacDowell because, with his uncanny power to foretell the future, Hank knew their baby would be a chorus girl when it grew up. Hank is allergic to chorines.--ED.] "So," I reminded him, "aren't females. But never mind that, Hank. Let's get down to brass tacks. The reason I wanted to see you--" "I know. About the way them men's been disappearin'," he said. He rose and walked to my radio set. "'Pears like you oughta have this turned on. With all the trouble, seems like you'd be listenin' for news bulletins." "It's busted," I said. "It hasn't worked for weeks." * * * * * "No?" He shifted it around, peered into the maze of coils, tubes, wires and utter incomprehensibles that comprise a modern radio set. "Hmm. Never see'd the innards o' one o' these things afore. Interestin', ain't it?" His lean fingers began weaving among the gleaming entrails. A tiny crease appeared over his right eye. He muttered as he pushed and jiggled and explored. "This one goes there; that one goes _there_. 'Pears like--Well, I'll be durned!" Something clicked, and his fingers made a twisting motion. He grinned at me. "How d'you make 'er talk, Jim?" "She doesn't. She's a deaf mute. But that vernier on the left--" He turned it. My long-silent radio went, "_Phweeee-gwobble-gwobble!_"--and became coherent. Strains of hot jive assaulted my eardrums. I moaned. "Hank, do you know everything? The repairman who looked at it said it would never work again. He said--" "He jest wanted to sell you a new one," consoled my friend. "I kinda figgered as how adjustin' that little hunk o' metal would fix it. You see--" But I never got to see. For at that moment my eyes went wobbly all of a sudden. Out of nowhere came a brilliant light, flooding the room with blinding intensity. There was no sound; just that sharp, bright glare--and my arms tingled with a sort of electric vibration.