* * * * * He laughed until the tears came to his eyes. He held his stomach with both hands. He was weak. He supported himself on the stair railing and for minutes was unable to take the first tread. With his lively scientist's imagination he could picture the completely bewildered look on the young FBI man's face when he listened to this conversation on the tape recorder or whatever it was they used. He was certainly going to have to try to get that recording from them. Play it back for Fincher some time--Lordy, Fincher would have apoplexy every time he heard it! He finally gained enough strength to climb the stairs. He went into his bedroom, still chuckling weakly, still wiping the tears from his eyes, stomach muscles still aching. Dr. Wallace Fincher stood there by his bed. It _was_ Fincher--the same stocky round-faced man with the steel-rimmed glasses he had always known. It was either Fincher or the darndest hallucination he had ever ... "I'm sorry, Lyman," said Dr. Fincher in a kindly but impersonal voice. "You were getting a trifle too close. I'm afraid you have left me no choice." He pointed a little silvery tube at Professor Dane and there was a soft buzzing and the smell of ozone and Professor Dane was no longer in the room--or anywhere else. Dr. Fincher sighed, adjusted his glasses and faded into the dimension that would take him back to Los Angeles and his interrupted work. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.