"I forget its name. It is one of the natural asphalt family and it ranks high--along with chewing gum--among those substances in which I would least like to bathe." "Um. I detect a tone of distaste," laughed Elaine. "Here's another little tricky gadget. Looks sort of like your tungsten box." "Oh?" asked Thomas. "Yes ... say, Tommy, what's an epicenter?" "Ah ... why?" asked the physicist, his attention on the cyclospectrograph. "This box has a little sign on it. It says: 'Be an epicenter' and some other stuff." "The epicenter is the main feature around which the phenomena revolves," explained Thomas idly. "Oh." * * * * * Elaine fondled the little box. Her forefinger touched the button, felt its smoothness. In her mind was knowledge of the dire effects caused by tyros who push strange buttons. Certainly there was no curiosity deep enough to override her own good sense. But subconsciously the natural impulse to touch wet paint, to kick the package on the sidewalk, came to the fore and Elaine stood there, looking the box over with her forefinger set against the button. "'Be an epicenter'," she repeated. It registered. Like a swift montage, events past, present and future sped through Thomas Lionel's mind. He went from the basic idea to the foregone conclusion in three lightning-quick steps. "_NO!_" he yelled. But it was too late. And through his mind there passed a vision that made him swallow. Elaine--dressed in a simple frock of printed silk, garnished from the top of her beautifully coiffed hair to the bottoms of her exquisitely shod feet in an awful mixture of used crankcase oil and a tar-asphaltum-- In vain he tried to cross the twenty feet that separated him from the girl. In vain he tried to get there, to snatch that devilish box from her hand, to grab it and hurl it far enough away so that the effect wouldn't even cause a bad splash. The idea of seeing her all gooed up. That made him shout hoarsely. It shouldn't happen to a dog-- And then it hit him. He was fully fifteen feet from the girl and her little instrument. A half-hour's observational time went into milliseconds in Thomas Lionel's mind as he watched the open drum of asphaltum compound rise out of the open top in a parabolic arc. It arched high, just missing the ceiling, and passing in an ogee curve to miss a stanchion. Forward it came, to curve downward upon his own bare head. Simultaneously, he was drenched from behind by the arching column of oil from the vat behind him. In twin, converging arches, Thomas was inundated and thoroughly soaked from head to toe with a whirling mixture of oil and tar. He cleared his eyes with squeegeeing fingers. Elaine, holding in her laughter with effort, showed him the box. Above the button it said: BE AN EPICENTER! Control that mysterious power. Exert the forces of hidden nature in your behalf!