Tube. It meant new interest, it meant life for him. It wasn't in
his nature to pull out. The part about McAllen was cold necessity. A
very ugly necessity, but McAllen--pleasantly burbling something as
they walked down the short hall to the front door--already seemed a
little unreal, a roly-poly, muttering, fading small ghost.

In the doorway Barney exchanged a few words--he couldn't have repeated
them an instant later--with the ghost, became briefly aware of a
remarkably firm hand clasp, and started down the cement walk to the
street. Evening had come to California at last; a few houses across
the street made dim silhouettes against the hills, some of the windows
lit. He felt, Barney realized, curiously tired and depressed. A few
steps behind him, he heard McAllen quietly closing the door to his
home.

The walk, the garden, the street, the houses and hills beyond,
vanished in a soundlessly violent explosion of white light around
Barney Chard.

* * * * *

His eyes might have been open for several seconds before he became
entirely aware of the fact. He was on his back looking up at the low
raftered ceiling of a room. The light was artificial, subdued; it gave
the impression of nighttime outdoors.

Memory suddenly blazed up. "Tricked!" came the first thought.
Outsmarted. Outfoxed. And by--Then that went lost in a brief, intense
burst of relief at the realization he was still alive, apparently
unhurt. Barney turned sharply over on his side--bed underneath, he
discovered--and stared around.

[Illustration]

The room was low, wide. Something undefinably odd--He catalogued it
quickly. Redwood walls, Navaho rugs on the floor, bookcases, unlit
fireplace, chairs, table, desk with a typewriter and reading lamp.
Across the room a tall dark grandfather clock with a bright metal disk
instead of a clock-face stood against the wall. From it came a soft,
low thudding as deliberate as the heart-beat of some big animal. It
was the twin of one of the clocks he had seen in McAllen's living
room.

The room was McAllen's, of course. Almost luxurious by comparison with
his home, but wholly typical of the man. And now Barney became aware
of its unusual feature; there were no windows. There was one door, so
far to his right he had to twist his head around to see it. It stood
half open; beyond it a few feet of a narrow passage lay within his
range of vision, lighted in the same soft manner as the room. N