cold, and get in here. The faster the better."

Shandor blinked. "Drop the story? You're crazy!"

"_Get in here!_" roared Hart. "From now on you've _really_ got a job.
The Berlin Conference blew up tonight, Tom--high as a kite. _We're at
war with Russia--_"

Carefully, Shandor plopped the receiver down on its hook, his hands like
ice. Just one item first, he thought, just one thing I've got to know.
_Then_ back to PIB, maybe.

He found a booth in the Library, and began hunting, time pressing him
into frantic speed. The idea was incredible, but it _had_ to be true.
He searched the micro-film files for three hours before he found it, in
a "Who's Who" dating back to 1958, three years before the war with
China. A simple, innocuous listing, which froze him to his seat. He read
it, unbelievingly, yet knowing that it was the only possible link.
Finally he read it again.

David P. Ingersoll. Born 1922, married 1947. Educated at Rutgers
University and MIT. Worked as administrator for International Harvester
until 1955. Taught Harvard University from 1955 to 1957.

David P. Ingersoll, becoming, in 1958, the executive president of
Dartmouth Bearing Corporation....

* * * * *

He found a small, wooded glade not far from the Library, and set the
'copter down skillfully, his mind numbed, fighting to see through the
haze to the core of incredible truth he had uncovered. The great, jagged
piece, so long missing, was suddenly plopped right down into the middle
of the puzzle, and now it didn't fit. There were still holes, holes that
obscured the picture and twisted it into a nightmarish impossibility. He
snapped the telephone switch, tried three numbers without any success,
and finally reached the fourth. He heard Dr. Prex's sharp voice on the
wire.

"Anything happen since I left, Prex?"

"Nothing remarkable." The doctor's voice sounded tired. "Somebody tried
to call Mariel on the visiphone about an hour after you had gone, and
then signed off in a hurry when he saw somebody else around. Don't know
who it was, but he sounded mighty agitated." The doctor's voice paused.
"Anything new, Tom?"

"Plenty," growled Shandor bitterly. "But you'll have to read it in the
newspapers." He flipped off the connection before Prex could reply.

Then Shandor sank back and slept, the sleep of total exhaustion, hoping
that a rest would make the shimmering, indefinite picture hold still
long enough for him to stu