"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"

I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known
better--"

We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was
striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm
vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.

"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he
said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got
to find my hole."

I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit.
We'll--well, we'll help you."

"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of
inspiration. "We're going to make a more scientific approach."

"How?" John asked.

Fat Boy gulped.

"Just wait another day," I said. "We'll have it worked out. Just be
patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."

"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay--until tomorrow."

* * * * *

All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider:
_What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what,
what?_

Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went
for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were
drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's
interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a
letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved
valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball
about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music
of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.

It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.

John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest
of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder
than usual, and he was swaying.

"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"

His watery eyes squinted at me. "No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful
scared!"

"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help
you with your theory."

His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."

"Then what is it, John?"

"It's my body. It's--"

"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"

His face was white with terror. "No, my--_my body's full of holes_.
Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"

He rose and staggered to his _Zloomph_, clutching it as though