* * *

Although the street was full of people and cars, nobody was paying any
attention to Burckhardt and Swanson. The air had a nip in it--more
like October than June, Burckhardt thought, in spite of the weather
bureau. And he felt like a fool, following this mad little man down
the street, running away from some "them" toward--toward what? The
little man might be crazy, but he was afraid. And the fear was
infectious.

"In here!" panted the little man.

It was another restaurant--more of a bar, really, and a sort of
second-rate place that Burckhardt had never patronized.

"Right straight through," Swanson whispered; and Burckhardt, like a
biddable boy, side-stepped through the mass of tables to the far end
of the restaurant.

It was "L"-shaped, with a front on two streets at right angles to each
other. They came out on the side street, Swanson staring coldly back
at the question-looking cashier, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk.

They were under the marquee of a movie theater. Swanson's expression
began to relax.

"Lost them!" he crowed softly. "We're almost there."

He stepped up to the window and bought two tickets. Burckhardt trailed
him in to the theater. It was a weekday matinee and the place was
almost empty. From the screen came sounds of gunfire and horse's
hoofs. A solitary usher, leaning against a bright brass rail, looked
briefly at them and went back to staring boredly at the picture as
Swanson led Burckhardt down a flight of carpeted marble steps.

They were in the lounge and it was empty. There was a door for men and
one for ladies; and there was a third door, marked "MANAGER" in gold
letters. Swanson listened at the door, and gently opened it and peered
inside.

"Okay," he said, gesturing.

Burckhardt followed him through an empty office, to another door--a
closet, probably, because it was unmarked.

But it was no closet. Swanson opened it warily, looked inside, then
motioned Burckhardt to follow.

It was a tunnel, metal-walled, brightly lit. Empty, it stretched
vacantly away in both directions from them.

Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full
well:

No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton.

* * * * *

There was a room off the tunnel with chairs and a desk and what looked
like television screens. Swanson slumped in a chair, panting.

"We're all right for a while here," he wheezed. "They don't come here
mu