Bethelman came to quite suddenly, and found himself standing onthe corner of 44th Street and Madison Avenue. He was dizzy for amoment—not from any physical cause, but from the disorientation. Thelast thing he could remember, he had been sitting in a bar in Boston,talking to Dr. Elijah Kamiroff. After the interview was over, they'dhad a few drinks, and then a few more. After that, things began to gethazy.

Bethelman rubbed his head. It wasn't like a hangover; his head feltperfectly fine. But how in the devil had he gotten here? He lookedaround. No one was paying any attention to him, but no one pays anyattention to anyone on the streets of New York. Still feeling queer,he headed east on 44th Street.

He wanted to sit down for a bit, and the nearest place was the littlebar halfway between Madison Avenue and Grand Central Station. He wentin and ordered a beer.

What the hell had happened? He'd had too much to drink on severaloccasions, but he'd never gone to sleep in one city and awakened inanother. Dr. Kamiroff must have put him on the plane; the biochemistdidn't drink much, and had probably been in better shape than Bethelmanhad been.

He glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen! Wow! The city editor would bewondering where he was.

He went to the phone, dropped in a dime, and dialed the city desk. Whenthe editor's voice answered, he said: "Hickman, this is Bethelman; I'msorry I'm late, but—"

"Late?" interrupted Hickman, "What're you talking about? You've onlybeen gone half an hour. You sick or something?"

"I don't feel too good," Bethelman admitted confusedly.

"That's what you said when you left. Hell, man, take the rest of theday off. It's Friday; you don't need to show up until Monday if youdon't want to. Okay?"

"Yeah," said Bethelman. "Sure." His mind still didn't want to focusproperly.

"Okay, boy," said Hickman. "And thanks again for the tip. Who'd havethought Baby Joe would come in first? See you Monday."

And he hung up.

Bethelman stood there looking foolish for a full five seconds. Thenthings began to connect up. Friday! It shouldn't be Friday.

He cradled the phone and walked over to the bar where the barman wasassiduously polishing a beer glass.

"What day is this?" he asked.

"Friday," said the white-jacketed barman, looking up from the shell ofgleaming glass.

"I mean the date," Bethelman corrected.

"Fifteenth, I think." He glanced at a copy of the Times that lay onthe bar. "Yeah. Fifteenth."

Bethelman sat down heavily on the barstool. The fifteenth! Somewhere,he had lost two weeks! He searched his memory for some clue, but foundnothing. His memory was a perfect blank for those two weeks.

Automatically, his hand went to his shirt pocket for cigarettes. Hepulled out the pack and started to shake one out. It wouldn't shake, sohe stuck his finger in the half empty pack to dislodge a cigarette.There was a roll of paper stuck in it.

He took it out and unrolled it. It was a note.

You're doing fine. You know something's wrong, but you don't knowwhat. Go ahead and investigate; I guarantee you'