This is ghastly, he realized with a start. I have to free myself from this vicious cycle of suspicion and fear! I can't let myself be destroyed; I can't let that woman's morbid hysteria infiltrate my own thinking. Madness transmitted from person to person-isn't that what makes up a mob? Isn't that the group mind that we're supposed to be com­batting?

I had better not see Rachel Pitt again, he decided.

But already he felt himself drawn to her. A vague but nonetheless powerful yearning had come into existence in­side him; he could not pin down the mood. Certainly she was physically attractive, with her long dark hair, her flash­ing eyes, slender, active body. But she is not psychologi­cally well-balanced, he decided. She would be a terrible liability; any relationship with a woman like that might wreck me. There is no telling which way she might jump. After all, her tie with Unity has been shattered, without warning; all her plans, her ambitions, have been thrown back in her teeth. She's got to find another entree, a new technique for advancement and survival.

I made a mistake in looking her up, he thought. What would make a better contact than a Director? What could be of more use to her?

When he had gotten back to his own offices, he at once gave instructions that no calls from Mrs. Arthur Pitt be put through to him; any messages from her were to be put through proper channels, which meant that regular agen­cies-and clerks-would be dealing with her.

"A pension situation," he explained to his staff. "Her husband wasn't attached to my area, so there's no valid claim that can be filed against this office. She'll have to take it to Taubmann. He was her husband's superior, but she's got the idea that I can help in some way."

After that, alone in his office, he felt guilt. He had lied to his staff about the situation; he had patently misrepre­sented Mrs. Pitt in order to insure protection of himself. Is that an improvement? he asked himself. Is that my so­lution?

In her new quarters, Marion Fields sat listlessly reading a comic book. This one dealt with physics, a subject that fascinated her. But she had read the comic book three times, now, and it was hard for her to keep up an interest

She was just starting to read it over for the fourth time when without warning the door burst open. There stood Jason Dill, his face white. "What do you know about Vul­can 2?" he shouted at her. "Why did they destroy Vulcan 2? Answer me!"

Blinking, she said, "The old computer?"

Dill's face hardened; he took a deep breath, struggling to control himself.

"What happened to the old computer?" she demanded, avid with curiosity. "Did it blow up? How do you know somebody did it? Maybe it just burst. Wasn't it old?" All her life she had read about, heard about, been told about, Vulcan 2; it was an historic shrine, like the museum that had been Washington, D.C. Except that all the children were taken to the Washington Museum to walk up and down the streets and roam in the great silent office build­ings, but no one ever had seen Vulcan 2. "Can I look?" she demanded, following Jason Dill as he turned and started back out of the room. "Please let me look. If it blew up it isn't any good any more anyhow, is it? So why can't I see it?"

Dill said, "Are you in contact with your father?"

"No," she said. "You know I'm not."

"How can I contact him?"

"I don't know," she said.

"He's quite important in the Healers' Movement, isn't he?" Dill faced her. "What would they gain by destroying a retired computer that's only good for minor work? Were they trying to reach Vulcan 3?" Raising his voice he shouted, "Did they think it was Vulcan 3? Did they make a mistake?"

To that, she could say nothing.

"Eventually we'll get him and bring him in," Dill said. "And this time he won't escape psychotherapy; I promise you that, child. Even if I have to supervise it myself."

As steadily as possible she said. "You're just mad be­cause your old computer blew up, and you have to blame somebody else. You're just like my dad always said; you think the whole world's against you."

"The whole world is," Dill said in a harsh, low voice.

At that point he left, slamming the door shut after him. She stood listening to the sound of his shoes against the floor of the hall outside. Away the sound went, becoming fainter and fainter.

That man must have too much work to do, Marion Fields thought. They ought to give him a vacation.

There it was. Vulcan 2, or what remained of Vulcan 2-heaps of twisted debris; fused, wrecked masses of parts; scattered tubes and relays lost in random coils that had once been wiring. A great ruin, still smoldering. The acrid smoke of shorted transformers drifted up and hung against the ceiling of the chamber. Several technicians poked morosely at the rubbish; they had salvaged a few minor parts, nothing more. One of them had already given up and was putting his tools back in their case.

Jason Dill kicked a shapeless blob of ash with his foot. The change, the incredible change from the thing Vulcan 2 had been to this, still dazed him. No warning-he had been given no warning at all. He had left Vulcan 2, gone on about his business, waiting for the old computer to finish processing his questions ... and then the technicians had called to tell him.

Again, for the millionth time, the questions scurried hopelessly through his brain. How had it happened? How had they gotten it? And why? It didn't make sense. If they had managed to locate and penetrate the fortress, if one of their agents had gotten this far, why had they wasted their time here, when Vulcan 3 was situated only six levels below?

Maybe they made a mistake; maybe they had destroyed the obsolete computer thinking it was Vulcan 3. This could have been an error, and, from the standpoint of Unity, a very fortunate one.

But as Jason Dill gazed at the wreckage, he thought, It doesn't look like an error. It's so damn systematic. So thorough. Done with such expert precision.

Should I release the news to the public? he asked him­self. I could keep it quiet; these technicians are loyal to me completely. I could keep the destruction of Vulcan 2 a secret for years to come.

Or, he thought, I could say that Vulcan 3 was demol­ished; I could lay a trap, make them think they had been successful. Then maybe they would come out into the open. Reveal themselves.

They must be in our midst, he thought frantically. To be able to get in here-they've subverted Unity.

He felt horror, and, in addition, a deep personal loss. This old machine had been a companion of his for many years. When he had questions simple enough for it to answer he always came here; this visit was part of his life.

Reluctantly, he moved away from the ruins. No more coming here, he realized. The creaking old machine is gone; I'll never be using the manual punch again, labor­iously making out the questions in terms that Vulcan 2 can assimilate.

He tapped his coat. They were still there, the answers that Vulcan 2 had given him, answers that he had puzzled over, again and again. He wanted clarification; his last visit had been to rephrase his queries, to get amplification. But the blast had ended that.

Deep in thought, Jason Dill left the chamber and made his way up the corridor, back to the elevator. This is a bad day for us, he thought to himself. We'll remember this for a long time.

Back in his own office he took time to examine the DQ forms that had come in. Larson, the leader of the data-feed team, showed him the rejects.

"Look at these." His young face stern with an ever-present awareness of duty, Larson carefully laid out a handful of forms. "This one here-maybe you had better turn it back personally, so there won't be any trouble."