sets, then, or anything like that?"

"No, not at all. He just isn't interested. We even got him an Erector set last Christmas, and he played with it for a day or two and then gave it up completely and went back to reading."

"The thing is," said Stevenson, with ill-concealed desperation, "he does have this machine."

"Are you sure it's Eddie?"

"Yes, mam, we're sure."

"Mrs. Clayhorn," said Marshall, "the boy does have this machine. The government is very interested in it, and—"

"Well, I don't see how a ten-year-old boy—but if you say so, then I suppose it's so. Of course, he'll be home from school at three-thirty. You could ask him, if you want."

"We'd rather not, just yet," said Marshall. "We think it might not be the best idea. As you say, Eddie is very interested in reading. He's been using this machine, and, uh, well, he's been making a big secret out of it, like the characters in comic books. We wouldn't want to spoil that secret for him, at least not until we actually have the machine in our own possession."

"I see," said Mrs. Clayhorn doubtfully.

"Mam," said Stevenson, "we don't have any sort of search warrant. But we would like to take a look in Eddie's room, with your permission."

"Well, if you really think it's important—"

"It is," said Marshall.

"Then, I suppose it's all right. It's the door on the right, at the end of the hall."

The three men, feeling large and cumbersome, searched the boy's room. It was a boy's room, nothing less and nothing more. The closet floor and shelves were stacked with comic books, there were baseball trading cards in the top bureau drawer, there were pennants on the walls. There was no heat machine, nor any hint of a heat machine.

"I just don't know," said Marshall at last.

"Unless he carries it all the time," said Lang.

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