much whiskey. Too much of a mental beating. You've gone off your rocker.

The fanatic said, He's in the Himalayas. I'm going to find him. So that's where I'm going.

The reasonable man said, You're nuts.

The fanatic said, Granted, but this nut's heading for India.

Lee flew east. Seven days later he was in Karachi. He scarcely looked at the place, his eyes turning northward toward Baluchistan; eastward toward Lucknow and Delhi. In that direction, the roof of the world was a faint blue haze on the horizon of his imagination. His face was grim and cold. Seven days had changed him. The fanatic rode high, now. The reasonable man was a dim spector lurking uneasily in the background.

He changed his money into the coin of the realm and took a train for Delhi. He rode with strange people, scarcely aware of their presence.

He discovered that traveling from Karachi to Delhi on the railroad of India was a frustrating and confusing business. He began counting his money carefully; hoarding it; haggling. When he arrived in Delhi, he was a lean, bearded stranger with a fever behind his eyes.

But there was a glory in his heart because of a new and sharpened sensitivity. He was alone and friendless and almost without funds, yet he had never before felt so able, so competent.

While stalking the streets of Delhi looking for a cheap hotel, he heard a cheerful voice calling his name. He turned. The voice came from a car at the curb. A brand new Ford convertible. Lee spoke casually. "How are you, Mr. Clifford?"

The meeting was as strange and illogical as all the other events and incidents of Lee's life had been since he had lain in a New York City gutter.

Mr. Clifford smiled warmly. "Mr. Hayden—I'm glad to see you."

"A real surprise," Lee said.

"How have you been?"

"Fine—just fine."

"Taking a little trip, I see."

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