at all."

"Uncles and cousins only," sighed John Majors.

The psychologist shook his head. "Women friends?"

"Several but few close enough."

"Could that be it?" mused the psychologist. Then he answered his own question by stating that the other cases were not devoid of spouse or close relation.

"I am about to abandon the study of the Lawson Radiation," said Majors seriously. "It's taken four of my top technicians in the last five years. This—affliction seems to follow a set course. It doesn't happen to people who have other jobs that I know of. Only those who are near the top in the Lawson Laboratory."

"It might be sheer frustration," offered Dr. Pollard. "I understand that the Lawson Radiation is about as well understood now as it was when discovered some thirty years ago."

"Just about," smiled Majors wearily. "However, you know as well as I that people going to work at the Lawson Laboratory are thoroughly checked to ascertain and certify that frustration will not drive them insane.

"Research is a study in frustration anyway, and most scientists are frustrated by the ever-present inability of getting something without having to give something else up for it."

"Perhaps I should check them every six months instead of every year," suggested the psychologist.

"Good idea if it can be done without arousing their fears."

"I see what you mean."

Majors took his hat from the rack and left the doctor's office. Pollard addressed the man in the chair again.

"You are James Forrest Carroll."

"No."

"I have proof."

"No."

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