a mutant, knowing himself a mutant, never would point out a thing that was wrong with a rocket engine. For a mutant has to keep his mouth shut, has to act the mediocre man and arrive at the ends he wishes by complex indirection.

If I had only known, thought West. If I had only known in time. I could have fooled them, as I hope many others even now are fooling them.

But now he knew it was too late, too late to turn back to the life that he had rejected, to go back and accept the dead-end trap that had been fashioned for him ... a trap that would catch and hold him, where he would be safe. And where the human race would be safe from him.

West turned around and found the path that led up the rocky decline toward the laboratory.

A hulking figure stepped out of the shadows and challenged him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

West halted. "Just got in," he said. "Looking for a friend of mine. By the name of Nevin."

Inside the pocket of his suit, he felt Annabelle stirring restlessly. Probably she was getting cold.

"Nevin?" asked the man, a note of alarm chilling his voice. "What do you want of Nevin?"

"He's got a painting," West declared.

The man's voice turned silky and dangerous. "How much do you know about Nevin and his painting?"

"Not much," said West. "That's why I'm here. Wanted to talk with him about it."

Annabelle turned a somersault inside West's zippered pocket. The man's eyes caught the movement.

"What you got in there?" he demanded, suspiciously.

"Annabelle," said West. "She's—well, she's something like a skinned rat, partly, with a face that's almost human, except it's practically all mouth."

"You don't say. Where did you get her?"

"Found her," West told him.

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