McAllen advised him with the seriousness of the true devotee to try it some time. "It gets to you. It can get to be a way of living. I\'ve been fishing since I was knee-high. Three years ago I figured I\'d become good enough to write a book on the subject. I got more arguments over that book—sounder arguments too, I\'d say—than about any paper I\'ve published in physics." He looked at Barney a moment, still seriously, and went on. "I told you wetting a line would calm me down after that upset you gave me. Well, it has—fishing is as good a form of therapy as I know about. Now I\'ve been doing some thinking. I\'d be interested ... well, I\'d like to talk some more about the Tube with you, Mr. Chard. And perhaps about other things too."

"Very gratifying to hear that, doctor," Barney said gravely. "I did regret having to upset you, you know."

McAllen shrugged. "No harm done. It\'s given me some ideas. We\'ll talk right here." He indicated the weather-beaten little cabin on the bank behind Barney. "I\'m not entirely sure about the California place. That\'s one reason I suggested this trip."

"You feel your houseman there mightn\'t be entirely reliable?"

"Fredericks unreliable? Heavens no! He knows about the Tube, of course, but Fredericks expects me to invent things. It wouldn\'t occur to him to talk to an outsider. He\'s been with me for almost forty years."

"He was," remarked Barney, "listening in on the early part of our conversation today."

"Well, he\'ll do that," McAllen agreed. "He\'s very curious about anyone who comes to see me. But otherwise ... no, it\'s just that in these days of sophisticated listening devices one shouldn\'t ever feel too sure of not being overheard."

"True enough." Barney glanced up at the cabin. "What makes you so sure of it here, doctor?"

"No reason why anyone would go to the trouble," McAllen said. "The property isn\'t in my name. And the nearest neighbor lives across the lake. I never come here except by the Tube so I don\'t attract any attention."

He led the way along the dock. Barney Chard followed, eyes reflectively on the back of McAllen\'s sunburned neck and the wisps of unclipped white hair sticking out beneath his beaked fishing cap. Barney had learned to estimate accurately the capacity for physical violence in people he dealt with. He would have offered long odds that neither Dr. McAllen nor Fredericks, the elderly colored man of all work, had the capacity. But Barney\'s right hand, slid idly into the pocket of his well-tailored coat, was resting on a twenty-five caliber revolver. This was, after all, a very unusual situation. The human factors in themselves were predictable. Human factors were Barney\'s specialty. But here they were involved with something unknown—the McAllen Tube.

When it was a question of his personal safety, Barney Chard preferred to take no chances at all.

From the top of the worn wooden steps leading up to the cabin, he glanced back at the lake. It occurred to him there should have been at least a suggestion of unreality about that placid body of water, and the sun low and red in the west beyond it. Not that he felt anything of the kind. But less than an hour ago they had been sitting in McAllen\'s home in Southern California, and beyond the olive-green window shades it had been bright daylight.

"But I can\'t ... I really can\'t imagine," Dr. McAllen had just finished bumbling, his round face a study of controlled dismay on the other side of the desk, "whatever could have brought you to these ... these extraordinary conclusions, young man."

Barney had smiled reassuringly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, indirectly, sir, as the pictures indicate, we might say it was your interest in fishing. You see, I happened to notice you on Mallorca last month...."