it, he'd have conquered the world.'
Fire was crawling toward the cat, yet she did not move from Gwinn's shoulder. She spat at Tracy. 'Napoleon did own it,' she snarled. Then the flames drove Tracy out of the house. Laughing quietly, he raced down the steps and around to where he had left his car. He had won-tricked both Meg and the book neatly by maneuvering himself into a position where only the familiar's death would save his own life. And there was still one page left.
A window crackled and broke. Fire poured out from it. Instantly the dry brush caught. Tracy stopped short, a dozen feet from his car. He gave back, realizing instantly that this way of escape was blocked.
It didn't matter. He was invulnerable, as long as he had the book-as long as there was one chance left. He turned and ran for the road, wind gusting coldly against his sweating cheeks.
It was, perhaps, a mile down to Laurel Canyon, where he could get a lift. But it was all downhill, and he was in good condition. Even though the wind was rising, he could make it easily. And, at worst, the book would save him.
So Tracy ran down the road, until, ten minutes later, he stopped at sight of a trail of flame rushing down a gully in his path.
He took the first branch that forked, and cut down into another canyon. It was past sunset now, but the hills had become crawling towers of scarlet light. A siren screamed in the distance.
Tracy went on. Once he took out the book and looked at it, but there were no numerals on the cover. He wasn't in serious danger yet.
A thought of panic struck cold into his mind. Perhaps he had, somehow, used up the ten chances! But no-that was impossible. He had kept careful count. When an emergency arose, the book would save him.
The increasing fury of the brush fire drove Tracy down the canyon, until at last he was halted by another comb of flames racing up toward him. He was-apparently-trapped. Standing hatless and panting, he jerked out the book again, and this time a tiny moan of relief escaped him. There was no mistake; the tenth chance lay in his hand, ready to solve his problem. Page 50.
Tracy opened the book to Page 50. It was easy to read the message, in the bloody light of the fire. It was rather horribly easy to read the message; its clarity had a touch of inhuman malice about it. Tracy understood then, of course, about Napoleon, and about what Gwinn had seen in the book before his death; and he also realized how the unknown author had managed to boil all human crises down to fifty patterns. Forty-nine of them covered forty- nine eventualities, and told the logical solution. The fiftieth covered everything else, and was equally logical.
The letters on the fire-reddened fiftieth page said:
The End
