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of bacon or egg. He looked at his wife, and realized that she was staring at a point slightly
above his head. He looked up.
Jill started slightly. She whispered, "Kenneth, what is that?"
Young smoothed his hair. "Er. . . what, dear?"
"That thing on your head."
The man ran exploring fingers across his scalp. "My head? Flow do you mean?"
"It's shining," Jill explained. "What on earth have you been doing to yourself?"
Mr. Young felt slightly irritated. "I have been doing nothing to myself. A man grows bald
eventually."
Jill frowned and drank orange juice. Her fascinated gaze crept up again. Finally she said,
"Kenneth, I wish you'd-"
'What?"
She pointed to a mirror on the wall.
With a disgusted grunt Young arose and faced the image in the glass. At first he saw
nothing unusual. It was the same face he had been seeing in mirrors for years. Not an
extraordinary face-not one at which a man could point with pride and say: "Look. My
face." But, on the other hand, certainly not a countenance which would cause
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consternation. All in all, an ordinary, clean, well-shaved, and rosy face. Long association
with it had given Mr. Young a feeling of tolerance, if not of actual admiration.
But topped by a halo it acquired a certain eerieness.
The halo hung unsuspended about five inches from the scalp. It measured perhaps seven
inches in diameter, and seemed like a glowing, luminous ring of white light. It was
impalpable, and Young passed his hand through it several times in a dazed manner.
"It's a . . . halo," he said at last, and turned to stare at Jill.
The Scotty, Filthy McNasty, noticed the luminous adornment for the first time. He was
greatly interested. He did not, of course, know what it was, but there was always a chance
that it might be edible. He was not a very bright dog.
Filthy sat up and whined. He was ignored. Barking loudly, he sprang forward and
attempted to climb up his master's body in a mad attempt to reach and rend the halo.
Since it had made no hostile move, it was evidently fair prey.
Young defended himself, clutched the Scotty by the nape of its neck, and carried the
yelping dog into another room, where he left it. Then he returned and once more looked at
Jill.
At length she observed, "Angels wear halos."
"Do I look like an angel?" Young asked. "It's a. . . a scientific manifestation. Like. . . like
that girl whose bed kept bouncing around. You read about that."
Jill had. "She did it with her muscles."
'Well, I'm not," Young said definitely. "How could I? It's scientific. Lots of things shine by
themselves."
"Oh, yes. Toadstools."
The man winced and rubbed his head. "Thank you, my dear. I suppose you know you're
being no help at all."
"Angels have halos," Jill said with a sort of dreadful insistence.
Young was at the mirror again. "Darling, would you mind keeping your trap shut for a
while? I'm scared as hell, and you're far from encouraging."
Jill burst into tears, left the room, and was presently heard talking in a low voice to Filthy.
Young finished his coffee, but it was tasteless. He was not as frightened as he had
indicated. The manifestation was strange, weird, but in no way terrible. Horns, perhaps,
would have caused horror and consternation. But a halo- Mr. Young read the Sunday
newspaper supplements, and had learned that everything odd could be attributed to the
bizarre workings of science. Somewhere he had heard that all mythology had a basis in
scientific fact. This comforted him, until he was ready to leave for the office.
He donned a derby. Unfortunately the halo was too large. The hat seemed to have two
brims, the upper one whitely luminous.
"Damn!" said Young in a heartfelt manner. He searched the closet and tried on one hat
after another. None would hide the halo. Certainly he could not enter a crowded bus in
such a state.
A large furry object in a corner caught his gaze. He dragged it out and eyed the thing with
loathing. It was a deformed, gigantic woolly headpiece, resembling a shako, which had
once formed a part of a masquerade costume. The suit itself had long since vanished, but
the hat remained to the comfort of Filthy, who sometimes slept on it.
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Yet it would hide the halo. Gingerly Young drew the monstrosity on his head and crept
toward the mirror. One glance was enough. Mouthing a brief prayer, he opened the door
and fled.
Choosing between two evils is often difficult. More than once during that nightmare ride
downtown Young decided he had made the wrong choice. Yet, somehow, he could not
bring himself to tear off the hat and stamp it underfoot, though he was longing to do so.
Huddled in a corner of the bus, he steadily contemplated his fingernails and wished he was
dead. He heard titters and muffled laughter, and was conscious of probing glances riveted
on his shrinking head.
A small child tore open the scar tissue on Young's heart and scrabbled about in the open
wound with rosy, ruthless fingers.
"Mamma," said the small child piercingly, "look at the funny man."
"Yes, honey," came a woman's voice. "Be quiet."
'What's that on his head?" the brat demanded.
There was a significant pause. Finally the woman said, 'Well, I don't really know," in a
baffled manner.
'What's he got it on for?"
No answer.
"Mamma!"
"Yes, honey." "Is he crazy?"
"Be quiet," said the woman, dodging the issue.
"But what is it?"
Young could stand it no longer. He arose and made his way with dignity through the bus,
his glazed eyes seeing nothing. Standing on the outer platform, he kept his face averted
from the fascinated gaze of the conductor.
As the vehicle slowed down Young felt a hand laid on his arm. He turned. The small child's
mother was standing there, frowning.
'Well?" Young inquired snappishly.
"It's Billy," the woman said. "I try to keep nothing from him. Would you mind telling me
just what that is on your head?"
"It's Rasputin's beard," Young grated. "He willed it to me." The man leaped from the bus
and, ignoring a half-heard question from the still-puzzled woman, tried to lose himself in
the crowd.
This was difficult. Many were intrigued by the remarkable hat. But, luckily, Young was
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