"Where?"

"We'll think of something."

"What?"

"How do I know? We'll know what it is when we think of it. I tell you what'll happen: We won't be able to stand it down here any more, and one of us will think of the solution. Necessity is the mother of invention."

"Yeah? Anybody know who the father is?"

"Errol Flynn," Kelp said, and chuckled.

Dortmunder sighed and opened the paper. "If they hadn't slowed the space program," he said, "I could of volunteered for a moon shot. Or the space station. That can't be all scientists and pilots; they're gonna need somebody to sweep up, polish the windows, empty the wastebaskets."

"A custodian," Kelp said.

"A janitor."

"Actually," Kelp said, "custodian is more accurate than janitor. They both come from the Latin, you know."

Dortmunder paused in turning the pages of the paper. He looked at Kelp without speaking.

"I'm a reader," Kelp explained, a bit defensively. "I read a piece about this."

"And now you're gonna tell it to me."

"That's right. Why, you in a hurry to go someplace?"

"Okay," Dortmunder said. "Whatever you want." He looked at the editorial page and saw, without recognizing it, the name Mologna.

"Janitor," Kelp told him, "comes from the two-faced Roman god Janus, who was in charge of doorways. So way back in the old days a janitor was a doorkeeper, and over the centuries the job kind of spread. A custodian is from the Latin custodia, meaning to take care of something you're in charge of. So custodian is better than janitor, especially in a space station. You don't wanna be doorkeeper in a space station."

"I don't wanna be a squirrel in a tunnel the rest of my life either," Dortmunder said. Mo-log-na, he thought, and scanned the editorial.

"Squirrels don't go in tunnels," Kelp objected. "Squirrels hang out in trees."

"That's another piece you read?"

"I just know it. Everybody knows it. In tunnels what you've got is rats, mice, moles, worms—"

"All right," Dortmunder said.

"I'm just explaining."

"That's it, that's all." Dortmunder put down the paper, picked up the phone, and started to dial. Kelp watched him, frowning, until Dortmunder shook his head, said, "Busy," and hung up. Then Kelp said, "What is it? Another pizza?"

"We're getting out of here," Dortmunder told him.

"We are?"

"Yeah. You were right; there was gonna come a time when one of us couldn't stand it any more, and he'd think of something."

"You thought of something?"

"I had to," Dortmunder said, and tried the number again.

"Tell me."

"Wait a minute. May?" Dortmunder whispered again, cupping the mouthpiece, hunching a bit over the phone like a man trying to light a cigarette in a high wind. "It's me again, May."

"You don't have to whisper," Kelp said.

Dortmunder shook his head for Kelp to shut up. Still whispering, he said, "You know the thing? That made all the trouble? Don't say it! Take it with you when you go out tonight."

Kelp looked very dubious. Apparently, in Dortmunder's ear May was also being dubious, because he said, "Don't worry, May, it's gonna be all right. At last, it's gonna be all right."

March is just about the end of the winter frolic season in the northeast quadrant of the United States. In the Sleet & Heat Sports Shoppe on lower Madison Avenue, late that afternoon, the staff was busily stashing its leftover stock of toboggans, ski boots, ice skates, parkas, crutches, and flasks to make room for summer fun equipment—sunburn lotion, chlorine, shark repellent, salt tablets, poison ivy spray, bug killer, arch support sneakers, decorator-designed sweatbands, and T-shirts bearing comical messages—when a clerk named Griswold, a chunky, healthy, wind-burned twentyish sports freak, a sail-boater and a hang-glider, a mountaineer and a cross-country skier, who was only working here anyway for the employee discount and what he could boost, looked out through his bushy red eyebrows and saw two men slinking into the store: old men, maybe even forty, no wind, no legs, no staying power. Midwinter pallor on their drawn faces. Abandoning the display of Ace bandages he'd been setting up, Griswold approached these two, on his face the smile of superior compassionate pity felt toward all losers by all perfect specimens. "Help you, gentlemen?"

They looked at him as though startled. Then the one with the sharp nose muttered to his friend, "You handle it," and drifted back to stand by the door, hands in his pockets as he gazed out at the overcast late afternoon and the sidewalks full of people rushing to get indoors before the storm.

Griswold gave his full alert attention to the one who would handle it, a slope-shouldered, depressed-looking fellow. Whatever sport he was involved with, Griswold thought, it hadn't done much for him: "Yes, sir?"

The man put his hand up to his mouth and mumbled something behind it, the meanwhile his eyes flicked this way and that, scanning the store.

Griswold leaned closer: "Sir?"

This time the mumble made words, barely audible: "Ski masks."

"Ski masks? Ah, skiing! You and your friend there indulge?"

"Yeah," the man said.

"Well, that's fine. Come right over this way." Leading the way deeper into the store, past splints and shoulder pads and groin cups, Griswold said, "You must have seen our ad in the paper."

"We just happened by," the man said, still talking into his hand, as though he had a tiny microphone in there.

"Is that so? Then this is your lucky day, if I may say so."

The man looked at him. "Yeah?"

"We're in the middle of our end-of-season ski sale." Griswold beamed happily at his customer. "Fantastic savings, right on down the line."

"Oh, yeah?"

The other customer was still back by the door, looking out, and thus was out of earshot, so Griswold concentrated on the bird in hand. "That's right, sir," he said. "Now, here, for instance, are these magnificent Head skis. Now, you know how much these little beauties would normally set you back."

"Ski masks," the man muttered, not even looking at the beautiful skis.

"All set for skis?" Griswold reluctantly let the beauties lean again against the wall. "How about boots? Poles? You see hanging on the wall there, sir—"

"Masks."

"Oh, of course, sir, that's right here in this display case. Take your time. We also have more in the back I could bring out if you—"

"Those two," the man said, pointing.

"These? Of course, sir. May I ask, what color is your primary ski outfit?"

The man frowned at him: "You gonna sell me these masks?"

"Certainly, sir, certainly." Whipping out his sales book, remaining ineffably cheerful and polite, Griswold said, "Cash or charge, sir?"

"Cash."

"Yes, sir. Let me just get a box for these—"

"Paper bag."

"Are you certain, sir?"

"Yes."

"Very well." Writing out the sales slip, Griswold said, "I take it, this time of year, you're heading up Canada way. Ah, the Laurentians, they're wonderful. Best skiing in North America."

"Yeah," the man said.

"Can't beat the Alps, though."

"Naw," the man said.

"You get a lot of glare that far north. Could I interest you and your friend in goggles? Guaranteed Polaroid—"

"Just the masks," the man said, and handed Griswold two twenty-dollar bills.

"That's fine, then," Griswold said, went away, came back with the change and a paper bag, and as he turned over the customer's purchases made one last pitch: "Cold up there, sir. Now, our guaranteed Finnish Army parkas will keep your vital signs intact down to fifty-seven degrees below, or return with—"

"No," the ex-customer said. Stuffing the bag full of masks inside his coat, he turned away, shoulders hunched, and joined his partner at the front door. They exchanged a glance, then left. Griswold, watching through the glass, saw them pause in the doorway and look both ways before turning their coat collars up, tucking their chins down in, shoving their hands deep in their pockets and skulking away, keeping close to the building front. Odd ducks, Griswold thought. Not your ordinary outdoor-enthusiast types.