The door chimes rang. Junie Black dropped her magazine and got up to answer it.

"Telegram for Mr. William Black," the uniformed Western Union boy said. "Sign here, please." He handed her a pencil and pad; she signed and received the telegram.

Closing the door she carried the telegram to her husband. "For you," she said.

Bill Black opened the telegram, turned away so that his wife couldn't read it over his shoulder, and saw what it had to say.

CYCLE MISSED TRUCK. GUMM PASSED BAR-B-Q. YOUR GUESS.

Never send a boy to do a man's job, Bill Black said to himself. Your guess is as good as mine. He glanced at his wristwatch. Nine-thirty P.M. Later and later. It was too late now.

"What's it say?" Junie asked.

"Nothing," he said. I wonder if they'll find him, he wondered. I hope so. Because if they don't some of us will be dead by this time tomorrow. God knows how many thousands of dead people. Our lives depend on Ragle Gumm. Him and his contest.

"It's a catastrophe," Junie said. "Isn't it? I can tell by the expression on your face."

"Business," he said. "City business."

"Oh indeed?" she said. "Don't lie to me. I'll bet it has something to do with Ragle." Suddenly she snatched the telegram away from him and rushed out of the room with it. "It is!" she cried, standing off by herself and reading the telegram. "What did you do -- hire somebody to kill him? I know he's disappeared; I was talking to Margo on the phone and she says--"

He managed to get the telegram back from her. "You haven't got any idea what this means," he said, with mighty control.

"I can tell what it means. As soon as Margo told me Ragle had disappeared--"

"Ragle didn't disappear," he said, almost at the end of his mighty control. "He walked off."

"How do you know?"

"I know," he said.

"You know because you're responsible for his disappearance."

In a sense, Bill Black thought, she's right. I'm responsible because, when he and Vic popped out of that clubhouse, I thought they were kidding. "Okay," he said. "I'm responsible."

Her eyes changed color. The pupils became tiny. "Oh I hate you," she said, shaking her head. "I wish I could slit your throat."

"Go ahead," he said. "Maybe it would be a good idea."

"I'm going next door," Junie said.

"Why?"

"I'm going to tell Vic and Margo that you're responsible." She hurried to the front door; he went after her and caught hold of her. "Let me go," she said, yanking away from him. "I'm going to tell them that Ragle and I are in love with each other, and if he survives your vicious--"

"Sit down," he said. "Be quiet." And then he thought again of Ragle not being around to work tomorrow's puzzle. Panic got started in him, then, and began to control him. "I feel like getting into the closet," he told his wife. "No," he said, "I feel like burrowing down into the floor. Down into the ground."

"Infantile guilt," Junie said, with derision.

Bill Black said, "Fear. Plain fear."

"You're ashamed."

"No," he said. "Infantile fear. Adult fear."

"'Adult fear,'" Junie snorted. "There's no such thing."

"Yes there is," he said.

Garret laid a folded, fresh bath towel on the arm of the chair, and, with it, a washrag and a bar of soap in its wrapper. "You'll have to get along without pajamas," he said. "The bathroom is through this door." He opened a door, and Ragle saw down a narrow corridor, like a ship's passage, to a cramped, closet-like bathroom at the far end.

"Fine," Ragle said. The liquor had made him sleepy. "Thanks," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"There're plenty of books and magazines in the rumpus room itself," Garret said. "If you can't sleep and want to read. And there's a chess set and other games. None for one person, though."

He departed. Ragle heard his footsteps as he climbed the stairs to the first floor. The door at the top of the flight of stairs closed.

Sitting down on the bed, Ragle tugged his shoes off and let them drop to the floor. Then he caught hold of them with a finger in each, hoisted them high, and searched for a place to put them. He noticed a shelf running along the wall; on the shelf was a lamp, a wind-up clock, and a small white plastic radio.

As soon as he saw the radio he put his shoes back on, buttoned up his shirt, and dashed out of the room to the stairs.

They almost fooled me. But they gave themselves away. He ascended two steps at a time and pushed open the door at the top. Only a minute or so had passed since Garret Kesselman had preceded him. Ragle stood in the hallway, listening. From a distance came the sounds of Mrs. Kesselman's voice.

She's getting in touch with them. Calling them on the phone or broadcasting to them. One way or another. With as little noise as possible he moved along the hall, in the direction of her voice. The hall, dark, ended at a half-open door. Light streamed out into the hall, and as he got near he saw into a dining room.

Wearing a robe and slippers, her hair up in a turban, Mrs. Kesselman was feeding a small black dog from a dish on the floor. Both she and the dog started with surprise as Ragle pushed the door open. The dog backed away and began to bark in a rapid staccato.

"Oh," Mrs. Kesselman said. "You scared me." In her hands she held a box of dog biscuits. "Did you need something?"

Ragle said, "There's a radio downstairs in my room."

"Yes," she said.

"That's how they communicate," Ragle said.

"Who?"

"They," he said. "I don't know who they are, but they're all around me. They're the ones who are after me." And, he thought, you and your son are two of them. You almost had me. Too bad you forgot to hide the radio. But probably you didn't have time.

From the hallway Garret appeared. "Everything okay?" he asked, in a worried voice.

To him his mother said, "Dear, close the door so I can talk to Mr. Gumm alone. Will you?"

"I want him in here," Ragle said. He moved toward Garret, who blinked and backed away, his arms flapping helplessly. Closing the door Ragle said, "There's no way I can tell if you've called to say I'm here. I'll have to take the chance that you haven't had time."

I don't know where else to go, he thought. Certainly not tonight.

"Now what's this about?" Mrs. Kesselman said. Stooping down, she resumed the feeding of the dog. The dog, after a few more barks at Ragle, returned to its food. "You're being pursued by a group of people and you say we're part of that group. Then that business about your 'committing suicide' is something you made up."

"I made it up," he agreed.

"Why are they pursuing you?" Garret said.

Ragle said, "Because I'm the center of the universe. At least, that's what I've inferred from their actions. They act as if I am. I only have that to go on. They've gone to a great deal of trouble to construct a sham world around me to keep me pacified. Buildings, cars, an entire town. Natural looking, but completely unreal. The part I don't understand is the contest."

"Oh," Mrs. Kesselinan said. "Your contest."

"Evidently it plays a vital role with them," Ragle said. "But I'm baffled. Do you know?"

"I don't know any more than you do," Mrs. Kesselman said. "Of course, we always hear that these big contests are rigged... but except for the usual rumors--"

"I mean," Ragle said, "do you know what the contest really is?"

Neither of them spoke. Mrs. Kesselman, her back to him, continued feeding the dog. Garret sat down on a chair and crossed his legs, leaning back with his hands wrapped behind his head, trying to appear calm.

"Do you know what I'm really doing every day?" Ragle said. "When I'm supposedly plotting where the little green man will show up next? I must be doing something else. They know, but I don't."