Just for stubbornness, he tried Igescu's number again. And thistime, as ifthe fates had decided that he should be favored, or by one of thosecoincidences too implausible to be believed in a novel but sometimes happening in"real" life, the connection went through. A woman's voice said, "Hello? MyGod, thephone works! What happened?"

"May I speak to Baron Igescu?" Childe said. "Who?" "Isn't this Baron Igescu's residence?" "No! Who is this speaking?" "Herald Wellston," Childe said, giving the name he had decided to

use. "MayI ask who is speaking?" "Go away! Or I'll call the police!" the woman screamed, and she hung up.

"I don't think that was Igescu's secretary," Childe said inanswer to Heepish's quizzical expression. "Somebody else has their number now."

Not believing that it would work but willing to try, he dialedinformation. The call went right through, and he succeeded almost immediately ingettingtransferred to his contact. She did not have to worry about asupervisorlistening in; she was the supervisor.

"What happened, Linda? All of a sudden, the lines're wide open."

"I don't know, one of those unexplainable lulls, the eye of thestorm, maybe. But it won't last, you can bet your most precious possessionon that, Herald. You better hurry."

He told her what he wanted, and she got Igescu's unlisted numberfor him within a few seconds.

"I'll drop off the usual to you in the mail before evening. Thanks, Linda, you beautiful beautiful."

"I may not be here to get it if this smog keeps up," she said. "Or the mailman may have skipped town with everyone and his brother."

He hung up the telephone. Heepish, who had stepped out of theroom but not out of hearing range, raised his eyebrows. Childe did not feel thathe had to justify himself, but, since he was using Heepish's phone, he did owehim some explanation.

"The forces of good must use corruption to fight corruption," hesaid. "I occasionally have to find a number, and I send a ten to my informant, or used to; now it's a twenty, what with inflation. In this case, I suspectI've wasted my money."

Heepish harrumphed. Childe got out quickly; he felt as if hecould no longerstand this shadowy, musky place with its monsters frozen in variousattitudes of attack and their horrified paralyzed victims. Nor could he endure thecustodian of the museum any longer.

Yet, when he stood at the door to say good-bye and to thank hishost, hefelt ashamed. Certainly, the man's hobby--passion, rather--washarmless enoughand even entertaining--even emotionally purgative--for millions ofchildren and adults who had never quite ceased being children. Though dedicated toarchetypalhorror and its Hollywood sophisticated developments, the house haddefeated itself, hence, had a therapeutic value. Where there is a surfeit ofhorrors, horror becomes ho-hum.

And this man had helped him to the best of his ability.

He thanked Heepish and shook his hand, and perhaps Heepish feltthe changein his guest, because he smiled broadly and radiated warmth and asked

Childe to come back--any time.

The door swung shut with the Inner-Sanctum creakings, but it didnot propelChilde and Jeremiah into the acid-droplet mist. A breeze ruffledthem, andsunshine was bright, and the sky was blue.

Childe had not known until then how depressed and miserable hehad been. Now, he blinked eyes that did not burn or weep and sucked in theprecious cleanair. He chortled and did a little jig arm in arm with Jeremiah. Thewalk back to his apartment was the most delightful walk in his life. Its delightexceeded even that of his first walk with Sybil when he was courting her. Theyards andsidewalks held a surprising number of people, all enjoying the airand sun. Apparently, fewer than he--and the radio and TV experts--had thoughthad fled the area.

There were, however, few cars on the streets. Wilshire Boulevardheld onlyone auto between La Cienega and Robertson, and when they crossedBurton Way onWillaman, they could see no cars.

However, there were great green-gray clouds piled against themountains. Pasadena and Glendale and other inland cities were still in the fist of the smog.

By the time he had said good-bye to Jeremiah, who turned offtoward Mt. Sinai Hospital, the wind had slid to a halt, and the air was as stillas a dead jellyfish again. There was a peculiar glow on the western horizon; ahush descended as if a finger had been placed against the lips of theworld.

He still felt happy as he went into the apartment building. Thephone lineswere busy, but he stuck it out, and, within three hundred seconds byhis wristwatch, the phone rang. The voice that answered was female, low, and lovely.

Magda Holyani was Mr. Igescu's secretary; she stressed the"Mister."

No, Mr. Igescu could not talk to him. Mr. Igescu never talked toanybodywithout an appointment. No, he would not grant an interview to Mr. Herold Wellston, no matter how far Mr. Wellston had traveled for it nor howimportantthe magazine Mr. Wellston represented. Mr. Igescu never gaveinterviews, and ifMr. Wellston was thinking of that silly vampire and ghost story inthe Times, hehad better forget it--as far as talking to Mr. Igescu about it. Orabout anything.

And how had Mr. Wellston gotten this unlisted number? Childe did not answer the last. He asked that his request beforwarded to her employer. She said that he would be informed of it as soon aspossible. Childe gave her his number--he said he was staying with a friend--andtold her that if Igescu should change his mind, he should call him at thatnumber. He thanked her and hung up. Throughout the conversation, neither hadsaid a word about the smog.

Childe decided to do some thinking, and, while he was doing that, he had better attend to some immediate matters--such as his survival. He drove to the supermarket and found that it had just been reopened. Apparently, themanagerwas staying on the premises, and several of the checkout women andthe liquorstore clerk lived nearby. Cars were beginning to fill the parkinglot, andpeople on foot were numerous. Childe was glad that he had thought ofthis, because the shelves were beginning to look bare. He stocked up oncanned goodsand powdered milk and purchased a five-gallon bottle of distilledwater.

On the way back, he heard six sirens and saw two ambulances. Hospitals werenot about to complain of lack of business.

By the time he had put away the groceries, he had made up hismind. He would drive out and scout around the Igescu estate. He had no rationalcause to do so. There was not the thinnest of threads to connect Igescu with Colben. Nevertheless, he meant to investigate. He had nowhere else to go andnothing todo. He could spend the rest of the day with this doubtlessunrewarding lead, andtomorrow, if the city began to return to normal, he would start on adefinite and profitable case, if one showed up. And one should. There werebound to be many missing persons, gone somewhere with the smog.