The kids sat in a circle. Finally Lawrence said, "What's an anus?"

"You are," said Harlen.

"It's a planet," said Dale. "You know, like Uranus?"

Lawrence nodded his understanding.

"What are the other two whatchamacallems?'' said Harlen. "The other two elementals. The ones that could destroy the Stele?"

Kevin folded his arms. "Earth, air, fire, and water," said Kevin. "The Greeks and the guys before them thought that these were the basis of everything. Earth and air creates the thing . . . fire and water could destroy it."

Mike took the book and held it in his hand, as if trying to pull something else from it. "As far as Dale and I can tell, that's the only mention of the Stele of Revealing in this book."

"And we only have Duane's notes to suggest the Stele has anything to do with anything," said Harlen.

Mike set the book down. "Duane and his Uncle Art. And both of them are dead."

Kevin glanced at his watch. "OK, so what good does this do us?"

Mike sat back. "Tell us about your dad's milk truck again."

Kevin's voice took on some of the same lilt of litany that Dale's had held. "It's a two-thousand-gallon bulk tanker," he said. "The shiny tank is all stainless steel. My father takes the truck out every morning . . . except Sunday ... and picks up the milk at the bulk tanks on the dairy farms. He leaves early . . . usually about four-thirty in the morning . . . and has two routes. He does one every other day. Besides transferring the milk to the plant, he samples it, weighs it, does a quality check, and actually handles the pumping.

"Our truck's got a centrifugal pump that works at eighteen hundred rpm-it's a lot faster than a positive-feed pump that uses an electric motor. They only get about four hundred rpm. Dad can transfer about seventy-five gallons a minute from the bulk tank on the dairy farm to his tanker. He needs a two-hundred-thirty-volt outlet to do it, but all the dairy farms have one.

"He's got a sample tray and liquid coolant in the compartment at the rear of the truck. That's where the pump is, too. The hose fits on those red compartments on the side ... the ones that look sort of like the side of a firetruck.

"Sometimes I ride with him, but he usually doesn't get home until about two in the afternoon and I have chores to do, so I get my allowance by scrubbing out the tank, cleaning the truck, and gassing it up." Kevin paused for a breath.

"Show us the gas pump again," said Mike.

The five boys walked to the north end of the house. Mr. Grumbacher had built a large tin shed there to house the truck, and between the huge double doors and the house were the gravel turnaround and the gas pump. Dale had always thought it sort of neat that his neighbor had his own gas pump.

"The milk plant helped pay to put it in," said Kevin. "Ernie's Texaco isn't open early or on weekends, and they didn't want Dad going all the way to Oak Hill to gas up."

"Tell us again," said Mike. "How much does the underground tank hold?"

"Twelve hundred gallons," said Kev.

Mike rubbed his lower lip. "Less than the tanker."

"Yeah."

"There's a lock on the pump," said Mike.

Kevin tapped it. "Yeah, but Dad keeps the key in the right-hand drawer of his desk. The drawer's not locked."

Mike nodded, waited.

"The filler cap's set in the ground there," said Kevin, pointing. "It's got a lock, too, but the key's on the same ring as the pump key."

The boys were silent for a moment. Mike paced back and forth, his sneakers making soft noises on the gravel drive. "I guess we're set then." He did not sound convinced.

"Why Sunday morning?" asked Dale. "Why not tomorrow . . . Saturday morning? Or today?"

Mike rubbed his hand through his hair. "Sunday's the only day that Kevin's dad stays home. It's too busy around here in the afternoons ... we need it to be early. Just after sunrise is best. Unless some of you want to do this at night."

Dale, Kev, Lawrence, and Harlen looked at each other and said nothing.

"Besides," continued Mike, "Sunday seems . . . well, right." He glanced around, a sergeant assembling his troops. "In the meantime, we get ready."

Harlen snapped his fingers. "That reminds me, I've got a surprise for you guys." He led them around front to where his bike was sprawled on the lawn. There was a shopping bag hanging from the handlebars; Harlen removed two walkie-talkies from it. "You said this might come in handy," he said to Mike.

"Wow," said Mike, taking one of them. He touched a button and static rasped. "How'd you get them away from Sperling?"

Harlen shrugged. "I went back to the party for a minute last night. Everyone was out back eating cake. Sperling'd left these sitting on one of the tables. I figured that anybody who doesn't watch after his stuff better than that doesn't really want to keep it. Besides, it's just on loan."

"Uh-uh," said Mike. He opened a panel and checked the batteries.

"I put new ones in this morning," said Harlen. "These things work pretty well up to a mile. I tested it out with my mom this morning."

Kevin cocked an eyebrow. "Where did she think you got these?"

Harlen smiled. "Door prize at the Staffney party. You know rich folks . . . big parties, big prizes."

"Let's try it out," said Lawrence, taking one of the walkie-talkies and jumping on his bike. A minute later he was out of sight down Second Avenue.

The boys lay on the grass. "Home Base to Red Rover," Mike said into the radio. "Where are you? Over."

Lawrence's voice was tinny and static-lashed, but quite audible. "I'm just goin' past the A and P. I can see your mom working in there, Mike."

Harlen grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Say 'over.' Over."

"Over-over?" came Lawrence's voice.

"No," growled Harlen. "Just over."

"Why?"

"Just say it when you're finished talking so we know you're finished. Over."

"Over," said Lawrence between gasps. He was obviously pedaling hard.

"No, you dope," said Harlen. "Say something else and then say 'over.' "

"Hey, drop dead, Harlen. Over."

Mike took the radio back. "Where are you?"

Lawrence's voice was getting fainter. "Just gone past the park, goin' south down Broad." After a moment's silence. "Over."

"That's almost a mile," said Mike. "Pretty good. You can come on home now, Red Rover." He looked at Harlen. "Ten-four."

"God damn it!" came the boy's small voice.

Dale grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Don't you swear, damn it. What's wrong?"

Lawrence's voice was very tiny, more like he was whispering than the signal was being affected by distance. "Hey . . . I just found out where the Rendering Truck is."