all the time.
The logic was perfect, as far as it went. But one element was ever lacking-the time-variable. Since that particular variable depended entirely on the life pattern of the book's owner, it was manifestly impossible for it to be any rational sort of a constant.
Meantime, there was Meg. Meg was murderously active, and determined on her vengeance. If Tracy used the book-could use the book-to get what he wanted personally, he'd use up the other eight chances and leave himself unguarded against attack. Fame and fortune mean little to a corpse.
A red glow came from the window. A small, lizard-like creature crawled into view. There were suction pads on its toes, like a gecko's, and a faint smell of charring paint came with it as it scuttled over the sill. It looked like red-hot metal.
Tracy looked at the book. It was unchanged. This wasn't a danger, then. But it might have been-if he hadn't turned off the gas. Introduce a blazing salamander into a gas-filled apartment, and-Yeah.
Tracy picked up a siphon at his elbow and squirted soda at the salamander. Clouds of steam arose. The creature hissed and fled back the way it had come.
Very well. Eight chances were still left. Eight moves in which to outwit and destroy Meg. Less than that-as few as possible, in fact-if any chances were to be left. And it was necessary to leave a few, or Tracy's status in life would remain unchanged. Merely escaping from danger wasn't enough. He wanted-What?
He got pencil and paper and sat down to figure it out. Happiness was too vague-another variable, depending on the individual. Power? Women? Money? He had them all, in sufficient quantity. Security?
Security. That was a human constant. Security against the ominous shadows of the future. But one couldn't simply wish for security. The book didn't work that way. Abstractions were beyond its scope, seemingly.
What gave people security? Money was the first answer, yet that was not satisfactory. Tracy tried a new tack. Who was secure?
Paisanos, on the whole, were more contented than potentates. However, Tracy didn't want to be a paisano. What about Herrick, the publisher? Security? Well, no. Not when the world itself was unstable.
In the end Tracy decided nothing. Perhaps the best solution was to get himself into the worst spot possible, and leave the rest to the book. And, if the book failed him…
It might do just that. But Tracy was a gambler. What was the worst thing that could happen now?
The answer was obvious. The loss of the book!
A fire was laid ready in the grate. Tracy touched a match to a fold of newspaper, and watched the flames creep up till the hardwood was crackling. If he purposely rendered himself helpless, the book should logically reveal a panacea-a cure-all that would eliminate all his difficulties. It was worth trying.
Tracy grinned at his own cleverness.
He threw the book into the fire, face up. The flames licked up hungrily. Instantly two numerals appeared on the white oval.
43
The ultimate answer! The cure for the loss of the book!
Tracy plunged in his hand and snatched the volume out of the grate, amid a scattering of embers. The brown cover was slightly singed, but the pages were unharmed.
Breathing a little hoarsely, he crouched on his hams and turned to Page 43.
It said, with a certain touch of naive malice:
'That's right.'
Tracy got up, face expressionless. He picked up his empty highball glass and smashed it against the wall. That done, he went to the window and looked out unseeingly at the night.
Seven references were left.
Tracy slept well enough, untroubled by dreams, and with the book under his pillow. The next morning a cold shower and black coffee steadied him for the forthcoming ordeal. He had no illusions about what was going to happen. Meg had not given up.
It was late when he arrived at the Journal. Dusty sunlight slanted into the city room. Copy boys scuttled here and there with flimsies, and, all in all, it looked like a set for any motion picture involving newspaper life. Rewrite men were busy rewriting, and glass-paneled partitions toward the back hinted at irate editors ready to send out star reporters on perilous assignments. Tim Hatton, a cameraman, was moodily shaking dice in a corner.
'Hiya, Sam,' he said around a cigarette. 'Roll you a couple.'
MacGregor, a Denver man who had grown old in harness, lifted a bald head from his desk to leer at Tracy. 'Tim Hatton has been going to movies,' he said hoarsely. 'Tim Hatton has been reading all about Charlie MacArthur and Ben Hecht. Man and boy, I've been writing copy all over the country, and not even with Bonfils have I known a guy more determined to be a newspaperman. Pretty soon he'll be telling you about his hangover, Tracy, and offering you a drink out of that pretty little silver flask on his hip. Ah, youth.' MacGregor returned to his work and ate a lemon drop.
'Sourpuss,' Hatton said, pink around the ears. 'Why don't he quit riding me?'
'Go out and snap a murderer,' MacGregor said. 'Push right through a cordon of police-pardon, harness bulls, I mean-and go into the building where Public Enemy Number One is cornered. I wish motion pictures had never been invented. These so-and-so cubs who come in here, wet behind the ears, expecting to find Eddie Robinson behind the city desk.'
Tracy was glancing through a still-damp copy of the Journal, wondering if Gwinn's body had been found yet. He said absently, 'Them days have gone forever, Tim.'
'So you say,' Hatton grunted, and peered at his wrist watch. 'I've got a date with Barney Donn in half an hour. Well?'
MacGregor said in a mechanical voice, 'Barney Donn, Arnie Rothstein's successor, Chicago beer baron under Capone, served time on a Federal tax rap, biggest gambler in Florida, left Hialeah a week ago. What's he doing here?'
'That's my job to find out,' Hatton said. 'He's news.'
Tracy put down the paper. 'I'll go along. I used to know Barney.' He didn't mention that once he'd blackmailed Donn for a couple of grand, and that he was vaguely worried about the gambler's appearance in Hollywood. Had Meg anything to do with this? Donn had a long memory. It might be wise to take the bull by the horns.
MacGregor crunched a lemon drop. 'Remember Rothstein,' he said sardonically. Hatton cursed him casually and picked up his camera.
'Ready, Sam?'
'Yeah.' Tracy dropped the Journal. Nothing in it about Gwinn. He hesitated, wondering whether he should check up on the obit file, but decided not to risk it. He followed Hatton out of the office, past the reception clerk, and watched the cameraman settle a mangled hat on the back of his head. Smoke drifted lazily from Hatton's nostrils.
The office cat gave Tracy a start, but in a moment he saw that it wasn't Meg. But the creature gave him something to think about. He began to wonder what the familiar would try next.
He was at cross-purposes with Meg. Meg had little time, but lots of magic. Tracy had little magic, but it was to his advantage to play for time. Meg had said she wouldn't outlast Gwinn. How long would she last? Maybe she'd grow more and more tenuous, till she finally vanished completely.
Meanwhile, he had the book.
But he wasn't certain yet of the best way to use it. He kept it handy, just in case Barney Donn was in Meg's employ. The gambler had a reputation for squareness, but he was a decidedly tough customer.
The hotel clerk took their names and said to go right up. It was a big hotel, one of the best in Los Angeles. And Donn had taken a suite.
He greeted them at the door, a stocky, swarthy man with a broken nose and a broad, toothy grin. 'Jeez, Sam Tracy,' he said. 'Who's the punk with you?'
'Hi, Barney. This is Tim Hatton. We're both on the Journal. And you can drop the colloquialisms. We'll give you the sort of write-up you want, anyway.'
Donn chuckled. 'Come on in. I got in the habit of using this lingo in Chi, and I can't break myself of it. I'm a Jekyll and Hyde. Come in, will you?'
