I glanced at Ray again, and mentally crossed him off for the second or third time. Ray's an honorable man, within his own complicated set of rules; he might mislead me, with pleasure, but he wouldn't give me the lie direct. But I had the feeling that the answer was square in front of me, and I was blind to it. The meeting was just now getting around to the idea that somebody present was responsible for all the nonsense. This shows you the trouble with committees. A shocking idea hit me abruptly; I grabbed Ray by the coatsleeve. "Ray, this cockeyed weather--I just remembered. _Suppose it's local._" His eyes widened; he nodded reluctantly. Then he stiffened and snapped his fingers at somebody squatting just below us--the invisible fan, Harry Somebody. I hadn't even noticed him there, but it's Ray's business to know everything and keep track of everybody--that's why he's up on his hill. The fan came over. Ray handed him something. "Here is some change, Harry--run out and call up the weather bureau. Find out whether this freak weather is local or not, and if it is, just where the boundaries are. Got that?" Harry nodded and went out. He was back only a couple of minutes later. "I got the Weather Bureau all right. They say it's local--just Manhattan and Queens!" Something snapped. I did a fast jig on the piano top, slipped and came crashing down over the keys, but I hardly noticed it. I got a death-grip on Ray's trouser leg. "Listen! If he can do that--he doesn't have to be in the same room. Doesn't Gamble live out in--" There were cries of alarm over by the open courtyard window. The room was suddenly full of cats--brindle ones, black ones, tabbies, white ones with pink ribbons around their necks, lunatic Siamese. After them came dogs: one indistinguishable wave of liquid leaping torsos, flying ears, gullets. In half a second the room was an incident written by Dante for the Mutascope. I caught a glimpse of a terrier bounding after two cats who were climbing Samwitz' back; I saw Duchamp asprawl, pipe still in his mouth, partially submerged under a tidal eddy of black and white. I saw Tom Q. rise up like a lighthouse, only to be bowled over by a frantically scrambling Leigh MacKean. Ray touched my arm and pointed. Over by the far wall, his back against it, Gamble stood like a slightly potbound Viking. He was swinging that massive briefcase of his, knocking a flying cat or dog aside at every swipe. Two women had crawled into his lee for shelter; he seemed to be enjoying himself. Then the briefcase burst. It didn't just come open; it flew apart like a comedy suitcase, scattering a whirlwind of manuscript paper, shirts, socks--and nothing else. The tide rushed toward the window again: the last screech and the last howl funneled out. In the ringing silence, somebody giggled. I couldn't place it, and neither could Ray, I think--then. Stunned, I counted scratched noses.