"Oh, you found it, Mr. Elvin. We looked high and low; now we--" "It was in the rocket." "... now we can have our contest." Desperately a new idea occurred to him. "Can you get these kids quiet? I want to 'phone." "But it's so early, Mr. Elvin. We can't expect them to go home yet." "No, Mrs. Schermerhorn. 'Phone. I want to telephone!" "Oh. Yes; of course. We'll have our contest in the living room." * * * * * Gary Elvin wormed his way toward the closet under the stairway. It was a very small telephone alcove, not designed for utility. Yet he found he could shut out some of the din if he jackknifed himself against the slanting wall and held the door partly shut. But it required the use of both his hands. He set the cylinder on a bookcase in the hall and squeezed into the closet. With the telephone in his hand, he hesitated. It had seemed a good idea a moment ago--to call in the Authorities. But, to bring the generalization down to specifics, just who would that be? In a big city he would have telephoned the police. But San Benedicto was a California valley town, small, sleepy, and contented. The four-man police force was more or less capable of handling minor traffic violations, but certainly nothing else. The State Police? Elvin doubted they would have jurisdiction. His last, feeble resort seemed to be the _San Benedicto News_, a daily, four-page advertising circular that passed, locally, for a newspaper. Elvin called the editor-reporter at his home. After he had told his story, Elvin had to suffer a certain standardized banter concerning the advisability of changing his brand of bourbon. It was entirely meaningless, a form of humor enjoyed by the valley people. Matt Henderson eventually agreed that the strange rocket might bear investigation. "I'll be out first thing in the morning," he promised. "In the morning! Listen, Matt, this thing may be--it might--" He was unable to crystalize his reasons for urgency. He finished lamely, "It's important, I think." "It ain't going to run away, is it?" "No, but--" "Then we can both get a good night's sleep." Gary Elvin turned away from the telephone, vaguely dissatisfied. He felt that something ought to be done immediately. What, he didn't know, or why. He went to get his cylinder of colored spheres from the bookcase where he had left it. The jar was gone. He heard a burst of talk in the living room and he was suddenly frightened. From the archway he looked in on the guests, some thirty youngsters, all of the tenth grade of San Benedicto High School. They sprawled over chairs and couches, or they sat, Indian fashion, on the floor. Mrs. Schermerhorn stood in the center of the room, like a judge, smiling patiently. All thirty of the guests were chewing industriously. On the floor stood Elvin's jar of colored spheres, open and more than half-empty.