Over and over again the announcer was droning. "Calling all cars--Calling all cars--Drop everything and be on the alert. Tragedy in burlesque showhouse. Over three hundred people dead. Cause of death not known. Manager went in to investigate sudden silence. Found audience and cast of show dead. Bodies livid color, as if they had been burned. Clothing falls to ashes when touched. Sergeant Kennedy of the homicide division suggests there is a definite connection between the death of these people and the death of the two Asian Museum archeologists last night. Be on the alert. Take over main intersections and prevent panic. Story already broken in general radio news flash. Cordon being thrown around the theater area. All special details canceled, all squad cars call your stations for definite orders--Be on the alert--Calling all cars--" Death was walking through Chicago, a horrible, incredible form of death. Rocks Malone stood without moving, listening to the operator repeat his message. He could scarcely conceive the meaning of the words. "Over three hundred people dead--" Dim pictures flashed to his mind. Out of nowhere, out of nothingness, silence had come. Three hundred people had died. Before they knew what struck them, death had washed over them. Millions of microscopic needles had plunged through their bodies, points of agonizing pain. Then death-- Jerkily, the telephone rang. One of the officers grabbed it. He listened, said "Okay," huskily, and turned to his fellows. "Station calling. We're to report back there immediately for emergency duty. They're calling us off here. Come on." The radio was still droning as they went out. The telephone rang again. It was Penny this time. "I'm coming down there," she said, "I'm scared. I'm coming down there with you." "Stay away from here!" Rocks shouted. But she had already hung up. Desperately, he tried to call her back. There was no answer. She had already left. She was driving toward the museum, driving through a night in which death lurked. Rocks groaned. He went back to the basement. There was nothing he could do. Nothing! The coffee pot was bubbling on its burner. He poured himself a cup of the scalding brew. It burned his throat but it cleared his head. He went back to work. The language was out. He couldn't crack it. He didn't even have time to try to crack it any more. But there were Morton's notes. He hadn't studied them thoroughly. He had read only those portions of the notes that dealt with the language. He began to go over them again, starting with the section that dealt with the discovery of the box.