Sleeping that night, after a dinner which felt like slag inside him, McLeod dreamed he had just signed an application for his own demise on the steps of City Hall while bands played and people cheered. Mayor Spurgess was there with a television camera and kept on pleading for McLeod not to renege, but Tracy clung to the mayor's arm and tried to lure him away to a co-respondent rendezvous. Weaver Wainwright and Overman lurked on the fringe of the crowd, both pointing at McLeod and laughing. Harry Crippens was the gunman. When McLeod awoke, a gray dawn was seeping in through the windows. He showered and downed some bicarbonate of soda in water, but still felt like hell. A mantle of snow covered the silent streets outside and more snow was falling. Even the meteorologist's job wasn't guesswork now, McLeod thought wryly. Predicting snow, the _Star-Times_ had sowed the clouds for it. It was suddenly very important for Mayor Spurgess not to die. Early in the afternoon, McLeod called Jack Lantrel at home, but a pert-faced girl smiled at him from the screen. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lantrel is not at home. Is there a message?" "It's important that I reach him," McLeod said. "Mr. Lantrel is out. He left no number. What is it in reference to?" "4-12-DJM," McLeod said, and waited while the receptionist disappeared from view. "You're Mr. McLeod, aren't you?" "That's right." "You don't have to worry about 4-12-DJM, sir. Everything will be taken care of." "There's been a change of plans. I want the gunmen called off." The professional smile was replaced by a frown. "Only Mr. Lantrel can do that." "That's why I want to reach him. I told you it was important." "But I don't know when he'll be back. Confidentially, sir, Mr. Lantrel just hates snow. When he read in the paper it was going to snow, he said he was leaving town. I'm sorry." McLeod asked if she knew where Lantrel usually went. "That's hard to say. He likes to forget about business, you see. He's down south," she added brightly. "Someplace down south. Is there any message?" "Yes," McLeod said. "I'll be home all day. If Mr. Lantrel calls, have him contact me at once." But as the afternoon dragged on, McLeod thought it unlikely that the Gunman Chief would receive his message. He had reached the unexpected decision about Mayor Spurgess quite suddenly and now found it almost beyond analysis. He neither liked the mayor nor disliked him. It was not the man who must live, but the symbol. Symbol? Of what?