"You ought to know, Sam," said Ed, the day barkeep. "You were a postman long enough." "If I knew, I wouldn't ask." "Ask Information on the phone." "He hasn't got a phone." That was the weirdest part of it--a business office without a phone. In every bar, at every moment, there is somebody who knows all the answers. This somebody, a nondescript fellow nursing a Collins down the bar, spoke up: "It could be unlisted." Sam's acquaintance didn't include people with unlisted phones; he hadn't thought of that. "Then how do you find out his number?" "You don't, unless he tells you. That's why he has it unlisted." The police could get it, Sam thought. But they wouldn't, without a reason. "Hey, maybe this guy's office is in one of them flying saucers and he forgot to come down and get his mail," Ed suggested brightly. Sam scowled and walked out. Nevertheless.... Nothing to do with UFOs, of course. That was ridiculous. * * * * * But suppose there was a warp in the space-time continuum? Suppose there had once been another Ochterlonie Building, or some day in the future there was going to be another one, somewhere in New York? There wasn't another now, in any of the boroughs, or any other building with a name remotely like it; his research had already established that. Sam went back to the Public Library. The building he knew had been erected in 1898. He consulted directories as far back as they went; there never had been one of the name before. Then a time-slip from the future? That was hopeless, so far as he could do anything about it, so he cast about for another solution. How about a parallel world? That could be, certainly: some accident by which mail for that other Ochterlonie Building, the seven-story one, had (maybe just once) arrived in the wrong dimension. He couldn't do anything to prove or disprove that, either. What he needed was a break. He got it. One morning in early summer his own mailbox in the downstairs hallway disgorged a long envelope, addressed to Mr. Samuel Wilson. The upper left-hand corner bore a printed return address: Time-Between-Time, 746 Ochterlonie Building, New York 3, N. Y. He raced upstairs, locked himself in the bathroom, the one place Mollie couldn't interrupt him, and tore the envelope open with trembling fingers. It was a form letter, with the "Dear Mr. Wilson" not too accurately typed in. It enclosed one of those blue-printed envelopes in simulated handwriting. The letterhead carried the familiar impossible address, but no phone number. Maybe it was chance, maybe it was ESP, but he himself had got onto Time-Between-Time's mailing list! * * * * * He had trouble focusing his eyes to read the letter. Dear Mr. Wilson: Would you invest $1 to get a chance at $1,000? Of course you would, especially if, win or lose, you got your dollar back.