It was not the perfect voice of a magnificent contralto reproduced on the finest radio gear but a cool, clear contralto, transmitted by cheap, shoddy equipment and received on something both obsolete and inefficient. Yet is was a woman's voice. And, with the luck of the patient scientist, she was saying, "... home? It's at Thirteen forty-seven Vermont Street, Postal Zone Eleven...." And that was the first complete reception Ed Bronson heard. For, with the completion of the message, the cacophony of hoots, keenings and sirens blasted forth like a mad, insane symphony. "I live at Thirteen forty-eight Vermont," shouted Bronson. "Across the street!" He charged out, raced across the street and pressed the doorbell. He waited a moment and an elderly man came to the door. "I'm Ed Bronson," explained he. "I know you," snapped the other man. "Always gumming up my radio with your fool experiments. What do you want?" "Is your daughter using the telephone?" he asked. "She ain't home." "Your wife?" "She's with Regina." "Well, was some woman using the--" "Look, Bronson, I ain't got no women here when my wife ain't, see? Now what's your idea, huh?" Bronson looked apologetic. This was Mr. Lewis McManner and both he and his family were the kind of people--one of which seems to live on every block--who chase robins from the front yard, call the police for ball-playing boys and manage to maintain an immaculate house because it never has a good chance to get cluttered with people. "I've been working on an idea," he told McManner, "and I seem to have picked up someone who claimed that her address was Thirteen forty-seven Vermont Street." "You'd think this was the only Vermont Street in the world!" snorted McManner, slamming the door. Bronson turned from the front door and retraced his steps. Despite his disappointment, he could not help but grin at himself. After all, how many 1347 Vermont Streets might there be between Puget Sound and Key West? And, were he to try mailing each a letter, someone would most certainly object loudly enough to cause Ed Bronson to explain that he had heard a woman's voice mention the number and that he wanted to meet her. He could visualize the psychiatric ward looming to receive him while they tapped his knees and inspected his brain to find out whether he was safe to let loose without a muzzle. Yet Bronson sobered soon enough. He was an engineer. He knew that what had been done once could be done again. Perhaps the way to get in touch with this woman was to try to tap back. At least he could listen to everything she said in the hope that she would repeat other information. * * * * *