This conviction was jarred a little when he got past the lobby man in the Washington building--a feat easily accomplished--climbed ten flights of stairs, and found room ten twenty-eight empty. Obviously, Dennis had goofed. King's first instinct was to retreat as quietly as he'd advanced; to get away from the place and report failure to Dennis. But as he went back downstairs, the thought of Dennis' disapproval began weighing more heavily. Maybe something unforeseen had happened. Maybe he could still pull this one out of the fire. With this hope foremost in his mind, he went into the lobby, assumed a bold front, and demanded: "Where in the hell did the people in ten twenty-eight go?" And the front worked. The lobby man, a big Irishman, was so impressed he didn't even ask King how he'd gotten into the building. He blinked politely and said, "Blessed if I'm not new here myself. This is my first day. What room was it?" Then the big Irishman went to a phone to check, and came back with a Georgetown address written out on a slip of paper. Georgetown seemed like an unlikely place to find cadavers and, under normal conditions, King would have been highly suspicious of the whole thing. But what the hell? Nothing was normal about this project, so why not follow through? _King, you're crazy. You're out of your stupid mind._ He raised his hand and a cab cut in toward the curb. When he arrived at the address, he found himself standing on the walk in front of a large, imposing house. The place still seemed unlikely but you never could tell. The way things were these days, any house in whatever neighborhood was a potential location for almost anything. The way this one was laid out, there could possibly have been a laboratory in the back. A narrow walk led in that direction and, instead of climbing the front steps, King followed it around the corner and found a basement door at the foot of a flight of steps. He hesitated before ringing the bell. What kind of an approach would he use? The idea was to get inside and see the layout--spot the office, the file cabinets. The feature-story bit? It might work, but who the hell lived here? He'd checked the mailbox beside the front porch but there'd been no name. Deciding he could only play it by ear, he pulled in his diaphragm and rang the bell. The door opened quickly--too quickly, it seemed--and King realized he'd struck a pay lode in the myopic-looking little jerk who stood peering out at him. The guy wore a white laboratory coat with two bloodstains on it and was holding a scalpel in his hand. "I'm Doctor Entman. Can I help you?" Entman--Entman--for Christ sake. Oh, sure, a neurologist. Had to be the same guy. International authority. The _Times_ once did a feature on his arrival at Idlewild. UN stuff.