King turned to the audio controller, "Do me a favor, Gus, but strictly unofficial. Contact everybody around us: Oakland, Squirrel Hill, Point Breeze, Lawrenceville, Bloomfield ... everybody in this end of town. Find out if they've got one low intensity reading that's been on for hours. If they haven't had it since before midnight, I'm not interested." "Something up?" the controller asked. "Probably not," said the operator. "I'd just like to pin this one down as close as I can. On a night like this my screen shows nothing but milk." * * * * * "Give you a lift home?" the older reporter asked. "Thanks," said the cub shaking his head, "but I live out by the Youghiogheny River." "So?" the older man shrugged. "Half hour flight. Hop in." "I don't understand," the cub said. "What? Me offering you a lift." "No," said the cub. "Back there in the station house. You know." "You mean the deAngelis?" "Not that exactly," said the cub. "I understand a deAngelis board; everybody broadcasts emotions, and if they're strong enough they can be received and interpreted. It's the cops I don't understand. I thought any reading over eighty was dangerous and had to be looked into, and anything over ninety was plain murder and had to be picked up. Here they been ignoring eighties and nineties all night long." "You remember that children's story you wrote last Christmas about an Irish imp named Sean O'Claus?" his companion asked him. "Certainly," the cub said scowling. "I'll sell it some day." "You remember the Fashion Editor killed it because she thought 'See-Ann' was a girl's name, and it might be sacrilegious." "You're right I remember," the cub said, his voice rising. "Like to bet you didn't register over ninety that day? As a matter of fact, I'll head for the nearest precinct and bet you five you're over eighty right now." He laughed aloud and the young man calmed down. "I had that same idea myself at first. About ninety being against the law. That's one of the main troubles, the law. Every damn state in the dominion has its own ideas on what's dangerous. The laws are all fouled up. But what most of them boil down to is this--a man has to have a continuous reading of over ninety before he can be arrested. Not arrested really, detained. Just a reading on the board doesn't prove a thing. Some people walk around boiling at ninety all their lives--like editors. But the sweet old lady down the block, who's never sworn in her life, she may hit sixty-five and reach for a knife. And that doesn't prove a thing. Ninety sometimes means murder, but usually not; up to a hundred and ten usually means murder, but sometimes not; and anything over one-twenty always means murder. And it still doesn't prove a thing. And then again, a psychotic or a professional gunsel may not register at all. They kill for fun, or for business--they're not angry at anybody."