And the voice answered amiably enough: "Hold on, buddy. I'll see if they answer." Clicking and a good long wait. Then a new voice said: "Whaddya want?" There was no sense pressing my luck by asking for anything like a complete meal. I would be lucky if I got a sandwich. I said: "Please, may I have a Spam sandwich on Rye Krisp and some coffee for Room Fifteen Forty-one?" "Please, you go to hell!" the voice snarled. "What do you think this is, some damn delicatessen? You want liquor, we'll get you liquor. That's what room service is for!" * * * * * I hung up. What was the use of arguing? Arthur was clacking peevishly: WHATS THE MATTER SAM YOU THINKING OF YOUR BELLY AGAIN Q Q "You would be if you--" I started, and then I stopped. Arthur's feelings were delicate enough already. I mean suppose that all you had left of what you were born with was a brain in a kind of sardine can, wouldn't you be sensitive? Well, Arthur was more sensitive than you would be, believe me. Of course, it was his own foolish fault--I mean you don't get a prosthetic tank unless you die by accident, or something like that, because if it's disease they usually can't save even the brain. The phone rang again. It was the desk clerk. "Say, did you get what you wanted?" he asked chummily. "No." "Oh. Too bad," he said, but cheerfully. "Listen, buddy, I forgot to tell you before. That Miss Engdahl you were expecting, she's on her way up." I dropped the phone onto the cradle. "Arthur!" I yelled. "Keep quiet for a while--trouble!" He clacked once, and the typewriter shut itself off. I jumped for the door of the bathroom, cursing the fact that I didn't have cartridges for the gun. Still, empty or not, it would have to do. I ducked behind the bathroom door, in the shadows, covering the hall door. Because there were two things wrong with what the desk clerk had told me. Vern Engdahl wasn't a "miss," to begin with; and whatever name he used when he came to call on me, it wouldn't be Vern Engdahl. There was a knock on the door. I called: "Come in!" The door opened and the girl who called herself Vern Engdahl came in slowly, looking around. I stayed quiet and out of sight until she was all the way in. She didn't seem to be armed; there wasn't anyone with her. I stepped out, holding the gun on her. Her eyes opened wide and she seemed about to turn. "Hold it! Come on in, you. Close the door!" She did. She looked as though she were expecting me. I looked her over--medium pretty, not very tall, not very plump, not very old. I'd have guessed twenty or so, but that's not my line of work; she could have been almost any age from seventeen on. The typewriter switched itself on and began to pound agitatedly. I crossed over toward her and paused to peer at what Arthur was yacking about: SEARCH HER YOU DAMN FOOL MAYBE SHES GOT A GUN I ordered: "Shut up, Arthur. I'm _going_ to search her. You! Turn around!" * * * * *