There was a fragrance, an allure about the room. It smelled of apples and tobacco and brought nostalgic thoughts of college days and--and faint wisps of the past that were not nostalgic. He thought of Melinee. He really ought to tell her about this. The chalky finger motioning at him, the unconcerned old men on the sofa--and the table. It was the antique table, missing from the upstairs hall, that lured him in. There it sat against the far wall. He grabbed a jutting two-by-four and twisted his body through the opening. The ladder must have been shoved to one side, or perhaps it was the claustrophobic effect of going through the small opening--anyway, something. It turned his mind, his body, wrong-side out. Like the squeezing out of a wet mop by a steamroller. At the foot of the ladder, the man in the bartender's jacket led him to the three men. One of them, exceptionally fat, jovial, excused himself politely and took Ernie aside. "You look pale, Ernie," he said. "Having trouble?" Groggily, Ernie looked about him. "It's this room. It's lopsided. I think a good thirty degrees cattywonkus." The man doused a cigar and a quick frown crossed his brow. "Good point. Very good point. Come with me, Ernie." Ernie looked; the other men paid him no mind. The little man waddled through a maze of foundation columns, as if the whole world were suspended above them. He walked behind the bar to a small glass-encased desk, U-shaped and covered with dials all reading A-B-C-D. "Kronkite!" the man called. A whirring inside the room shut off. A man with goggles and a metal halo stuck his head out the door. "Kronkite, Ernie here says we are thirty degrees off. Can you shift the equilibrium? Frankly, I hadn't noticed it." * * * * * With a silent nod, the man named Kronkite shut the transparent door, turned three knobs, a bell clanged and the floor of the whole affair sank some thirty degrees on one side, rose thirty on the other. Then the whirring in the chamber resumed and Ernie was led back to the bar. "Have yourself a drink, man," his host coaxed. "I don't need one," Ernie said. "Listen, before we go on, just one question--" The man smiled pleasantly. "Where the heck am I? And what is this going on in my basement?" The smile continued. It was maddening. "Well?" said Ernie. "You are here," the man finally said. "And don't be silly, Ernie. Your house has no basement." Ernie turned to the bartender. "I think I _will_ have a drink." "Make it a triple," the little man called, and the bartender smiled as if his face hurt. There was a pained expression on Ernie. He sank his head into his arms. "Cheer up," the man said. "It isn't worth all that." "What isn't?" "Be happy, man." "I'll be happy when I get out of here, but I'll be hilarious when I find out the score--and I plan to be hilarious before I get happy. Is that clear?"