He kicked through with story after story about the Kiriki. Big dramatic stories, and in each one the Patterned Contentment boys were built up higher than in the last. Starr purred like a kitten. He raised Planter's word-rates and my salary. _Orion_ caught on. * * * * * The fans loved the idea of a pseudo-history of a whole constellation of systems. The Kiriki, with their breathtaking crusade of contentment, sweeping over system after system until finally it outdistanced Orion and tentacled out from their home system into deepest space.... It captured the imagination. Where would it end? Eventually we hit _Life_ magazine, with a big spread. The slicks went after Ric Planter, but Starr had him tied up with an iron-clad contract. After all, the conception was Starr's. And I could see why he wouldn't let Planter hit the slicks. Because _he_ could not dictate their policies. Only in _Orion_ could he manipulate the strings from behind. The Kiriki were his babies and they must follow _his_ pattern. The night before our anniversary issue went to press it happened. I had left Alice on her doorstep, just off the Drive. It was almost midnight, a blazing hot July night. Everybody and his dog was out for a breather. The Drive was alive with young lovers, old lovers, and dog lovers. It hit me. In my hurry to get away from the office I had neglected to check with Starr about a last minute cover change. Starr hadn't been in all day. The printers would be closing the forms first thing in the morning and I had let the change go through without Starr's okay. Starr never came in until eleven. I found a Whalen Drug Store and phoned Starr. No answer. I called the operator and found out the line was temporarily out of order. On impulse, I snagged a cross-town bus. I had never been to Starr's, never been invited or particularly wanted to visit him. He lived in a loft not far from Third Avenue. It was an ordinary type building of ancient vintage. It would never cop an Oscar for beauty, nor did it smell from Chanel No. 5. I made my way up in the half-dark from one landing to another without enthusiasm. I don't know just what it is about musty office buildings, after they've been darkened and bedded down for the night; it isn't anything calculated to cheer. Six flights, and no elevator after eight. I could see right away that Starr loved to be alone. Most of the upper-floor offices were empty. My mind snagged hold of some creepy ideas as I mounted those stairs. I thought about Starr's odd ways, his odd voice, for that matter. As if he had a machine down in his throat, a talking machine designed by a clever somebody who had once heard a human voice. About how hepped Starr was on the Kiriki, how painstakingly he had drawn them. He talked about them as if they were real. Of course, being a science fiction writer myself, I understood that brand of wackiness, or thought I did. I rapped on his door.