"It's already busted wide open. If Kansas don't take us off the air, them letters will." Grabinett shook his fist at Ween. "Threatening letters which come addressed to 'Dear Who He' and signed 'Guess Who' and they'll curl the hair off all his property, including that atom bomb shelter he built in Westchester and this no-talent dummy-dropper." "Cut out them insults," Ween said furiously. "Cut out them grammar," Lennox murmured. Having turned the united front back into civil war, he felt secure again; in full control of the situation, austere and infallible. But the news about the letter was alarming. It was another attack to be met ... a vicious, anonymous onslaught, far more dangerous than the threatened lawsuit. "I been trying to protect my show," Grabinett continued passionately to Tooky Ween. "I been trying to protect your lousy artiste so he could earn his two yards and get us a rating, but if you're gonna rat on me, then I'll--" "Why don't you leave me alone?" Mason screamed. "What are you trying to do? Murder me? Leave me alone!" He scooped up the dummy, thrust past Lennox and dashed out of the dressing room. The others stared in astonishment, then all four ran after the star. Mason was at the prop table. He snatched up a ski-pole and veered out on the naked stage, whirling the pole over his head, making whimpering sounds. He smashed the single work-light hanging down from the grid, and the stage was in darkness. Irma screamed. Grabinett groaned. Tearing noises came from the back wall where the struck sets were stacked. Lennox took over. "Angie! Flo! Ruthanna!" he shouted. His favorites heard him. They opened their dressing room door and came out on the balcony. The stage was flooded with dilute light from overhead. "What is it, Jake? What's the matter?" "Keep that door open. We need light," Lennox answered. He called to the star: "Mig, don't be a fool! If you want to break something, your agent's right here." Mason stopped ripping the flats apart, dropped the ski-pole, turned and ran wildly behind the master switchboard in the left wings. An instant later they heard the clatter of his feet ringing down iron steps. They pursued him down the spiral stairs to the huge dressing room under the stage where six naked ballet boys in half makeup were standing and staring in bewilderment. "Excuse us, ladies," Lennox called. "Where's Mig?" They pointed to a heavy bulkhead door just oozing shut. "Jesus Almighty," Grabinett moaned. "He's down in the cellar." "Find the electrician," Lennox told him. "Tooky, get a flashlight. Irma, you wait here." Lennox went through the cellar door, stumbled down an endless zig-zag flight of concrete steps, clinging to the rail. He came to the bottom of the steps, lost his grasp on the rail and was lost in blackness. "Mig!" he shouted. There was no answer. "Mig! Come back. It was St. Nicholas."