He returned to the show conference and forced himself to participate until it was over. He issued blanket invitations for the party at Rox Studios, left Grabinett's office and called Sergeant Fink from a phone booth. Fink was not at the precinct. Lennox said he would call again, went out and consulted the phone directory. There were a dozen Knotts in the Manhattan book. There were many more in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx. None of the names looked even faintly familiar. Lennox got back into the booth and called one at random. A man answered the phone. "Is Mr. Knott there, please?" "This is Knott. Who's calling?" "Jordan Lennox." "Who?" "Jordan Lennox." "What number are you calling?" Lennox gave the number. "You got the right number, Mister, but I think you got the wrong party." "You don't know me?" "No. Should I?" "If you've been writing me letters, you should. You--" Lennox stopped. The man had hung up. Lennox started to dial another Knott and then quit. "Am I crazy?" he asked himself. "I can't get anywhere this way." He left the phone booth, went out into the street and realized that he felt steady and solid as rocks. The uncertainty was ended. Lennox walked a few blocks while he examined himself in his new role of victim, then went over to Houseways, Inc. and picked up Gabby Valentine. He chattered exuberantly during the cab ride to Rox, concealing the discovery he had just made and the driving resolution it had brought about in him. He was not ready to reveal the crisis to Gabby until he had lived with it a little longer. Rox Studios on West 50th Street occupied the top floor of an ancient loft building. It was decorated in Industrial Modern with aerial photomurals, phallic light fixtures, and blond functional furniture. There were offices, recording studios, stock rooms, and an impressive reception room which had been taken over by a catering company. Over the bar and hors-d'oeuvre tables were hung giant blow-ups of the great hit records of the past. "We're The Most" was also prominent. Cameramen were arranging celebrities in groups. Flash bulbs were flaring. On the surface, all cocktail parties are alike. You find the conventional percentages of pretty girls, pretty boys, big wheels, nobodys, name-droppers, and the ubiquitous scrawny woman who drinks too much, insults too much, throws up too much and has to be taken home. It's the lower levels that distinguish one party from another, but on The Rock the lower levels are exposed, and consequently the percentages turn into the deludeds, the hostiles, the compulsives, the persecuteds, the insecures and the harassed. If your eye is trained you can see their frantic gyrations as they jostle and balance on their tightropes over their chasms. If your ear is sharp you can hear their bedevilments through the brittle glitter of the talk ... whispering with ghost voices like a badly tuned radio.