re dawn. And when did a fat man look his
most corpulent--next to one deprived of flesh, of course. One could not
react too carefully juxtaposed against glaring opposites in a universe
filled with few resolutions. No, he would not be lulled into a false
confidence, into the luxury of seemingly overcoming the mystery of his
baffling noise. In all sincerity, he must anticipate everything.

Perhaps the very silence harboured little noises like maggots invisible
to the eye? Invisible, yet nonetheless there, brooding for an assault
beneath a limpid surface? Yes, the enemy--that pestilent noise was
still in its lair watching his fragile kingdom, eyeing an opening,
searching out his jugular. He would blunt it, though. Under no
circumstances would he crack. Not the likes of him. Must remain calm at
all costs, he cautioned himself. He must remain master of the
situation, not be alarmed should the phantom noise return. After all,
in darkness lay his chance to test his theory of the sound's
interrelation with shadow. Without darkness, there was no sure way to
clear this mess up once and for all.

The doctor searched again for a pulse, then shook a wearied head. The
bedclothes were damp with perspiration and the room lay ajar with
evidence of disarray. Durfield's eyes stared voluminously through their
sockets and seemed fixed to the furthest wall of his bedroom. At the
room's opening lay an overturned table with the smashed remains of a
deflected lamp with its nightshade crumpled lying by the base of the
wall.

"I just got up for a drink in the minute of the night and stumbled
against the door," the younger brother was explaining. "I could barely
even see the door, honest. I didn't mean to wake him or anything like
that. He's given me heck before."

The doctor closed the eyelids against pupils bulging in a vaccuous
profusion. He said nothing, but renewed his glance at the broken glass
and dark spot on the coiled rug where spilt water had made a
crevice-like opening over the linoleum and upturned nightstand.

THE STRONGBOX

"He was always the one to figure things," remarked Humboldt. "Always
the smart ass type, big jawed lazy bones--couldn't make a good farmer
out of that sort. Didn't want to do much of anything 'cept run. All his
money went on his car. Drinking in the Richelieu most every night. I
suspect that's where he were coming from when it happened."

Humboldt leaned back against the store front. Twice weekly he'd