er of
Feinbarger Shipping, Schroop of the S.S.K. Studios in Hollywood, Dixon
of the National City Bank and so on--they didn't show up at all. It
was terribly disappointing to all of us, especially to me.

In fact, at the feast that evening, I found myself sitting next to El
Greco. There simply wasn't anyone else there. You understand that I
don't refer to that Spanish painter--I believe he's dead, as a matter
of fact. I mean Theobald Greco, the one we called the Greek.

* * * * *

I introduced myself and he looked at me blearily through thick
glasses. "Hampstead? Hampstead?"

"_Virgil_ Hampstead," I reminded him. "You remember me. Old Virgie."

He said, "Sure. Any more of that stuff left in the bottle, Old
Virgie?"

I poured for him. It was my impression, later borne out by evidence,
that he was not accustomed to drinking.

I said, "It's sure great to see all the fellows again, isn't it? Say,
look at Pudge Detweiler there! Ever see anything so comical as the
lampshade he's wearing for a hat?"

"Just pass me the bottle, will you?" Greco requested. "Old Virgie, I
mean."

"Still in research and that sort of thing?" I asked. "You always were
a brain, Greek. I can't tell you how much I've envied you creative
fellows. I'm in sales myself. Got a little territory right here that's
a mint, Greek. A mint. If I only knew where I could lay my hands on a
little capital to expand it the way--But I won't bore you with shop
talk. What's your line these days?"

"I'm in transmutation," he said clearly, and passed out face down on
the table.

Now nobody ever called me a dope--other things, yes, but not a dope.

I knew what transmutation meant. Lead into gold, tin into platinum,
all that line of goodies. And accordingly the next morning, after a
certain amount of Bromo and black coffee, I asked around the campus
and found out that Greco had a place of his own not far from the
campus. That explained why he'd turned up for the reunion. I'd been
wondering.

I borrowed cab fare from Old Pudge Detweiler and headed for the
address I'd been given.

It wasn't a home. It was a beat-up factory and it had a sign over the
door:

T. GRECO

_Plant Foods & Organic Supplies_

* * * * *

Since it was Sunday, nobody seemed to be there, but I pushed open the
door. It wasn't locked. I heard something from the basement, so I
walked down a flight of steps and looked out into