the closet. With the telephone in
his hand, he hesitated. It had seemed a good idea a moment ago--to call
in the Authorities. But, to bring the generalization down to specifics,
just who would that be?

In a big city he would have telephoned the police. But San Benedicto was
a California valley town, small, sleepy, and contented. The four-man
police force was more or less capable of handling minor traffic
violations, but certainly nothing else. The State Police? Elvin doubted
they would have jurisdiction. His last, feeble resort seemed to be the
_San Benedicto News_, a daily, four-page advertising circular that
passed, locally, for a newspaper. Elvin called the editor-reporter at
his home.

After he had told his story, Elvin had to suffer a certain standardized
banter concerning the advisability of changing his brand of bourbon. It
was entirely meaningless, a form of humor enjoyed by the valley people.
Matt Henderson eventually agreed that the strange rocket might bear
investigation.

"I'll be out first thing in the morning," he promised.

"In the morning! Listen, Matt, this thing may be--it might--" He was
unable to crystalize his reasons for urgency. He finished lamely, "It's
important, I think."

"It ain't going to run away, is it?"

"No, but--"

"Then we can both get a good night's sleep."

Gary Elvin turned away from the telephone, vaguely dissatisfied. He felt
that something ought to be done immediately. What, he didn't know, or
why. He went to get his cylinder of colored spheres from the bookcase
where he had left it. The jar was gone.

He heard a burst of talk in the living room and he was suddenly
frightened. From the archway he looked in on the guests, some thirty
youngsters, all of the tenth grade of San Benedicto High School. They
sprawled over chairs and couches, or they sat, Indian fashion, on the
floor. Mrs. Schermerhorn stood in the center of the room, like a judge,
smiling patiently. All thirty of the guests were chewing industriously.
On the floor stood Elvin's jar of colored spheres, open and more than
half-empty.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Schermerhorn protested, turning to Elvin. "Something
seems wrong with their gum. They've tried and tried, but I haven't seen
a single bubble. And it did seem such a clever game! I suppose if the
gum were stale--" Her voice trailed off when she saw the horror on
Elvin's face.

Wordlessly he pointed at the open jar. The room fell silent. All thirty
of the you