wn
steps, cars were swinging off the boulevard--the first cluster of the
curious was collecting.

With professional assurance, Joey brushed people aside and moved in. One
car had been stopped at the intersection and the other had careened off
the boulevard and smashed head-on into it.

Joey stopped on the crowd's inner edge and stared.

It was impossible. One car was an old sedan. The other, a sleek
convertible. An old man with blood-spattered white beard half-spilled
from the sedan and on the glistening pavement lay a woman in evening
dress, surrounded by dozens of pearls.

* * * * *

From habit, Joey took the picture of the accident and delivered it to
Nugent. By the time he had developed his picture, he was beginning to
enjoy the knowledge that it was an exact duplicate of the photograph in
Ewing's album.

Only he and Ewing realized the power of Formula #53. It couldn't be
coincidence. The details were too exact. Ewing's explanation was the
only one possible. And that meant the old boy wasn't crazy. The formula
was all he insisted.

Such a formula could be a great force for good, the old man had said. In
the right hands. In the hands of Joey Barrett.

Joey decided to keep his secret. This was not a power to be shared with
Leslie Nugent or anyone else. So, when he faced his editor again, he was
careful to dismiss the Ewing interview with just the proper degree of
casualness.

"There's no doubt about it," he said. "Ewing's a crackpot."

Nugent scowled impatiently. "Even so...."

"I tell you, if we run the story he gave me, we'll be laughed out of
business." Joey watched Nugent closely.

"But surely as a human interest yarn," the editor protested, "we'd be
justified."

Joey shook his head. "He's an old crank, trying to build up his ego with
these phony claims."

Nugent leaned back. "There was absolutely no basis for his theory?"

"None." Joey laughed easily. "You should have seen the obvious trick
photos he tried to pass off as evidence. My advice is: forget Jason
Ewing."

There was a long pause. Then, Nugent nodded. "All right. Thanks, Joey."
He picked up a glossy of the accident. "You outdid yourself on this
one."

Joey sauntered to the door. "The master's touch," he called. "I'll hit
you for a raise later."

Satisfied that Nugent considered the Ewing story dead, Joey left the
paper and hurried to a pay-phone.

When Jason Ewing answered, there was a note of nea