signal on, same reading
as you have. Bloomfield thinks they may have it. Oakland's not too sure.
Everybody else is negative." The controller walked over. "Which one is
it?"

King pointed to the end of the second row.

"Can't you get it on your screen?"

"Hell, yes, I've got him on my screen!" King swiveled in his chair and
turned on the set. The scope was covered with pale dots. "Which one is
he? There?" He pointed to the left. "That's a guy who didn't get the
raise he wanted. There?" He pointed to the center. "That's a little girl
with bad dreams. She has them every night. There? That's my brother!
He's in the Veteran's Hospital and wanted to come home a week ago."

"So don't get excited," said the controller. "I only asked."

"I'm sorry, Gus," King apologized. "My fault. I'm a little edgy ...
probably nothing at all."

"Well you got it narrowed down anyway," Gus said. "If you got it, and
Squirrel Hill's got it, then he's in Shadyside. If Oakland doesn't have
him, then he's on this side of Aiken Avenue." The controller had caught
King's fever; the "it" had become a "him". "And if Bloomfield doesn't
have him, then he's on the other side of Baum Boulevard."

"Only Bloomfield might have him."

"Well what the hell, you've still got him located in the lower half of
Shadyside. Tell you what, I'll send a man up Ellsworth, get Bloomfield
to cruise Baum Boulevard in a scout car, and have Squirrel Hill put a
patrol on Wilkens. We can triangulate."

"No," said King, "not yet. Thanks anyway, Gus, but there's no point in
stirring up a tempest in a teapot. Just tell them to watch it. If it
climbs over 75 we can narrow it down then."

"It's your show," said Gus.

* * * * *

The old man finished his second can of beer. The trembling was almost
gone. He could stand and move without breaking out in a cold sweat. He
ran his hand through his hair and looked at the clock. 6:15. Too early.
He looked around the room for something to read. There were magazines
and newspapers scattered everywhere; the papers all folded back to the
sports section. He picked up a paper, not even bothering about the date,
and tried to interest himself in the batting averages of the
Intercontinental League. Yamamura was on top with .387; the old man
remembered when Yamamura came up as a rookie. But right now he didn't
care; the page trembled and the type kept blurring. He threw the paper
down. He had a headache.

The