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heebie-jeebies, my first in years, I hadn't expected to be comfortable so soon. My eyes called for a vote. It came out two to one, with me on the losing side, and the eyes closed.
    At the moment that my eyelashes converged, the phone rang. This was no tired, cranky, irritated ring like Toby Vane's phone had produced. It was a coloratura soprano trilling, full of hope and spring, the lighter-than-air notes of a diva who's finally been told she can sing after weeks of laryngitis. The phone had rung so rarely of late that I'd taken to waxing it.
    On the seventh ring, I made my first big mistake of the day. I got up to answer it. First, though, I had to find it. I had a vague, watery memory of having tried to get Roxanne's number from information the night before, and of having dialed Eleanor when that attempt failed. I remembered turning off my own answering machine in petty revenge when Eleanor's machine had answered. What I didn't remember was where I'd put the phone.
    It continued to trill merrily away while I began at the wall outlet and painstakingly traced the cord through many a loop and circumnavigation of my cluttered living room. Finally I lost patience, took the cord in both hands, and gave a sharp pull. The telephone emerged abruptly from one of the bookcases and clattered to the floor, taking Frederick B. Artz's The Mind of the Middle Ages with it. I slapped the book into place while the phone squawked at the floor, then picked up the receiver.
    "So?" My voice sounded grumpy even to me.
    "Hello?" someone said in a bright and friendly fashion. "Is Simeon Grist there?"
    I weighed the pros and cons. "Depends."
    "This is Norman Stillman's office calling."
    "Mr. Stillman has a talking office?"
    "Well, of course not." She sounded vaguely affronted. "I'm a secretary. Mr. Stillman would like to see you."
    "About what?"
    "I'm afraid I don't know."
    "Mr. Stillman can talk, right? Even if his office can't."
    "Well, of course."
    "Then let him talk."
    "He's very busy at the moment."
    I gave half a weary eye to the computer screen. A> blinked at me. "So am I," I said. "I've got someone winking at me right now." She paused, and when she spoke again she'd given up on friendly. "I'll see if Mr. Stillman can come to the phone."
    "Take the phone to him," I suggested. "It's not heavy."
    I knew Norman Stillman, sort of. Everyone in Los Angeles did. A case I'd been working on had required my presence at the "launch" of one of the many television series let loose upon an unsuspecting world by Norman Stillman Productions. I remembered him as a slender, balding man in a nautical blazer who was fond of misquoting the classics. A very rich slender, balding man in a nautical blazer.
    "Mr. Grist?" Norman Stillman's voice slithered bonelessly through the line. "We certainly owe you a world of thanks, don't we?"
    "Do we?"
    "Let's don't be modest, Mr. Grist. This is a delicate time, and you pulled the fat right out of the fire."
    "Mr. Stillman." I closed my eyes and rubbed wearily at the bridge of my nose. The room reeled, and I quickly reopened my eyes. "I'm not being modest. I just don't know what you're talking about." Even as I said it, I realized that I knew exactly what he was talking about.
    He chuckled lightly, something I've never been able to master. I can do a hearty chuckle when I've had a few strong ones, but a light chuckle is too Noel Coward for me. I was trying to imitate his when I realized he was talking.
    ". . . our boy," he said. "One more problem and we would all have been in very hot water."
    "I don't know about you," I said, "but he passed simmer a long time ago."
    "He speaks highly of you."
    "With the chemical content of his blood, he can't speak any way but highly."
    "Now, now," he said. "Let's not be judgmental."
    It was too stupid to answer, so I examined the phone cord for knots. Phone cord knots, unlike anything else in the Universe, appear via spontaneous generation.
    "I've practically watched him grow up," Stillman