«Insurance?»

«On your house, as of yesterday.»

«But we don't need-«

«Yes, you do, but don't know it. Sign the duplicate. Here. Can you see? Here's my flashlight and my pen. Thatsa boy. Give one to me. One for you-«

«Christ-''

«No swearing. You're all protected now, no matter what. Jig time.»

And before he knew it, Hank Gibson was elbow-fetched through a paint-flaked door inside to yet another locked door, which opened when Charlie Crowe pointed his electric laser at it. They stepped into-

«An elevator! What's an elevator doing in a shack in an empty lot at five in the morning-«

«Hush.»

The floor sank under them and they traveled what might have been seventy or eighty feet straight down to where another door whispered aside and they stepped out into a long hall of a dozen doors on each side with a few dozen pleasantly glowing lights above. Before he could exclaim again, Hank Gibson was hustled past these doors that bore the names of cities and countries.

«Damn,» cried Hank Gibson, «I hate being rushed through one god-awful mystery after an-other. I'm working on a novel and a feature for my newspaper. I've no time-«

«For the biggest story in the world? Bosh! You and I will write it, share the profits! You can't resist. Calamities. Chaos. Holocausts!»

«You were always great for hyperbole-«

«Quiet. It's my turn to show and tell.» Charlie Crowe displayed his wristwatch. «We're wasting time. Where do we start?» He waved at the two dozen shut doors surrounding them with labels marked CONSTANTINOPLE, MEXICO CITY, LIMA, SAN FRANCISCO on one side.

Eighteen ninety-seven, 1914, 1938, 1963 on the other. Also, a special door marked HAUSSMANN, 1870.

«Places and dates, dates and places. How in hell should I know why or how to choose?»

«Don't these cities and dates ring any bells, stir any dust? Peek here. Glance there. Go on.»