Ahead in the rainy darkness he saw the red lights of a bar. He turned and entered it.

To the bartender he said, “Look, do you have an empathy box? I’ll pay you one hundred dollars for the use of it.”

The bartender, a big burly man with hairy arms, said, “Naw, I don’t have nuthin like that. Go on.”

The people at the bar watched, and one of them said, “Those are illegal now.”

“Hey, it’s Ray Meritan,” another said. “The jazz man.”

Another man said lazily, “Play some gray-green jazz for us, jazz man.” He sipped at his mug of beer.

Meritan started out of the bar.

“Wait,” the bartender said. “Hold on, buddy. Go to this address.” He wrote on a match folder, then held it out to Meritan.

“How much do I owe you?” Meritan said.

“Oh, five dollars ought to do it.”

Meritan paid and left the bar, the match folder in his pocket. It’s probably the address of the local police station, he said to himself. But I’ll give it a try anyhow.

If I could get to an empathy box one more time—

The address which the bartender had given him was an old, decaying wooden building in downtown Los Angeles. He rapped on the door and stood waiting.

The door opened. A middle-aged heavy woman in bathrobe and furry slippers peeped out at him. “I’m not the police,” he said. “I’m a Mercerite. Can I use your empathy box?”

The door gradually opened; the woman scrutinized him and evidently believed him, although she said nothing.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” he apologized.

“What happened to you, mister?” the woman said. “You look bad.”

“It’s Wilbur Mercer,” Ray said. “He’s hurt.”