But it wasn't. Just past Wing Fan's Chinese laundry, Jack turned into an alley and went down a flight of concrete steps. There was a door there, leading into a basement under the Eat-A-Bite Restaurant. It was unlighted, and there were no signs there to indicate anything but that the Grove Brothers Circus, Greatest Show on Earth, was coming to town two years ago.
But when they opened the battered wooden door, the light inside was like fairyland. Soft, of many changing hues, it lit a spotless expanse of floor that stretched away farther than Ken had realized the basement extended. The floor was broken by merchandise-loaded counters and gleaming machines. Here and there a clerk moved, in raiment that changed color with the light.
One of the clerks approached them. He was black-eyed, black-haired and handsome, and wore a tunic and balloon trousers.
"Ah, Mr. Hanshaw!" he exclaimed, recognizing Jack. "Glad to see you back again. But I see you have the—uh—television with you. Still having trouble?"
"Yeah," said Jack. "The screen's no good. No picture at all."
The clerk looked puzzled. "The tube couldn't be bad. It must be in the transmission facilities."
"You mean the TV stations? I don't see how—"
"Different methods of transmission," said the clerk hastily. "Just a minute, Mr. Hanshaw, and I'll see what our communications man can do about this."
He took the box from Jack and started off.
"Wait," said Jack. "Here's your newspaper."