I found a Whalen Drug Store and phoned Starr. No answer. I called the operator and found out the line was temporarily out of order.
On impulse, I snagged a cross-town bus. I had never been to Starr's, never been invited or particularly wanted to visit him. He lived in a loft not far from Third Avenue.
It was an ordinary type building of ancient vintage. It would never cop an Oscar for beauty, nor did it smell from Chanel No. 5. I made my way up in the half-dark from one landing to another without enthusiasm. I don't know just what it is about musty office buildings, after they've been darkened and bedded down for the night; it isn't anything calculated to cheer. Six flights, and no elevator after eight.
I could see right away that Starr loved to be alone. Most of the upper-floor offices were empty. My mind snagged hold of some creepy ideas as I mounted those stairs. I thought about Starr's odd ways, his odd voice, for that matter. As if he had a machine down in his throat, a talking machine designed by a clever somebody who had once heard a human voice. About how hepped Starr was on the Kiriki, how painstakingly he had drawn them. He talked about them as if they were real. Of course, being a science fiction writer myself, I understood that brand of wackiness, or thought I did.
I rapped on his door.
There was light pushing out under his door so I knew he must be there. It was noisy inside, which was why he hadn't heard me. I bent my ear closer. What a noise! It sounded like a bullfrog-grasshopper duet.
I banged on the door again. No answer.
I tried the doorknob. It turned. I was half in when I stopped cold. This I did not believe. Put it on a book jacket and label it Edd Cartier and I'll buy it.
I blinked to make it go away but it wouldn't. I whimpered. So it was—what my mind had been half-suspecting for months, and laughing at itself even as it suspected—it was true!