“We’re having very nice weather out here,” Elsie said, “although I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that, because it’s a military secret.”
“It is indeed?”
“Oh, yes. By suppressing all information about the weather, we’ve taken a long step toward winning the war. One of the things we’re short on is newsprint. The Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce used to use up enough paper telling about the climate to cover with dense forest an area of nine thousand, six hundred and eighty-seven acres, assuming that the trees would be on an average of eighteen inches in diameter and would be growing at distances of ten and six-tenths feet, measuring from the center of the trunks. That assumes that the trees would have an average height of—”
“Your three minutes are up,” the operator broke in.
“You win,” I told Elsie. “Good-by.”
“By-by, Donald. Good luck.”
I heard the receiver click at the other end of the line, and hung up.
I sat back with my feet propped on a chair, thinking.
The telephone rang.
I picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and heard a man’s voice saying cautiously, “Are you Mr. Lam?”