Yet is was a woman's voice. And, with the luck of the patient scientist, she was saying, "... home? It's at Thirteen forty-seven Vermont Street, Postal Zone Eleven...."
And that was the first complete reception Ed Bronson heard. For, with the completion of the message, the cacophony of hoots, keenings and sirens blasted forth like a mad, insane symphony.
"I live at Thirteen forty-eight Vermont," shouted Bronson. "Across the street!"
He charged out, raced across the street and pressed the doorbell. He waited a moment and an elderly man came to the door.
"I'm Ed Bronson," explained he.
"I know you," snapped the other man. "Always gumming up my radio with your fool experiments. What do you want?"
"Is your daughter using the telephone?" he asked.
"She ain't home."
"Your wife?"
"She's with Regina."