"Phone Me in Central Park"

by James V. McConnell

"Well?"

"All right, all right. You're so good, see if you can compute the scatter probability."

The first being moved imperceptably and the heavy plastoid binding of the book disappeared. The thousands of pages dropped softly, caught at the wind like hungry sails, separated, and pulled by the fingers of gravity, went their disparate ways.

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Here a page scuttled into a broken window of the Chrysler Building (read the names: Aabat, Aabbs, Aabbt).

Here a page landed upright on the head of one of the library lions and sloughed softly to the ground (read the names: Looman, Loomana, Loomanabsky).

Here another page crept in between the cracks of a pier on the riverfront, dropping gently to the caressing eddies of the water (read the names: Smith, Smitha, Smitj).

And here two pages danced down into Central Park, pirouetted, promenaded, and finally came to rest against a propped-up piece of metal (read the names: Whit, Whita, Whitacomb).