"Iroquois!" I told him grimly.
"Come again?"
"After your scalp. Didn't you ever hear the adage about Satan's old homestead having no fury like a woman left out on the limb? If you bump into Helen MacDowell, pal, you better fly, not run, to the nearest cavern."
Hank cracked his knuckles in misery.
"Couldn't do nothin' else, Jim. Couldn't marry her. 'T'warn't logical."[2]
"So," I reminded him, "aren't females. But never mind that, Hank. Let's get down to brass tacks. The reason I wanted to see you—"
"I know. About the way them men's been disappearin'," he said. He rose and walked to my radio set. "'Pears like you oughta have this turned on. With all the trouble, seems like you'd be listenin' for news bulletins."
"It's busted," I said. "It hasn't worked for weeks."
"No?" He shifted it around, peered into the maze of coils, tubes, wires and utter incomprehensibles that comprise a modern radio set.