The heat wave had become big headlines in the papers.
Sometimes I looked out the window at the glaring roofs of the metropolis and tried archmeasures of cortical autohypnosis, imagining the sky gray, snow falling in hushed and steady spirals, shop windows green and red for Christmas, and Salvation Army Santa Clauses ringing handbells beside their tripods and kettles on the main intersections. It wasn't any good. My personal limits of trained tolerance had been exceeded by a great, tormented gob of atomic fire ninety-three million miles away and right here on my windowsill.
Still—I made fair progress.
The light was losing its intensity, though the air was no less fevered, when I got a call.
"Is this Phil Wylie?" It was a man's voice—bland, on the booster side.
"Yo." I was not very enthusiastic about being Phil Wylie.
"This is Socker Melton. Friend of your father. He told me to look you up, here—and I've tried a time or two before now. Glad to catch you in. May I come up?"
What do you do? I told him I was working hard—on a rush operation—but to come up anyhow.
Then I raged around the sitting room for a bit.