lived too long alone in the empty house.

Just as he drew away from the curb, Joey heard the crash. Squealing rubber, splintering glass, rending metal, perhaps a human scream ... compounded into an awful discord that ricocheted against the quiet brownstone fronts, building to a crescendo of metallic anguish.

After the first moment of surprise, Joey experienced the curious exaltation he always felt at a scene of violence. The trip wasn't a waste after all. He'd get a picture, and from the sound of the crash, it would be a good one.

As he clambered out of his car, camera ready, people were running down steps, cars were swinging off the boulevard—the first cluster of the curious was collecting.

With professional assurance, Joey brushed people aside and moved in. One car had been stopped at the intersection and the other had careened off the boulevard and smashed head-on into it.

Joey stopped on the crowd's inner edge and stared.

It was impossible. One car was an old sedan. The other, a sleek convertible. An old man with blood-spattered white beard half-spilled from the sedan and on the glistening pavement lay a woman in evening dress, surrounded by dozens of pearls.

From habit, Joey took the picture of the accident and delivered it to Nugent. By the time he had developed his picture, he was beginning to enjoy the knowledge that it was an exact duplicate of the photograph in Ewing's album.

Only he and Ewing realized the power of Formula #53. It couldn't be coincidence. The details were too exact. Ewing's explanation was the only one possible. And that meant the old boy wasn't crazy. The formula was all he insisted.

Such a formula could be a great force for good, the old man had said. In the right hands. In the hands of Joey Barrett.

Joey decided to keep his secret. This was not a power to be shared with Leslie Nugent or anyone else. So, when he faced his editor again, he was careful to dismiss the Ewing interview with just the proper degree of casualness.

"There's no doubt about it," he said. "Ewing's a crackpot."

Nugent scowled impatiently. "Even so...."

"I tell you, if we run the story he gave me, we'll be laughed out of business." Joey watched Nugent closely.

"But surely as a human interest yarn," the editor protested, "we'd be justified."

Joey shook his head. "He's an old crank, trying to build up his ego with these phony claims."

Nugent leaned back. "There was absolutely no basis for his theory?"

"None." Joey laughed easily. "You should have seen the obvious trick photos he tried to pass off as evidence. My advice is: forget Jason Ewing."

There was a long pause. Then, Nugent nodded. "All right. Thanks, Joey." He picked up a glossy of the accident. "You outdid yourself on this one."

Joey sauntered to the door. "The master's touch," he called. "I'll hit you for a raise later."

Satisfied that Nugent considered the Ewing story dead, Joey left the paper and hurried to a pay-phone.

When Jason Ewing answered, there was a note of near-hysteria in his voice. He seemed frightened by Joey's interest and was extremely reluctant to give him another interview.

"I don't blame you for being irritated," Joey said. "I was very rude. But look, Mr. Ewing, now I see I was wrong. We can't talk about it on the phone. All I want is a chance to see you again. Maybe tomorrow?"

There was such a long pause that Joey thought Ewing had broken the connection. Then, he heard the old man sigh.

"I ... I don't know what to say," Ewing faltered. "In the light of ... of recent developments, I think it would be unwise to involve you, Mr. Barrett."

Joey laughed. "Listen, this is the break of a lifetime for me. How about tomorrow morning at nine?"

"Tomorrow." The one word was neither affirmation nor question.

But Joey chose to interpret it as agreement. "See you in the morning at nine, Mr. Ewing," he said, and hung up quickly.

Joey