[Illustration]
Frederick Braun, M.D., Ph.D., various other Ds, pushed his slightly
crooked horn-rims back on his nose and looked up at the two-story wooden
house. There was a small lawn before it, moderately cared for, and one
tree. There was the usual porch furniture, and the house was going to
need painting in another six months or so, but not quite yet. There was
a three-year-old hover car parked at the curb of a make that anywhere
else in the world but America would have been thought ostentatious in
view of the seeming economic status of the householder.
Frederick Braun looked down at the paper in his hand, then up at the
house again. He said to his two companions, "By Caesar, I will admit it
is the most average-looking dwelling I have ever seen."
Patricia O'Gara said impatiently, "Well, do we or don't we?" Her hair
should have been in a pony tail, or bouncing on her shoulders, or at
least in the new Etruscan revival style, not drawn back in its efficient
bun.
Ross Wooley was unhappy. He scratched his fingers back through his
reddish crew cut. "This is going to sound silly."
Patricia said testily, "We've been through all that, Rossie, good
heavens."
"Nothing ventured, nothing ..." Braun let the sentence dribble away as
he stuffed the paper into a coat pocket, which had obviously been used
as a waste receptacle for many a year, and led the way up the cement
walk, his younger companions immediately behind.
He put his finger on the doorbell and cocked his head to one side. There
was no sound from the depths of the house. Dr. Braun muttered, "Bell out
of order."
"It would be," Ross chuckled sourly. "Remember? Average. Here, let me."
He rapped briskly on the wooden door jamb. They stood for a moment then
he knocked again, louder, saying almost as though hopefully, "Maybe
there's nobody home."
"All right, all right, take it easy," a voice growled even as the door
opened.
He was somewhere in his thirties, easygoing of face, brownish of hair,
bluish of eye and moderately good-looking. His posture wasn't the best
and he had a slight tummy but he was a goodish masculine specimen by
Mid-Western standards. He stared out at them, defensive now that it was
obvious they were strangers. Were they selling something, or in what
other manner were they attempting to intrude on his well being? His eyes
went from the older man's thin face, to the football hero heft of the
younger, then to Patricia O'Gara. His eyes went up and down her figure
and became approving in spite of the straight business suit she
affected.