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She rested her fingers on the keyboard, on a, s, d, and f, on j, k, l, and ;, awaiting orders from the record. But the only sound from the record was a shushing sound, like the sound of the sea in a seashell.

After many seconds, a soft, deep, sweetly wheedling voice spoke in Amy’s ear, spoke from the record.

“I read about you girls on the bulletin board,” said the voice. “Says you girls belong to anybody with access to a Dictaphone.” The voice laughed quietly. “I got access to a Dictaphone.”

The record scratched on in another long silence.

“I’m cold and sick and lonely and hungry, Miss,” said the voice at last. There was a cough. “I’m feverish, and I’m dying, Miss. Guess everybody will be real glad when I’m dead.”

Another silence, another cough.

“All I ever did wrong was not let anybody push me around, Miss,” said the voice. “Somewhere, somewhere, maybe there’s a girl who thinks a boy shouldn’t be shot or starved or locked up like an animal. Somewhere, maybe there’s a girl who’s got a heart left inside her.

“Somewhere,” said the voice, “maybe there’s a girl with a heart, who’d bring this boy something to eat, and some bandages, and give him a chance to live a little while longer.

“Maybe,” said the voice, “she’s got a heart of ice, and she’ll go tell the police, so they can shoot this boy, and she can be real proud and happy.

“Miss,” said the voice to my wife-to-be, “I’m going to tell you where I’ve been and where I’ll be when you hear this. You can do anything you want with me—save me or get me killed, or plain let me die. I’ll be in building 227.” The voice laughed quietly again. “I’ll be back of a barrel. Isn’t much of a building, Miss. You won’t have any trouble finding me in it.”

The record ended.

Amy imagined herself cradling Larry Barrow’s curly head in her round, soft arms.

“There, there,” she murmured. “There, there.” Tears filled her eyes.

A hand dropped on Amy’s shoulder. It was Miss Hostetter’s hand. “Didn’t you hear me say ting-a-ling for the coffee break?” she said.

“No,” said Amy.

“I’ve been watching you, Amy,” said Miss Hostetter. “You’ve just been listening. You haven’t been typing. Is there something strange about that record?”

“Perfectly ordinary record,” said Amy.

“You looked so upset.”

“I’m all right. I’m fine,” said Amy tensely.

“I’m your big sister,” said Miss Hostetter. “If there’s anything—”

“I don’t want a big sister!” said Amy passionately.

Miss Hostetter bit her lip, turned white, and stalked into the recreation room.

Furtively, Amy wrapped Larry Barrow’s record in face tissues, and hid it in the bottom drawer of her desk, with her hand cream, face cream, lipstick, powder, rouge, perfume, nail polish, manicure scissors, nail file, nail buffer, eyebrow pencil, tweezers, bobby pins, vitamin tablets, needle and thread, eyedrops, brush, and comb.

She closed the drawer, and looked up to see the baleful eyes of Miss Hostetter, who watched her through a screen of milling girls in the doorway of the recreation room, watched her over a cup of steaming coffee and a saucer with two little cookies on it.

Amy smiled at her glassily, and went into the recreation room. “Ping-pong, anybody?” said Amy, fighting to keep her voice even.

She received a dozen merry challenges, and, during the recreation period, she daydreamed to the took-took of the ping-pong ball instead of the tack-tack of her typewriter.

* * *

At five, whistles blew triumphantly in the works and all over Pittsburgh.

My wife-to-be had spent the afternoon in a suppressed frenzy of fear, excitement, and love. Her wastebasket was stuffed with mistakes. She hadn’t dared to play Barrow’s record again, or even to exchange a glance with Miss Hostetter, for fear of giving away her terrible secret.

Now, at five, André Kostelanetz and Mantovani and the blowers of the heating system were turned off. The mail girls came into the girl pool with trays of cylinders to be transcribed first thing in the morning. They emptied withered flowers from the vases on the desks. They would bring