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assured him kindly. “They’re harmless. They just never learned to knock.” He greeted the intruders with an elaborate sweep of his hand. “Don’t be shy. Come right in.”
    Bruno flopped down on the nearest bed and sniffed the air. “What stinks in here?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
    “It isn’t in here,” Chris explained patiently. “That lunatic next door is disinfecting his room.”
    “Sterilizing,” Boots corrected. “That’s George Wexford-Smyth III, my old roommate. He does this every forty-eight hours.”
    “He must use a lot of spray,” said the freshman. “It sure smells strong.”
    “Oh, George won’t use aerosol propellant. If he destroys the ozone layer,” Boots explained, “the ultra-violet rays from the sun will get him. He doesn’t spray the room. He washes it.
All
of it.”
    “Mr. Clean,” Bruno commented. “Chris, do you have a little spare time?”
    “Well, I was thinking of doing my homework and —”
    “Oh, that. Well, this is important,” Bruno interrupted. “We need eight posters advertising the auditions for our talent show.”
    Chris reached for pen and paper. “The details,” he said, all business.
    * * *
    “I think the talent show is a wonderful idea,” said Mrs. Sturgeon that evening as she counted out the Monopoly money for their weekly game.
    “I couldn’t agree more,” said Miss Scrimmage from across the table. “My girls are very enthusiastic. They’re making their costumes in sewing class.”
    “How delightful,” responded Mr. Sturgeon, who hated Monopoly except that it eliminated the necessity for polite conversation during Miss Scrimmage’s weekly visits. “Shall we begin? You are first, Miss Scrimmage.”
    Miss Scrimmage gave the dice an enthusiastic toss, and the number came up seven. She advanced her token seven spaces, reached for a Chance card, and read: “
Go to jail, go directly to …
” Her voice trailed off.
    The sound that escaped Mr. Sturgeon was suspiciously like a snicker. Under the table, his wife kicked him sharply. As he picked up the dice, he decided he did not dislike Monopoly so much after all.
    * * *
    The next day, little was accomplished during the last class of the afternoon, as the suddenly stage-struck student body watched the clock. Auditions for the talent show were scheduled to begin at four o’clock sharp.
    In his Canadian history class, Bruno Walton dropped an ever-so-subtle hint to the teacher. “Three-thirty already?” he mused loudly. “My, how time flies.”
    “Very well, that will be all for today,” the teacher decided. “We can’t have the impresario being late for his auditions. Dismissed.”
    Bruno met Boots in the hallway, and the two boys dashed off towards the school auditorium. A stampede of undiscovered stars followed along behind them. They were met by a surging crowd of girls from Miss Scrimmage’s.
    “Okay!” Bruno bellowed to quiet down the crowd. “Come in and sit down. We’ll start right away. We require complete silence. Everybody has to have a fair chance to compete. Boots, bring on the first act.”
    Boots produced the registration lists that had been attached to Chris Talbot’s posters. “The first act is Percy the Great,” he announced.
    One of the first-year boys appeared, lugging a large sheet of plywood. Attached to the wood was a department store dummy with a grotesque smile. In his belt the boy carried four sharp knives.
    “A knife thrower?” Bruno asked incredulously.
    “Yes,” said Percy the Great. “Naturally when I do the show it will be with a live volunteer from the audience instead of a dummy.”
    “Naturally,” said Bruno. “Go ahead. Let’s see what you can do.”
    Obediently, Percy the Great danced around the stage, flourishing a razor-sharp knife. At last he held it gracefully by the tip, reared back and let fly.
    Snap!
The knife neatly severed the dummy’s head at the neck. The still smiling head rolled across the stage and came to rest at