Early morning deliveries were part ofthe Honeychile Bakery Service. But on thisparticular morning the service was reversed!
At 2:34 a.m., Patrolman LouisWhedbee left the Zip Cabstation. With arch supportssqueaking and night stick swinging,Whedbee walked east to the callbox at the corner of Sullivan andCherokee. The traffic signal suspendedabove the intersectionblinked a cautionary amber. Nota car moved on the silent streets.
Whedbee reached for the box.Then he swore softly and steppedoff the curb. "Pardon me," he said,for he believed that a policemanshould be courteous at all times,even when arresting a school zonespeedster. This, however, was nota speedster. It seemed to be ahuge man standing on top of atruck and cutting down the stoplight. "What's going on here?"Whedbee asked.
HONEYCHILE BAKERY wasadvertised on the side of the truck.Instinctively, Whedbee jammed hiswhistle in his mouth when herealized that the man on the truckwore something like a suit of longunderwear made of improbableblack fur sprinkled with tiny redspots.
"What are you doing to the stoplight?" Whedbee demanded.
The amber light quit blinkingwithout the expected electrical display.Sinuous as beheaded snakes,the wires and cables supporting thetraffic signal fell into the street.The unusual man pocketed hiscutting tool—a long thin tube—andlowered the stop light to thetruck. He looked at Whedbee.The corner street lamp reactedupon his eyes like a flashlightthrown on a tomcat in an alley.The eyes gleamed green.
Whedbee's whistle arced to theend of the chain and clankedagainst his metal buttons. A blockaway on Center Street, a heavytruck roared through the businesssection. The bell of a switch enginetolled near the freight depot,and a small dog barked suddenlyat the obscured sky.
"I am promoting you to captain.You will replace Hanks, whom Iam demoting," the figure on thetruck announced.
"Chief Grindstaff?" Whedbeewondered.
The chief of police glared downat the patrolman. He hooked abright metal globe to the stoplight, lifted it in one hand, andjumped, landing lightly on thepavement. "Put this in the mobileunit," he said. "The truck, Ievil."
"Huh? Sure, chief," Whedbeesaid. He tucked his night stickunder his arm and prepared to accepta heavy load. Tensed musclesalmost felled him when thesignal proved to weigh not morethan one pound.
Chief Grindstaff opened thedoors in the rear of the truck, releasinga faint odor of stale bread.The truck was empty. Whedbeedeposited the almost weightlessburden. The chief looked him inthe eye. "I am promoting you tocaptain," he repeated. "You willreplace Hanks, whom I am demoting."
"Thanks, chief!" Whedbee exalted."You know Hanks didn'ttreat me fair that time I—"
"Yes, I know all about that,"the chief interposed. "Go bringthe postage box and place it inthe truck."
"The which? Oh, you meanthe mailbox!" Whedbee walkedacross the street to thesquare green box with the roundedmetal top. Another of the globeshad been attached to the mailbox,and the legs had been burned loosefrom the concrete sidewalk. Confidently,Whedbee lifted the lightobject, carried it to the truck, anddeposited it inside.
"Bleachers there," said ChiefGrindstaff.
"What you say, chief?"
"Stands there. No, stand there."
Patrolman Whedbee stood bythe back of the truck. ChiefGrindstaff placed a device likean atomizer under Whedbee's noseand released the spray.
Miss