At Penniman School, Qwilleran found other mysteries to confound him. The Happening was a roomful of people, things, sounds, and smells that seemed to have no purpose, no plan, and no point.

The school was lavishly endowed (Mrs. Duxbury had been a Penniman before her marriage), and among its facilities was an impressive sculpture studio. It had been de, scribed in one of Mountclemens' columns as "big as a barn and artistically productive as a haystack." This sculpture studio was the scene of the Happening, to attend which students paid a dollar and the general public paid three. Proceeds were earmarked for the scholarship fund.

When Qwilleran arrived, the vast room was dark except for a number of spotlights that played on the walls. These shafts and puddles of light revealed a north wall of opaque glass and a lofty ceiling spanned by exposed girders. There was also a network of temporary scaffolding overhead.

Below, on the concrete floor, persons of all ages stood in clusters or promenaded among the stacks of huge empty cartons that transformed the room into a maze. These cardboard towers, painted in gaudy colors and piled precariously high, threatened to topple at the slightest instigation.

Other threats dangled from the scaffolding. A sword hung from an invisible thread. There were bunches of green balloons, red apples tied by the stems, and yellow plastic pails filled with nobody-knew-what. A garden hose dribbled in desultory fashion. Suspended in a rope sling was a nude woman with long green hair who sprayed cheap perfume from an insecticide gun. And in the center of the scaffold, presiding over the Happening like an evil god, was "Thing #36" with its spinning eyes. Something had been added, Qwilleran noted; the Thing now wore a crown of doorknobs, Nino's symbol of death.

Soon the whines and bleeps of electronic music filled the room, and the spotlights began to move in coordination with the sound, racing dizzily across the ceiling or lingering on upturned faces.

In one passage of light Qwilleran recognized Mr. and Mrs. Franz Buchwalter, whose normal dress was not unlike the peasant costumes they had worn to the Valentine Ball. The Buchwalters immediately recognized his moustache.

"When does the Happening start?" he asked them.

"It has started," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"You mean this is it? This is all there is?"

"Other things will Happen as the evening progresses," she said.

"What are you supposed to do?"

"You can stand around and let them Happen," she said, "or you can cause things to Happen, depending on your philosophy of life. I shall probably shove some of those cartons around; Franz will just wait until they fall on him."

"I'll just wait until they fall on me," said Franz.

As more people arrived, the crowd was being forced to circulate. Some were passionately serious; some were amused; others were masking discomfiture with bravado.

"What is your opinion of all this?" Qwilleran asked the Buchwalters, as the three of them rambled through the maze.

"We find it an interesting demonstration of creativity and development of a theme," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "The event must have form, movement, a dominant point of interest, variety, unity — all the elements of good design. If you look for these qualities, it adds to the enjoyment."

Franz nodded in agreement. "Adds to the enjoyment."

"The crew is mounting the scaffold," said his wife, "so the Happenings will accelerate now."

In the flashes of half, light provided by the moving spotlights, Qwilleran saw three figures climbing the lad, der. There was the big figure of Butchy Bolton in coveralls, followed by Tom LaBlanc, and then Nino, no less unkempt than before.

"The young man with a beard," said Mrs. Buchwalter, "is a rather successful alumnus of the school, and the other is a student. Miss Bolton you probably know. She teaches here. It was her idea to have that goggle, eyed Thing reigning over the Happening. Frankly, we were surprised, knowing how she feels about junk sculpture. Perhaps she was making a point. People worship junk today."

Qwilleran turned to Franz. "You teach here at Penniman, don't you?"

"Yes, he does," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "He teaches watercolor."

Qwilleran said, "I see you're having a show at the Westside Gallery, Mr. Buchwalter. Is it a success?"

"He's sold almost everything," said the artist's wife, "in spite of that remarkable review by George Bonifield Mountclemens. Your critic was unable to interpret the symbolism of Franz's work. When my husband paints sailboats, he is actually portraying the yearning of the soul to escape, white-winged, into a tomorrow of purest blue. Mountclemens used a clever device to conceal his lack of comprehension. We found it most amusing."

"Most amusing," said the artist. "Then you're not offended by that kind of review?"

"No. The man has his limitations, as we all do. And we understand his problem. We are most sympathetic," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"What problem do you mean?"

"Mountclemens is a frustrated artist. Of course, you know he wears a prosthetic hand — remarkably realistic — actually made by a sculptor in Michigan. It satisfies his vanity, but he is no longer able to paint."

"I didn't know he had been an artist," Qwilleran said.

"How did he lose his hand?"

"No one seems to know. It happened before he came here. Obviously the loss has warped his personality. But we must learn to live with his eccentricities. He is here to stay. Nothing, we understand, could uproot him from that Victorian house of his —»

A series of squeals interrupted Mrs. Buchwalter. The garden hose suspended overhead had suddenly doused a number of spectators.

Qwilleran said, "The Lambreth murder was shocking news. Do you have any theories?"

"We don't allow our minds to dwell on that sort of thing," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"We don't dwell on it," said her husband.

Now laughter filled the studio as the crew released a bale of chicken feathers and an electric fan sent them swirling like snow.

"It seems like good clean fun," Qwilleran commented. He changed his mind a moment later when a noxious wave of hydrogen sulfide was released by the crew.

"It's all symbolic," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "You don't have to agree with the fatalistic premise, but you must admit they are thinking and expressing themselves."

Shots rang out. There were shouts, followed by a small riot among the spectators. The crew on the scaffold had punctured the green balloons, showering favors on the crowd below.

Qwilleran said, "I hope they're not planning to drop that sword of Damocles."

"Nothing really dangerous ever happens at a Happening," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"No, nothing dangerous," said Mr. Buchwalter.

The crowd was milling about the floor, and the towers of cartons were beginning to topple. A shower of confetti descended from above. Then a volley of rubber balls, dumped from one of the yellow plastic buckets. Then -

"Blood!" shrieked a woman's voice. Qwilleran knew that scream, and he rammed his way through the crowd to reach her side.

Sandy Halapay's face dripped red. Her hands were red. She stood there helplessly while John Smith tenderly dabbed at it with his handkerchief. She was laughing. It was ketchup.

Qwilleran went back to the Buchwalters. "It's getting kind of wild," he said. The crowd had started throwing the rubber balls at the crewmen on the scaffold.

The rubber balls flew through the air, hit the scaffolding, bounced back, ricocheted off innocent skulls, and were thrown again by jeering spectators. The music screeched and blatted. Spotlights swooped in giddy arcs.

"Get the monster!" someone yelled, and a hail of balls pelted the Thing with spinning eyes.

"No!" shouted Nino. "Stop!"

Seen in flashes of light, the Thing rocked on its perch. "Stop!"