THE HUNDRED-AND-THIRTY-EIGHTH PAGE

The dog and I might have been ill, but our companions stood sturdy row by row, stack by stack against any onslaught. They had done it for centuries and never been conquered. Neither Hitler’s minions nor the firemen of FAHRENHEIT 451--the past or future--could touch them.

What had brought me to this irrational state? There had not been the slightest direct contact from My Editor. There was no real assurance that he was after me, but now there was a new threat and it was airborne.

And the notion of his flying over the house in a helicopter was even more ludicrous. A few local chaps had landing pads near their houses from which they commuted from the village to landing areas near Wall Street. I, however, had never been on their flightpath. And why had I suddenly developed the consuming fear? The car had been attacked. Someone was after me.

There was nothing I could do. That was the rub; I could only wait. I so badly wanted a cigarette. The feeling never leaves you.

And then the phone, which almost never rang, rang. Once, twice, three times, and then again and one more time. I go nuts after four rings. I picked the phone up. It was he.