In many ways, Ford thought, Anna Richmond had been a very fortunate individual.

He smiled and, after that, mourned no more.

Twenty.

Anna was fighting and fighting and fighting.

But she barely realized what she was doing.

All she knew for certain was that she did not want to move-that any action at this time would have the most dreadful consequences-what?-that she was safe only when she was sitting in one place, doing nothing.

Programmed in advance, the plane carried her through the sky without the need for human assistance. Within an hour after leaving Wyoming, the plane landed at the central downtown terminal in San Francisco. Anna disembarked at once. She rushed across the landing strip, raced into the adjoining cafeteria, and bought a mug of coffee. More deliberately, she took a table and tried to control the urge to swallow down the coffee in great burning gulps. She finished the first mug and stood up. She ordered another. Again, she sat, drinking. Slower, she thought to herself. Please-not so fast-slower.

A clock above the counter said: eleven-oh-five.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

Suddenly, a man appeared at her elbow. A stranger. He was sixty or sixty-five with gray hair, gray eyes, and bushy gray brows. He asked: "Do you mind if I join you?"

"No," she said. "Please-please do."

The man nodded and sat down. His head continued to jerk. He smiled at Anna and said, "Daley. Arthur T. Daley. From the look of me, you wouldn't believe it. Right?"

She said, "No," and tried to probe his mind. But then she remembered that she couldn't do that any more.

"And I bet you can't guess what I am?"

"No," she admitted. "I can't."

He gave a sharp nod. "I'm a mechanic. Believe that. One of the best in the world. There are only a few like me left, don't you know. Work is scarce. But a few people-the very rich-they still like to see a pair of flesh-and-blood hands poking around their cars and planes and boats and gadgets. My son went to college. He wasn't going to be- (the man sobbed aloud)-a mechanic, a bum."

"Is it something to do with your son?" Anna was struggling not to finish the coffee. She wanted this man to keep on talking forever. Her eyes kept darting-without conscious volition-to the clock.

"It's him," the man said. He spoke in very loud tones, as if he could not trust a milder voice to convey his message. Everyone else in the room-it was quite crowded-was aware of his presence. Anna scratched her head viciously, as if the itch she felt emanated from beneath the scalp rather than on top.

Hastily, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"The army. They got him. My boy. Do you have any idea how that makes a person feel? On my way home tonight, I looked at the headlines. I don't usually pay much attention to the news, so I didn't know. I mean, yes, I'd heard, but you're always hearing about trouble in the world. This time, though, it's for real. They're going to fight. They're going to try to kill my son."

"Perhaps," she said.

The man did not seem to hear her. "So that's why I went and got like this. I don't care what I do now. This could be the last night of the world. A man has to do something."

"I know."

"It's all been known beforehand. Have you ever read the Bible? The Book of the Apocalypse? This is it. It was written down beforehand."

"I don't believe in that," she said.

"Oh, but you should." The man shook his head pityingly. Anna couldn't remember his name. He gave her a deep, searching look. "A person has to believe in something. If you don't, what have you got to live for? We all need help: you and me, my boy." He waved a hand, indicating the inclusion of the rest of the world. "Who's going to give it?"

Anna started to be honest and shake her head no but then she remembered. Yes.

"There is a man," she said, softly. "A person, I mean."

The man shook his head. "There can't be."

"Yes-I know him. I tell you, I do."

"You're lying!" The man reached over and clamped his hand viciously down on hers.

"Tell me you are!"

She shook her head. "He is my husband." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Alec Richmond."

"I've never-"

Her feet kept trying to move toward the door. In her mind, she kept seeing a sign, which said:

THEODORE MENCKEN.

Agent

She had to find it-now!

She sprang to her feet and stood frozen for a moment, her head turning frantically, searching for an exit. Then she saw the door and, ignoring the man's heated protests, turned and ran. But he wasn't about to let her go. He came rushing after her. The eyes of everyone else swiveled to follow their progress.

He caught her at the door.

Holding her elbow, he shouted: "Tell me! How can he help us?" His eyes rilled with tears. "Please."

"Androids," she said. "Don't you know? They're going to do all the fighting for us. Your son-he won't have to die."

"I know that," he said, bitterly disappointed.

"You do?"

"It was on the news. Everyone knows that. So what? They'll kill all the androids-and then it'll be my son's turn." He let go of her arm .

So it wasn't true. Alec couldn't help anyone. He was useless-a monster.

She turned and ran outside. The man did not attempt to stop her this time. He was weeping into his hands.

A public walkway ran past the front steps of the terminal. Anna leaped aboard. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the walkway was jammed. She tried to find herself. Where was she heading? People of all types and kinds blocked her view. Not just the usual midnight downtown scum-respectable people too. Well-dressed. As many women as men. Small children. No one seemed to be talking. At least, Anna could hear nothing. She noticed a high building and thought she recognized it. Another high tower. A billboard. The nightly headlines streamed here. In spite of herself, she read the words: "WAR... MOBILIZATION... WARNING... THREAT... ANDROIDS... ATTACK..."

Everyone knew. Alec couldn't help anyone. What had caused her to think he could?

In her mind, a single image dominated. A long dim corridor. A motionless walkway. Then a door. A sign. The words: