THEODORE MENCKEN.

Agent

Again and again, as the walkway carried her into the night, she saw this sign. There was no way she could block it out. Nothing else seemed to matter. The words, over and over, were driving her mad. Suddenly, she realized that this was what had been bothering her all night. The itching inside her skull. She had to find that sign. When she saw it-really saw it with her own eyes-when she passed beyond it-then she could relax; she would be set free.

With a start, she realized she was riding in the wrong direction. She cried out, attracting stares. The walkway was carrying her along the edge of the waterfront, down toward the Marina, away from the towering downtown skyscrapers. The sign was back the other way. She had to find it.

She was maneuvering desperately, trying to find a means of escape, when she saw a cloverleaf ahead. She moved through it carefully, following the signs, and when she emerged from the scramble, she was turned in the right direction. She laughed at her victory. Any moment now. She bit her hand to keep from screaming.

Someone beside her reached out and grabbed her hand.

She turned to look. A young man-good-looking in a well-scrubbed way. But she didn't know him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, leaning close in spite of the silence around them. He pointed at her fist between her teeth. "I thought-"

She removed the hand and said, quickly, "Thank you- I'm fine."

"But aren't you Anna Richmond?"

"I am," she said, after a moment's consideration.

His smile glowed. "I've always admired your tapes tremendously." He laughed hollowly. "Isn't it funny I'd meet you tonight-of all nights?" Then, in an entirely different tone: "Tonight must be the worst night ever."

Anna was barely hearing him. She had managed to reach the farthermost lane of the walkway where she could watch the streets and buildings as they passed. She was looking for the right place to exit. She could see the sign as clearly as if it were an inch in front of her face. "What is?" she asked, vaguely.

"I mean this war."

"Why? Don't you want it? Don't you think it's necessary?" For some reason, she thought everyone felt this way.

He laughed and held her arm tightly. "I know you're just testing me. I think the whole thing is crazy. Us and them-it would be so easy to live together."

"Would it?"

"Of course. They hate us because we're rich. We hate them because they hate us and because there are more of them than us. So the solution-I told you it was easy-is to spread the wealth around, share it. If everyone is equal, then no one has any reason to hate."

"But everyone isn't equal," she insisted.

"I meant materially."

"But that's just a symptom. It isn't a cause." Where had she heard these words before?

She sensed they were not her own. Oh, yes-Alec. Alec Richmond.

"I think it's worth trying. Anything new is worth trying."

"What's new about it? What about communism? That didn't work."

"Communism was a lie. Anyway, it was based on false premises. Marx...."

She let him run on. Since the words weren't hers, she saw no reason to defend them. His sincerity dazzled her. Suddenly, she heard herself saying-these words were not her own either: "I love it. War. The bombing. Shooting. Fighting. I think war is the perfect metaphor for human life." Maybe she was wrong-maybe these words were hers.

She could tell she had shocked him. But wasn't that the idea? The one thing she didn't need tonight was an admirer.

"But your tapes," he said. "I've seen them all. You can't feel that way."

"But I do."

"The tapes-"

"I was hungry."

"But you're rich. Your family-"

"A person can be hungry for a lot of things besides food. Admiration. Respect. Status. Maybe I just wanted to prove that I was as human as anyone else."

"But I could tell-I felt that you-"

He was not the right person to tell. Who was? Except Alec? She recognized that building there. Yes. It was the one that contained the sign.

But she did not get off the walkway. Darting ahead, she slipped between bodies, escaping the young man. The walkway carried her away. The building faded behind.

She rode for hours. Once more, she was fighting and fighting and fighting. Again, she was barely aware of what she was doing.

But-at last-she couldn't resist. The sign drew her onward. She looked up. The building loomed above her. She had arrived.

She sensed it was too late now for anything but moving ahead. She entered the building. The lobby was dark and empty. She found an elevator, entered, and allowed it to carry her up.

Then it was her dream all over again. She saw the dim corridor. The motionless walkway. She moved ahead. In the pocket of her suit, she felt the slick plastic handle of the gun. It was a beam weapon. She placed her finger around the trigger. It was almost time now. She would knock. He would tell her to come in. And then... then...

She turned and faced the door. The sign read:

THEODORE MENCKEN.

Agent

The sight-so familiar-made her want to laugh. Raising a fist, she stifled the urge. She removed the gun from her pocket. She pointed the barrel straight at the door.

Then she knocked-firmly.

But no one answered.

Gently, she called: "Alec? Can you hear me? Open the door. It's me-it's Anna."

Still, no answer.

She touched the knob. It turned easily and then-unexpectedly-the door popped open. Beyond, a small room was filled with yellow light.

She stepped inside and closed the door.

"Alec?"

Where was he? She searched the first room carefully, then went into the second. Nothing here either. No people.