wasn't much pain. Not as much as he would have supposed. He felt
sure there was terrible damage inside. He could feel the warmth of blood
welling up inside his throat. But the pain was not there. That was good.

In place of pain, there was a kind of infinite satisfaction and a
growing peace. The ultimate magnitude of this peace, which he could
sense, was so great that it loomed like some blinding glory.

This was death. The commitment and the decision had been made. But this
was better than any alternative. He could not see how there could have
been any question about it.

He was lying on his back in the wet clay of a bank below the road. It
was raining, softly now, and he rather liked the gentle drop of it on
his face. Somewhere below him the hulk of his wrecked car lay on its
side. He could smell the unpleasant odor of gasoline. But all of this
was less than nothing in importance to him now. Somewhere in the back of
his mind was a remnant of memory of what he had been doing this day. He
remembered the name of John Fenwick, and the memory brought a faint
amusement to his bloody lips. There had been some differences between
him and John Fenwick. Those differences were also less than nothing,
now. All differences were wiped out. He gave himself up to the pleasure
of being borne along on that great current that seemed to be carrying
him swiftly to a quiet place.

After a time, he remembered two other names, also. James Ellerbee and
Sam Atkins. He remembered a crystal, and it meant nothing. He remembered
that it was in his pocket and that for some time he had felt a warmth
from it, that was both pleasant and unpleasant. It was of no importance.
He might have reached for it and thrown it farther from him, but his arm
on that side was broken.

He was glad that there was nothing--nothing whatever--that had any
magnitude of importance. Even his family--they were like fragments of a
long-ago dream.

He lay waiting quietly and patiently for the swiftly approaching
destination of ultimate peace. He did not know how long it would take,
but he knew it could not be long, and even the journey was sweet.

It was while he waited, letting his mind drift, that he became aware of
the intruder. In that moment, the pain boiled up in shrieking agony.

He had thought himself alone. He wanted above all else to be alone. But
there was someone with him. He wasn't sure how he knew. He could simply
_feel_ the unwanted presence. He strained