"I want to see Doctor Shallot, Eileen Shallot. As soon as possible."

"Just a moment. 1*11 have to check her schedule . . .

Could you make it at two o'clock next Tuesday?"

"That would be just fine."

"What is the name, please?"

"DeVille. Jill DeVille-

"All right. Miss DeVille. That's two o'clock, Tuesday."

"Thank you."

The man walked beside the highway. Cars passed along the highway. The cars in the high-acceleration lane blurred by.

Traffic was light.

It was 10;30 in the morning, and cold.

The man's fur-lined collar was turned up, his hands were in his pockets, and he leaned into the wind. Beyond the fence, the road was clean and dry.

The morning sun was buried in clouds. In the dirty light, the man could see the tree a quarter mile ahead.

His pace did not change. His eyes did not leave the tree. The small stones clicked and crunched beneath his shoes.

When he reached the tree he took off his jacket and folded it neatly.

He placed it upon the ground and climbed the tree.

As be moved out onto the limb which extended over the fence, he looked to see that no traffic was approach- ing. Then he seized the branch with both hands, lowered

95.

himself, hung a moment, and dropped onto the highway.

It was a hundred yards wide, the eastbound half of the highway.

He glanced west, saw there was still no traffic coming his way, then began to walk toward the center island. He knew he would never reach it. At this time of day the cars were moving at approximately one hundred-sixty miles an hour in the high-acceleration lane. He walked on.

A car passed behind him. He did not look back. If the windows were opaqued, as was usually the case, then the occupants were unaware he had crossed their path. They would hear of it later and examine the front end of their vehicle for possible sign of such an encounter.

A car passed in front of him. Its windows were clear.

A glimpse of two faces, their mouths made into 0's, was presented to him, then torn from his sight. His own face remained without expression. His pace did not change.

Two more care rushed by, windows darkened. He had crossed perhaps twenty yards of highway.

Twenty-five...

Something in the wind, or beneath his feet, told him it was coming. He did not look.

Something in the corner ofJiis eye assured him it was coming. His gait did not alter.

Cecil Green had the windows transpared because he liked it that way. His left hand was inside her blouse and her skirt was piled up on her lap, and his right hand was resting on the lever which would lower the seats. Then she pulled away, making a noise down inside her throat.

His head snapped to the left.

He saw the walking man.

He saw the profile which never turned to face him fully. He saw that the man's gait did not alter.

Then he did not see the roan.

There was a slight jar, and the windshield began clean- ing itself. Cecil Green raced on.

He opaqued the windows.

"How ...?'* he asked after she was in his arms again, and sobbing.

"The monitor didn't pick him up...."

"He must not have touched the fence...."

"He must have been out of his mindl"

"Still, he could have picked an easier way."

96 .

It could have been any face . . . Mine?

Frightened, Cecil lowered the seats.

Charles Render was writing the "Necropolis" chapter for The Missing Link is Man. which was to be his first book in over four years. Since his return he had set aside every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon to work on it, isolating himself in his office, filling pages with a chaotic longhand.

"There are many varieties of death, as opposed to dying . . ." he was writing, just as the intercom buzzed briefly, then long, then briefly again.

"Yes?" he asked it, pushing down on the switch.

"You have a visitor," and there was a short intake of breath between "a" and "visitor."

He slipped a small aerosol into his side pocket, then rose and crossed the office.

He opened the door and looked out.

"Doctor ... Help . .."

Render took three steps, then dropped to one knee.