Зима тревоги нашей

           Nowitwastime.Imustnotthinkofthewholething—justonestepatatimeandeachinitsplace,asIhadpracticed.Ifoldedmyanxiousstomachdownwhereitbelonged.Firstleanthebroomagainstthedoorjambwhereitcouldbeseen.Imovedwithslow,deliberatespeed.

           FromthecornerofmyeyeIsawacarcomealongthestreetandIpausedtoletitgoby.

           "Mr.Hawley!"

           Iwhirledthewaycorneredgangstersdointhemovies.AdustydarkgreenChevrolethadslidtothecurband,greatGod!thatIvyLeaguegovernmentmanwasgettingout.Mystone-builtearthshudderedlikeareflectioninwater.Paralyzed,Isawhimcrossthepavement.Itseemedtotakeages,butitwassimpleasthat.Mylong-plannedperfectstructureturnedtodustbeforemyeyesthewayalong-buriedartifactdoeswhentheairstrikesit.Ithoughtofrushingforthetoiletandgoingthroughwithit.Itwouldn’twork.Icouldn’trepealtheMorphylaw.Thoughtandlightmusttravelataboutthesamespeed.It’sashocktothrowoutaplansolongconsidered,somanytimesenactedthatitsconsummationisjustonemorerepetition,butItosseditout,threwitaway,closeditoff.Ihadnochoice.Andlight-speedthoughtsaid,ThankGodhedidn’tcomeoneminutelater.Thatwouldhavebeenthefatalaccidenttheywriteaboutincrimestories.

           Andallthiswhiletheyoungmanmovedstifflyfourstepsacrossthepavement.

           Somethingmusthaveshowedthroughtohim.

           "What’sthematter,Mr.Hawley?Youlooksick."

           "Skitters,"Isaid.

           "That’llwaitfornoman.Runforit.