“Oh, nothing like that,” Pat said. “Edie Dorn is dead. Joe isn’t dead. Are you, Joe?”

Joe said, “I want to go upstairs. I want to lie down.” Somehow he got to his feet; his heart thudded, seemed to hesitate, to not beat for a moment, and then it resumed, slamming like an upright iron ingot crashing against cement; each pulse of it made his whole body shudder. “Where’s the elevator?” he said.

“I’ll lead you over to it,” Denny said; again his hand clamped over Joe’s shoulder. “You’re like a feather,” Denny said. “What’s happening to you, Joe? Can you say? Do you know? Try to tell me.”

“He doesn’t know,” Pat said.

“I think he should have a doctor,” Denny said. “Right away.”

“No,” Joe said. Lying down will help me, he said to himself; he felt an oceanic pull, an enormous tide tugging at him: It urged him to lie down. It compelled him toward one thing alone, to stretch out, on his back, alone, upstairs in his hotel room. Where no one could see him. I have to get away, he said to himself. I’ve got to be by myself. Why? he wondered. He did not know; it had invaded him as an instinct, nonrational, impossible to understand or explain.

“I’ll go get a doctor,” Denny said. “Pat, you stay here with him. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He started off; Joe dimly saw his retreating form. Denny appeared to shrink, to dwindle. And then he was entirely gone. Patricia Conley remained, but that did not make him feel less alone. His isolation, in spite of her physical presence, had become absolute.

“Well, Joe,” she said. “What do you want? What can I do for you? Just name it.”

“The elevator,” he said.

“You want me to lead you over to the elevator? I’ll be glad to.” She started off, and, as best he could, he followed. It seemed to him that she walked unusually fast; she did not wait and she did not look back—he found it almost impossible to keep her in sight. Is it my imagination, he asked himself, that she’s moving so rapidly? It must be me; I’m slowed down, compressed by gravity. His world had assumed the attribute of pure mass. He perceived himself in one mode only: that of an object subjected to the pressure of weight. One quality, one attribute. And one experience. Inertia.

“Not so fast,” he said. He could not see her now; she had lithely trotted beyond his range of vision. Standing there, not able to move any farther, he panted; he felt his face drip and his eyes sting from the salty moisture. “Wait,” he said.

Pat reappeared. He distinguished her face as she bent to peer at him. Her perfect and tranquil expression. The disinterestedness of her attention, its scientific detachment. “Want me to wipe your face?” she asked; she brought out a handkerchief, small and dainty and lace-edged. She smiled, the same smile as before.

“Just get me into the elevator.” He compelled his body to move forward. One step. Two. Now he could make out the elevator, with several persons waiting for it. The old-fashioned dial above the sliding doors with its clock hand. The hand, the baroque needle, wavered between three and four; it retired to the left, reaching the three, then wavered between three and two.

“It’ll be here in a sec,” Pat said. She got her cigarettes and lighter from her purse, lit up, exhaled trails of gray smoke from her nostrils. “It’s a very ancient kind of elevator,” she said to him, her arms folded sedately. “You know what I think? I think it’s one of those old open iron cages. Do they scare you?”

The needle had passed two now; it hovered above one, then plunged down firmly. The doors slid aside.

Joe saw the grill of the cage, the latticework. He saw the uniformed attendant, seated on a stool, his hand on the rotating control. “Going up,” the attendant said. “Move to the back, please.”

“I’m not going to get into it,” Joe said.

“Why not?” Pat said. “Do you think the cable will break? Is that what frightens you? I can see you’re frightened.”

“This is what Al saw,” he said.

“Well, Joe,” Pat said, “the only other way up to your room is the stairs. And you aren’t going to be able to climb stairs, not in your condition.”

“I’ll go up by the stairs.” He started away, seeking to locate the stairs. I can’t see! he said to himself. I can’t find them! The weight on him crushed his lungs, making it difficult and painful to breathe; he had to halt, concentrating on getting air into him—that alone. Maybe it is a heart attack, he thought. I can’t go up the stairs if it is. But the longing within him had grown even greater, the overpowering need to be alone. Locked in an empty room, entirely unwitnessed, silent and supine. Stretched out, not needing to speak, not needing to move. Not required to cope with anyone or any problem. And no one will even know where I am, he told himself. That seemed, unaccountably, very important; he wanted to be unknown and invisible, to live unseen. Pat especially, he thought; not her; she can’t be near me.

“There we are,” Pat said. She guided him, turning him slightly to the left. “Right in front of you. Just take hold of the railing and go bump-de-bump upstairs to bed. See?” She ascended skillfully, dancing and twinkling, poising herself, then scrambling weightlessly to the next step. “Can you make it?”

Joe said, “I—don’t want you. To come with me.”

“Oh, dear.” She clucked-clucked with mock dolefulness; her black eyes shone. “Are you afraid I’ll take advantage of your condition? Do something to you, something harmful?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I—just want. To be. Alone.” Gripping the rail, he managed to pull himself up onto the first step. Halting there, he gazed up, trying to make out the top of the flight. Trying to determine how far away it was, how many steps he had left.

“Mr. Denny asked me to stay with you. I can read to you or get you things. I can wait on you.”

He climbed another step. “Alone,” he gasped.

Pat said, “May I watch you climb? I’d like to see how long it takes you. Assuming you make it at all.”

“I’ll make it.” He placed his foot on the next step, gripped the railing and hoisted himself up. His swollen heart choked off his throat; he shut his eyes and wheezed in strangled air.

“I wonder,” Pat said, “if this is what Wendy did. She was the first; right?”

Joe gasped, “I was. In love with. Her.”

“Oh, I know. G. G. Ashwood told me. He read your mind. G. G. and I got to be very good friends; we spent a lot of time together. You might say we had an affair. Yes, you could say that.”

“Our theory,” Joe said, “was right.” He took a deeper breath. “One,” he succeeded in saying; he ascended another step and then, with tremendous effort, another. “That you and G. G. Worked it out with Ray Hollis. To infiltrate.”

“Quite right,” Pat agreed.

“Our best inertials. And Runciter. Wipe us all out.” He made his way up one more step. “We’re not in half-life. We’re not—”

“Oh, you can die,” Pat said. “You’re not dead; not you, in particular, I mean. But you are dying off one by one. But why talk about it? Why bring it up again? You said it all a little while ago, and frankly, you bore me, going over it again and again. You’re really a very dull, pedantic person, Joe. Almost as dull as Wendy Wright. You two would have made a good pair.”

“That’s why Wendy died first,” he said. “Not because she had separated. From the group. But because—” He cringed as the pain in his heart throbbed up violently; he had tried for another step, but this time he had missed. He stumbled, then found himself seated, huddled like—yes, he thought. Wendy in the closet: huddled like this. Reaching out his hand, he took hold of the sleeve of his coat. He tugged.

The fabric tore. Dried and starved, the material parted like cheap gray paper; it had no strength… like something fashioned by wasps. So there was no doubt about it. He would soon be leaving a trail behind him, bits of crumbled cloth. A trail of debris leading to a hotel room and yearned-for isolation. His last labored actions governed by a tropism. An orientation urging him toward death, decay and non-being. A dismal alchemy controlled him: culminating in the grave.