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He
tried
to
force
himself
to
enjoy
it
:
money
,
he
thought
,
had
been
his
motive
,
money
,
nothing
worse
.
Wasn
’
t
that
a
normal
motive
?
A
valid
one
?
Wasn
’
t
that
what
they
all
were
after
,
the
Wyatts
,
the
Reardens
,
the
d
’
Anconias
?
.
.
.
He
jerked
his
head
to
stop
it
:
he
felt
as
if
his
thoughts
were
slipping
down
a
dangerous
blind
alley
,
the
end
of
which
he
must
never
permit
himself
to
see
.
No
—
he
thought
bleakly
,
in
reluctant
admission
—
money
meant
nothing
to
him
any
longer
.
He
had
thrown
dollars
about
by
the
hundreds
—
at
that
party
he
had
given
today
—
for
unfinished
drinks
,
for
uneaten
delicacies
,
for
unprovoked
tips
and
unexpected
whims
,
for
a
long
distance
phone
call
to
Argentina
because
one
of
the
guests
had
wanted
to
check
the
exact
version
of
a
smutty
story
he
had
started
telling
,
for
the
spur
of
any
moment
,
for
the
clammy
stupor
of
knowing
that
it
was
easier
to
pay
than
to
think
.
"
You
’
ve
got
nothing
to
worry
about
,
under
that
Railroad
Unification
Plan
,
"
Orren
Boyle
had
giggled
to
him
drunkenly
.
Under
the
Railroad
Unification
Plan
,
a
local
railroad
had
gone
bankrupt
in
North
Dakota
,
abandoning
the
region
to
the
fate
of
a
blighted
area
,
the
local
banker
had
committed
suicide
,
first
killing
his
wife
and
children
—
a
freight
train
had
been
taken
oil
the
schedule
in
Tennessee
,
leaving
a
local
factory
without
transportation
at
a
day
’
s
notice
,
the
factory
owner
’
s
son
had
quit
college
and
was
now
in
jail
,
awaiting
execution
for
a
murder
committed
with
a
gang
of
raiders
—
a
way
station
had
been
closed
in
Kansas
,
and
the
station
agent
,
who
had
wanted
to
be
a
scientist
,
had
given
up
his
studies
and
become
a
dishwasher
—
that
he
,
James
Taggart
,
might
sit
in
a
private
barroom
and
pay
for
the
alcohol
pouring
down
Orren
Boyle
’
s
throat
,
for
the
waiter
who
sponged
Boyle
’
s
garments
when
he
spilled
his
drink
over
his
chest
,
for
the
carpet
burned
by
the
cigarettes
of
an
ex
-
pimp
from
Chile
who
did
not
want
to
take
the
trouble
of
reaching
for
an
ashtray
across
a
distance
of
three
feet
.
It
was
not
the
knowledge
of
his
indifference
to
money
that
now
gave
him
a
shudder
of
dread
.
It
was
the
knowledge
that
he
would
be
equally
indifferent
,
were
he
reduced
to
the
state
of
the
beggar
.
There
had
been
a
time
when
he
had
felt
some
measure
of
guilt
—
in
no
clearer
a
form
than
a
touch
of
irritation
—
at
the
thought
that
he
shared
the
sin
of
greed
,
which
he
spent
his
time
denouncing
.
Now
he
was
hit
by
the
chill
realization
that
,
in
fact
,
he
had
never
been
a
hypocrite
:
in
full
truth
,
he
had
never
cared
for
money
.
This
left
another
hole
gaping
open
before
him
,
leading
into
another
blind
alley
which
he
could
not
risk
seeing
.
I
just
want
to
do
something
tonight
!
—
he
cried
soundlessly
to
someone
at
large
,
in
protest
and
in
demanding
anger
—
in
protest
against
whatever
it
was
that
kept
forcing
these
thoughts
into
his
mind
—
in
anger
at
a
universe
where
some
malevolent
power
would
not
permit
him
to
find
enjoyment
without
the
need
to
know
what
he
wanted
or
why
.
What
do
you
want
?
—
some
enemy
voice
kept
asking
,
and
he
walked
faster
,
trying
to
escape
it
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
his
brain
was
a
maze
where
a
blind
alley
opened
at
every
turn
,
leading
into
a
fog
that
hid
an
abyss
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
he
was
running
,
while
the
small
island
of
safety
was
shrinking
and
nothing
but
those
alleys
would
soon
be
left
.
It
was
like
the
remnant
of
clarity
in
the
street
around
him
,
with
the
haze
rolling
in
to
fill
all
exits
.
Why
did
it
have
to
shrink
?
—
he
thought
in
panic
.
This
was
the
way
he
had
lived
all
his
life
—
keeping
his
eyes
stubbornly
,
safely
on
the
immediate
pavement
before
him
,
craftily
avoiding
the
sight
of
his
road
,
of
corners
,
of
distances
,
of
pinnacles
.
He
had
never
intended
going
anywhere
,
he
had
wanted
to
be
free
of
progression
,
free
of
the
yoke
of
a
straight
line
,
he
had
never
wanted
his
years
to
add
up
to
any
sum
—
what
had
summed
them
up
?
—
why
had
he
reached
some
unchosen
destination
where
one
could
no
longer
stand
still
or
retreat
?
"
Look
where
you
’
re
going
,
brother
!
"
snarled
some
voice
,
while
an
elbow
pushed
him
back
—
and
he
realized
that
he
had
collided
with
some
large
,
ill
-
smelling
figure
and
that
he
had
been
running
.
He
slowed
his
steps
and
admitted
into
his
mind
a
recognition
of
the
streets
he
had
chosen
in
his
random
escape
.
He
had
not
wanted
to
know
that
he
was
going
home
to
his
wife
.
That
,
too
,
was
a
fogbound
alley
,
but
there
was
no
other
left
to
him
.
He
knew
—
the
moment
he
saw
Cherryl
’
s
silent
,
poised
figure
as
she
rose
at
his
entrance
into
her
room
—
that
this
was
more
dangerous
than
he
had
allowed
himself
to
know
and
that
he
would
not
find
what
he
wanted
.
But
danger
,
to
him
,
was
a
signal
to
shut
off
his
sight
,
suspend
his
judgment
and
pursue
an
unaltered
course
,
on
the
unstated
premise
that
the
danger
would
remain
unreal
by
the
sovereign
power
of
his
wish
not
to
see
it
—
like
a
foghorn
within
him
,
blowing
,
not
to
sound
a
warning
,
but
to
summon
the
fog
.
