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In
the
instant
before
she
saw
it
and
her
scream
cut
the
voices
of
the
crowd
,
she
knew
that
she
had
known
that
which
she
was
to
see
In
a
break
between
mountains
,
lighting
the
sky
,
throwing
a
glow
that
swayed
on
the
roofs
and
walls
of
the
station
,
the
hill
of
Wyatt
Oil
was
a
solid
sheet
of
flame
.
Later
,
when
they
told
her
that
Ellis
Wyatt
had
vanished
,
leaving
nothing
behind
but
a
board
he
had
nailed
to
a
post
at
the
foot
of
the
hill
,
when
she
looked
at
his
handwriting
on
the
board
,
she
felt
as
if
she
had
almost
known
that
these
would
be
the
words
:
"
I
am
leaving
it
as
I
found
it
.
Take
over
.
It
’
s
yours
.
"
Dr
.
Robert
Stadler
paced
his
office
,
wishing
he
would
not
feel
the
cold
.
Spring
had
been
late
in
coming
.
Beyond
the
window
,
the
dead
gray
of
the
hills
looked
like
the
smeared
transition
from
the
soiled
white
of
the
sky
to
the
leaden
black
of
the
river
.
Once
in
a
while
,
a
distant
patch
of
hillside
flared
into
a
silver
-
yellow
that
was
almost
green
,
then
vanished
.
The
clouds
kept
cracking
for
the
width
of
a
single
sunray
,
then
oozing
closed
again
.
It
was
not
cold
in
the
office
,
thought
Dr
.
Stadler
,
it
was
that
view
that
froze
the
place
.
It
was
not
cold
today
,
the
chill
was
in
his
bones
—
he
thought
—
the
stored
accumulation
of
the
winter
months
,
when
he
had
had
to
be
distracted
from
his
work
by
an
awareness
of
such
a
matter
as
inadequate
heating
and
people
had
talked
about
conserving
fuel
.
It
was
preposterous
,
he
thought
,
this
growing
intrusion
of
the
accidents
of
nature
into
the
affairs
of
men
:
it
had
never
mattered
before
,
if
a
winter
happened
to
be
unusually
severe
;
if
a
flood
washed
out
a
section
of
railroad
track
,
one
did
not
spend
two
weeks
eating
canned
vegetables
;
if
an
electric
storm
struck
some
power
station
,
an
establishment
such
as
the
State
Science
Institute
was
not
left
without
electricity
for
five
days
.
Five
days
of
stillness
this
winter
,
he
thought
,
with
the
great
laboratory
motors
stopped
and
irretrievable
hours
wiped
out
,
when
his
staff
had
been
working
on
problems
that
involved
the
heart
of
the
universe
.
He
turned
angrily
away
from
the
window
—
but
stopped
and
turned
back
to
it
again
.
He
did
not
want
to
see
the
book
that
lay
on
his
desk
.
He
wished
Dr
.
Ferris
would
come
.
He
glanced
at
his
watch
:
Dr
.
Ferris
was
late
—
an
astonishing
matter
—
late
for
an
appointment
with
him
—
Dr
.
Floyd
Ferris
,
the
valet
of
science
,
who
had
always
faced
him
in
a
manner
that
suggested
an
apology
for
having
but
one
hat
to
take
off
.
This
was
outrageous
weather
for
the
month
of
May
,
he
thought
,
looking
down
at
the
river
;
it
was
certainly
the
weather
that
made
him
feel
as
he
did
,
not
the
book
.
He
had
placed
the
book
in
plain
view
on
his
desk
,
when
he
had
noted
that
his
reluctance
to
see
it
was
more
than
mere
revulsion
,
that
it
contained
the
element
of
an
emotion
never
to
be
admitted
.
He
told
himself
that
he
had
risen
from
his
desk
,
not
because
the
book
lay
there
,
but
merely
because
he
had
wanted
to
move
,
feeling
cold
.
He
paced
the
room
,
trapped
between
the
desk
and
the
window
.
He
would
throw
that
book
in
the
ash
can
where
it
belonged
,
he
thought
,
just
as
soon
as
he
had
spoken
to
Dr
.
Ferris
.
He
watched
the
patch
of
green
and
sunlight
on
the
distant
hill
,
the
promise
of
spring
in
a
world
that
looked
as
if
no
grass
or
bud
would
ever
function
again
.
He
smiled
eagerly
—
and
when
the
patch
vanished
,
he
felt
a
stab
of
humiliation
,
at
his
own
eagerness
,
at
the
desperate
way
he
had
wanted
to
hold
it
.
It
reminded
him
of
that
interview
with
the
eminent
novelist
,
last
winter
.
The
novelist
had
come
from
Europe
to
write
an
article
about
him
—
and
he
,
who
had
once
despised
interviews
,
had
talked
eagerly
,
lengthily
,
too
lengthily
,
seeing
a
promise
of
intelligence
in
the
novelist
’
s
face
,
feeling
a
causeless
,
desperate
need
to
be
understood
.
The
article
had
come
out
as
a
collection
of
sentences
that
gave
him
exorbitant
praise
and
garbled
every
thought
he
had
expressed
.
Closing
the
magazine
,
he
had
felt
what
he
was
feeling
now
at
the
desertion
of
a
sunray
.
All
right
—
he
thought
,
turning
away
from
the
window
—
he
would
concede
that
attacks
of
loneliness
had
begun
to
strike
him
at
times
;
but
it
was
a
loneliness
to
which
he
was
entitled
,
it
was
hunger
for
the
response
of
some
living
,
thinking
mind
.
He
was
so
tired
of
all
those
people
,
he
thought
in
contemptuous
bitterness
;
he
dealt
with
cosmic
rays
,
while
they
were
unable
to
deal
with
an
electric
storm
.
