But there was. Something small and black was drifting down toward him in the air. He stopped and waited until he could reach out and seize it between his fingers. It crumpled at his touch. He rubbed it between thumb and finger, examining its texture. It seemed to be a flake of burnt paper, as though someone had tossed a piece of paper in a campfire, and a charred piece of it had floated away on the breeze. He went forward more eagerly now. Undoubtedly someone was ahead of him. Probably on a picnic. He could find out from them where he was. And there was a sensible explanation of things now. He had probably been thrown clear of the car and knocked out. That could have lasted for hours while he wandered through the woods. Of course that was it, he decided with relief. Now all he had to do was find someone and tell them about it, and they would take him back to the scene of the accident. Ahead through the trees he could see the steep bank of a tableland that rose above the treetops. While he watched, there was a flurry of motion that swept downward from up there. Black flakes that turned and tossed in the breeze. More charred bits of paper. That was obviously where the campfire was. "Hello up there!" he called. There was no answer. No sound at all. He broke into a trot, marvelling that he didn't feel groggy or upset. The path turned in toward the steep bank and terminated at the foot of concrete steps that went upward. When he reached them he paused to get his breath, then started up the steps at a more leisurely pace. They zigzagged up the face of the steep bank, twelve steps to each section. He paused half way up and looked over the treetops, which sloped gently for several hundred yards, then dropped away. In the far distance was the hazy panorama of a valley with two lakes that were irregular blue splotches on a carpet of greens and browns. He resumed his upward climb. Finally there was only one more section of steps before the top. * * * * * He sighed with relief and paused to look downward, almost regretting that he hadn't chosen to go the other way on the path. He would almost certainly have run into someone before this, going the other way, and then he wouldn't have had all this climb. But.... He shrugged and climbed the last of the steps. He was on a flat table of jigsaw design, flagstone cemented together. Twenty feet away was a man. The man, his back to him, was seated on a stone bench before a small stone table, intent on something he was doing that was concealed by his back and hunched shoulders. In the incredible stillness came the staccato click of what sounded exactly like typewriter keys. As Lin watched, the man jerked something. A piece of paper appeared briefly, then was dropped into a wire basket where almost invisible blue flames immediately licked at it and began to consume it.