He saw, quicker than I, that his ankles were in range of a dive. He pulled them up, pivoted, and stretched out on the top of the wall. It was cement--about a foot wide. And baking hot. He rocked and wriggled for a minute, took off his coat, folded it, and stuffed it under himself. While doing that, he almost lost his balance. He caught a fingerhold on the inside edge of the concrete, which stuck out over the bricks a half or three-quarters of an inch. "Paul," I said, "for God's sake, come in." "I like it here." "Okay." "I want to think." "Help yourself." "You wouldn't understand." I went back through the window and into my apartment. I was quivering like a broken spring and my mind wasn't tracking. I shoved into the bathroom and poured a glass of water. Equal parts of fright and fury--as intense as I'd ever felt--slopped the water. I drank what was left. Then I went back to the window. "Listen," I said. "I can't stop you, if you want to knock yourself off. But this is my apartment. Jump from somewhere else, will you?" "I haven't decided." "Well, then, come on in and make up your mind. I'm high-shy. I don't like to stand on that terrace. And seeing a guy--even you--silhouetted against my skyline makes me sick at the stomach." "It's the only thing I ever heard of that makes you sick! New experience for you. You like new experiences. Try to get a kick out of it." "Okay," I said. "Jump, then, you yellow sissy." He nearly did. He swung around so his legs dangled in the air--all those stories above the sidewalk. His fingers on the concrete rim turned white and his muscles vibrated. "Paul!" I moaned at the fool. He pulled back. "I'm not afraid," he said--as if to himself and in a surprised tone. "It's just that--I haven't quite decided." "Please, cooky!" I put all the begging I have into it. He shrugged. "Maybe--later." He let go and fished in his pockets. "Wait," I said. I climbed out again with the cigarettes. Possibly-- "Toss 'em!" I threw one--he reached--and it sailed out of sight, the sun catching it at the top of its arc. I tossed another. He got that one. "Better go back inside," he said. He lighted up and commenced to smoke. I went in. By then I was beginning to think a little. If I had a rope, I might get it over him. Only I didn't have a rope. And I might fail on the first try--in which case there probably would not be a second chance. If I could distract him for a bit, I still might grab him. Only, if there was any slip-up about that--he'd dive the sixteen floors. Well, then--what did you try to remind them of? How bright they were? How young? Or did you keep taunting them until they either went, or gave up? It looked as if that last wasn't right for Paul. My phone rang. "Mr. Wylie? This is Mr. Harrison--at the desk." He sounded upset. He's a nice guy--the assistant manager. I said, "Yes."