When he was well beyond my reach, he looked down again and then hitched some more. He passed the corner of my apartment and came to the end of the parapet. A flat brick wall, rising for fifteen feet, made a backstop for him. He was in a corner. And there weren't any windows below him--because that was how the architect had designed the building. The net idea was out. And so, I thought, was the idea of some sort of expert jump at him from an unexpected angle. Unless the roof offered possibilities. I'd never been up there. I walked down the terrace. "That's near enough," Paul said. I leaned on the hot parapet and looked down. About a thousand people had gathered in Madison Avenue--though it had been almost empty an hour before. In spite of the heat wave, in spite of the desertedness of the whole city, there they were--like bugs spilled out of a tin can. Cops among them--hollering and waving traffic through. Every insect was white on top where the neck had craned the face up toward us. I let myself absorb the vertical drop until I was weak. Vertigo gets to me fast. My psychiatrist said he thought it was a symbol--in my case--for striving. I spent too much effort trying to get to some summit where skill, not effort, alone could take anybody. And the struggle was reflected as a physical horror of high places. There must have been something in it, because after assimilating the idea, I was at least able to live in high rooms without feeling queasy. But there may be even more in it--since I still get sick, hanging around the edge of sixteen-story walls. Paul also was looking down at all the people and the people constantly arriving. "I'm going in," I said. He hardly paid any attention. Such clothes as I had on were soaked clear through again. I was thinking about changing when the door knocked and the cop stood there with some other men--in and out of uniforms. "He's moved." "I know." "We can't get at him good, there. A net won't be possible. We've got some guys looking over the picture on the roof. But it's risky. Twice, that squad has gotten a line around somebody--and had them get loose and go. One bird threw the rope off before they could pull it tight. And a woman cut it while she was hanging over the street. Can we come in?" I opened the door. They looked at me. "My name's Black," one said. "Captain--your precinct." He introduced the rest the way an undertaker presents pallbearers to each other. They all went over near the windows and knelt and peeked furtively at Paul. "Should I stay out there?" I asked. The tough, bright-looking cop gave me the once-over. "High-shy?" "Some." "Do you think he's likely to go?" "Christ knows! I'm not an expert in this sort of thing." "Still--you do know him. Mr. Harrison, here, says he works on the atom bomb." "That's right." Black swore. "Make dandy headlines. Police allow suicide of scientist." The younger cop said, "What sort of kid is he? Determined? Gutty? He looks that way."