Could he help it if he was one of the few, one of the chosen, a really great writer? It was tragic and terrible perhaps and people hated him for it, but could he help it? If she felt that he had no talent why had she built him up at first? It didn't make sense. Why had she built him up and then tried to tear him down? Why had she attacked him with pages of criticism, carping, unreasonable, tearing the guts out of his manuscripts? She'd made him feel like a high school boy flunking an exam in English composition. And what had happened once between them didn't mean anything. How could it have meant anything when she'd turned on him like that? He closed his eyes again, remembering, and the torment within him increased. He could see her eyes again, level with his own, and feel the softness of her body pressed so close that it seemed to mold itself into his own flesh, and he could smell again the perfume she'd worn, and taste the sweetness of her lips.... The elevator door swung open, startling him. He moved quickly past the operator and stood behind the one other passenger--a stoutish woman with a briefcase very similar to his own--and waited for the door to close again with a sudden look of panic in his eyes. At any moment now his nerves would start shrieking again. He had to get back to the street and into the subway before his heart began to pound and his temples swelled to bursting, had to bury himself in the anonymity of a crowd that knew nothing about him and--because they didn't know--couldn't turn on him and bare their claws as she had done. He had to get away before the inward screaming began again. Chapter III There was a screaming inside of her and she couldn't seem to breathe. She was being followed. Someone had stepped out of a warehouse doorway and was following her, matching his pace with hers, keeping close on her heels. She dared not look back, because he was being very careful not to let the distance between them lengthen, even for an instant, and she was afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Ordinarily she would have become indignant, turned abruptly and faced him, threatened to call a policeman. Then--if he had attempted to grab her, if he had turned ugly--she would have screamed for help. But now she only wanted to escape as quickly as possible from the terrible ordeal that had made her almost physically ill--twice before leaving her office she had been on the verge of fainting and she'd had to clutch a policeman's arm for support. But the mere thought of facing another policeman, of meeting his cool, arrogant gaze--yes, they were arrogant when they asked you question after question, even though they knew and you knew that not the slightest shadow of suspicion rested upon you--now just the thought of coming face to face with a policeman again was intolerable to her.