Adjust, he thought, I wish it was that easy for me. Adjust to the times, she says--they all say--thereby excusing everything hideous, and violent, and disgusting that exists in the present. Nobody objects to anything. There's nothing constructive for individuals anymore. They just accept. Adjust to being idle and useless at sixty, whether I like it or not. Adjust to A Cars, the boarding up of shops every night, not daring to go out after dark. Get used to violence and fear, sitting in front of this screen as though it were an object of worship. Endure "Manhunt" every night; not knowing--just waiting--waiting ... those of us who live to sixty-five. Eleanor cleared her throat and then whispered huskily. "They've been up the same street before." She turned to him, her eyes watery with agitation pushed almost to its limit. He couldn't help it. All his resentment was momentarily stilled by his affection for her. He smiled. "Sure, Ellie. Many times." Involuntarily, he put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. _Without warning, the two men stopped in front of an apartment house. They glanced quickly around, and then slipped into the building, the camera close upon them._ Sydney took his wife's hand. "Why they've even been in the very same building before." His face felt cold and damp. He added resolutely, "It's a big apartment house, Ellie, a real big one." Suddenly he found himself listening--listening--hardly breathing. It seemed as though sound didn't exist anymore. There was just silence, grotesque and unnatural. Then he heard it. First there was a stealthy shuffling sound coming a long ways down the hall. Then the slight regular noise of a wheeled object, following. Sydney saw that she had not heard. Her eyes were desperately fixed on the screen. It could be, he thought chaotically, it could be the Masons across the hall. They're almost sixty-five. Then the door knob turned, and the door swung silently open. Stiffly, Sydney turned his head to the door. There was time, they saw to that. There was time to see the two masked men with guns in their hands. And behind them was the T.V. camera, registering the scene that was duplicated on his own screen. There was even time to turn to Ellie; to see the look of cheated disappointment in her eyes change to astonishment as the bullet cut cleanly into her open mouth. And then there was no more time for Sydney Mercer either, who had reached the age of sixty plus and therefore was past his usefulness. Another bullet stopped his intake of breath. _The camera moved in for a close up of the two men; their lips, beneath the masks, smiling and guileless. Then the camera hovered for a few moments over the ludicrously postured bodies on the couch for a fade out._ "Manhunt" was over for the night. The announcer's voice and figure gradually took over the expanse of the screen.