"Don't you understand? It's my show. I'm Jake Lennox. I write that--I--What the hell am I doing here? I'm supposed to be at the theater." Lennox turned and stumbled out of the apartment. He clattered down the brownstone stairs and fell half a flight. It was bitter cold on the street. Snow and rain were falling, and the air was like ice-water. Lennox ran west to 3rd Avenue, the great exposed nerve of The Rock's delirium. It was empty. The bars exuded urine-colored light. The antique shops blazed with cut-glass chandeliers. Alongside him, a darkened barber-pole still revolved its red and white spiral with the sound of guillotines. A small man in a derby, pea-jacket and white duck trousers passed him and addressed him brightly: "Hiya, Dan. Nice to see you again." The man in the derby continued up 3rd Avenue greeting empty doorways in friendly tones: "Hello, Jerry. Long time no see.... Hiya, Pete? How's the family? Glad to see you, Ed." Lennox stared at him, then saw a cab, ran for it and leaped inside. "Gotham four one thousand," he called to the driver. He shook his head. "No. That's the backstage number. I--Let's take it from the top. Venice Theater. 50th and Sixth. I'm in a rush, Mr...." He tried to focus on the license card above the glass partition. It would be considerate to call the man by his name instead of Mac or Bud. His eyes bleared and he gave it up. He sat on the edge of the seat, terrified by his abrupt return to sanity, fighting to recapture the Lennox he admired and wanted to be ... the sober Lennox, the second son of the Marquis of Suffolk. He found his wristwatch in his jacket pocket and put it on, Nine-three. Mig Mason would be starting the first Mason & Dixon spot on the show. What was it this week? The football routine. Mason in moleskins. The dummy under a sheet. _What football player made ghosts famous? For five hundred dollars, Who He? Red Grange. That's ab-so-lute-ly_ CORRECT! (Applause). Lennox began to shake, "What's happened?" he muttered. "Where've I been? I'm in a panic. Why, for five hundred dollars?" Lennox sorted through his shattered memory of the past twenty-four hours. He was afraid to unearth, uncover, reveal; yet compelled, like a man exploring the pain of an aching tooth. The fragments were incomprehensible and crumbled under the most delicate touch. A Chinese face appeared, then faded. A series of meaningless explosions sounded like a vanishing execution squad. There was a knot. A gleaming African smile. The knot again. A brass-bound staff and the brazen uproar of gongs. A knot. A target. A knot. "And fear," Lennox said. "Fear. For God's sake, I was drunk, that's all. Nothing more. Why am I afraid? What've I done?"