again. He said nothing.
TEN
Midmorning, the following day, Ryerson answered the door-bell but found no one at his door.
He stepped out onto the little wedge-shaped open porch and looked right and left down the street. There was an old couple walking not far away; their backs were to him and the man's gray head was bobbing animatedly beneath his red umbrella as he talked to the woman. No one else was on the rain-soaked street.
Creosote appeared beside Ryerson on the porch and whimpered his confusion. The dog often read the man as well as the man read the dog. Ryerson glanced at him. "Someone's come into the house, pup."
Creosote snorted, sneezed. Ryerson got down on his haunches and scratched the dog's ears; Creosote tilted his head into Ryerson's hand to ask for more.
Ryerson was uneasy. He believed in ghosts because he'd spoken with them. He knew something of the world they existed in because he had been a part of it, if briefly. And he was uneasy now because what little he knew about the world of the dead told him only how very ignorant he was.
~ * ~
Rebecca Meechum said to Jenny Goodlow , over the telephone, "So he knows nothing? He's not going to help you?"
Jenny Goodlow answered, "As I said, I didn't ask him to help. I think he's a fraud. And I don't think it's any of your business anyway."
"You're being very uncivil, Jenny," Rebecca said. "My God, we were almost . . . sisters." Rebecca chuckled shortly.
Jenny hung up.
~ * ~
The beguiling dark-eyed brunette sat alone on the train. She was reading a paperback book, and Guy Squires thought it would be all right to sit with her because most of the other seats were taken.
He sat beside her, glanced at her luxurious shoulder-length hair, and said "Hello" in the stiff but polite way that he imagined strangers seated next to one another on trains were supposed to say hello. She looked up from her book, smiled vaguely at him, then looked away.
"Good book?" Guy Squires asked.
She glanced at him again. "Sorry?"
He nodded at the book. "Good book?"
She shook her head. "Not very. It's about a vampire who ages, and that's something vampires simply don't do, isn't it." She shrugged. "So I don't believe a word of it."
"Then why read it?"
"Because it amuses me to read." She paused. "Do you read?"
"Only timetables," Guy Squires answered. "And the stock market report, of course." He was letting her know, in his subtle way, that he was a man accustomed to dealing with money.
The brunette looked appraisingly at him a moment, then sighed. "Too bad. I like men who really read."
"I used to read," Guy Squires told her hurriedly. "Hell, I read all the time. I read whatever I could get hold of. You couldn't tear me away from anything with words on it." He grinned nervously because he was lying and was sure that she could tell. "I once read War and Peace and The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire in one sitting, if you can believe it." He paused a half second, then hurried on, "And ... and I even wrote a book once. It wasn't a long book. It was pretty short. Six hundred pages, I guess. Not so long that you would have to set aside a great deal of time to read it ..."
The brunette cut in, "Then you're a writer. How excitng ." She seemed suddenly animated. "What was it about?—this book of yours."
"What was it about?" He grinned nervously again. `Well, it was about a group of people, I guess. And they were ... they had a kind of conflict—"
"Conflict? I love conflict. It's what life is all about, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," Guy Squires said. "Conflict. Where would we be without conflict?" He thought that he was on a roll, now, that he had gotten onto her wavelength. Lord only knew what would follow. He hurried on, "Conflict makes us all ... human, doesn't it? I ... I read about it all the me—"
"You said you didn't read," she cut in, pouting.
He stared dumbly at her a moment. She seemed very disappointed, suddenly, even annoyed. "Yes, yes," he stamiered . "Not
TEN
Midmorning, the following day, Ryerson answered the door-bell but found no one at his door.
He stepped out onto the little wedge-shaped open porch and looked right and left down the street. There was an old couple walking not far away; their backs were to him and the man's gray head was bobbing animatedly beneath his red umbrella as he talked to the woman. No one else was on the rain-soaked street.
Creosote appeared beside Ryerson on the porch and whimpered his confusion. The dog often read the man as well as the man read the dog. Ryerson glanced at him. "Someone's come into the house, pup."
Creosote snorted, sneezed. Ryerson got down on his haunches and scratched the dog's ears; Creosote tilted his head into Ryerson's hand to ask for more.
Ryerson was uneasy. He believed in ghosts because he'd spoken with them. He knew something of the world they existed in because he had been a part of it, if briefly. And he was uneasy now because what little he knew about the world of the dead told him only how very ignorant he was.
~ * ~
Rebecca Meechum said to Jenny Goodlow , over the telephone, "So he knows nothing? He's not going to help you?"
Jenny Goodlow answered, "As I said, I didn't ask him to help. I think he's a fraud. And I don't think it's any of your business anyway."
"You're being very uncivil, Jenny," Rebecca said. "My God, we were almost . . . sisters." Rebecca chuckled shortly.
Jenny hung up.
~ * ~
The beguiling dark-eyed brunette sat alone on the train. She was reading a paperback book, and Guy Squires thought it would be all right to sit with her because most of the other seats were taken.
He sat beside her, glanced at her luxurious shoulder-length hair, and said "Hello" in the stiff but polite way that he imagined strangers seated next to one another on trains were supposed to say hello. She looked up from her book, smiled vaguely at him, then looked away.
"Good book?" Guy Squires asked.
She glanced at him again. "Sorry?"
He nodded at the book. "Good book?"
She shook her head. "Not very. It's about a vampire who ages, and that's something vampires simply don't do, isn't it." She shrugged. "So I don't believe a word of it."
"Then why read it?"
"Because it amuses me to read." She paused. "Do you read?"
"Only timetables," Guy Squires answered. "And the stock market report, of course." He was letting her know, in his subtle way, that he was a man accustomed to dealing with money.
The brunette looked appraisingly at him a moment, then sighed. "Too bad. I like men who really read."
"I used to read," Guy Squires told her hurriedly. "Hell, I read all the time. I read whatever I could get hold of. You couldn't tear me away from anything with words on it." He grinned nervously because he was lying and was sure that she could tell. "I once read War and Peace and The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire in one sitting, if you can believe it." He paused a half second, then hurried on, "And ... and I even wrote a book once. It wasn't a long book. It was pretty short. Six hundred pages, I guess. Not so long that you would have to set aside a great deal of time to read it ..."
The brunette cut in, "Then you're a writer. How excitng ." She seemed suddenly animated. "What was it about?—this book of yours."
"What was it about?" He grinned nervously again. `Well, it was about a group of people, I guess. And they were ... they had a kind of conflict—"
"Conflict? I love conflict. It's what life is all about, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," Guy Squires said. "Conflict. Where would we be without conflict?" He thought that he was on a roll, now, that he had gotten onto her wavelength. Lord only knew what would follow. He hurried on, "Conflict makes us all ... human, doesn't it? I ... I read about it all the me—"
"You said you didn't read," she cut in, pouting.
He stared dumbly at her a moment. She seemed very disappointed, suddenly, even annoyed. "Yes, yes," he stamiered . "Not
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