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looked at his own fingers.
    It was done. He could not change it back. Had anyone heard? He listened. Outside, the normal late sounds of street traffic continued. There was no banging of the house door, no shoulder wrecking the portal into kindling, no voices demanding entrance. The murder, the sculpturing of clay from warmth to coldness was done, and nobody knew.
    Now what? The lock ticked midnight. His every impulse exploded him in a hysteria toward the door. Rush, get away, run, never come back, board a train, hail a taxi, get, go, run, walk, saunter, but get the blazes out of here!
    His hands hovered before his eyes, floating, turning.
    He twisted them in slow deliberation; they felt airy and feather-light. Why was he staring at them this way? he inquired of himself. Was there something in them of immense interest that he should pause now, after a successful throttling, and examine them whorl by whorl?
    They were ordinary hands. Not thick, not thin, not long, not short, not hairy, not naked, not manicured and yet not dirty, not soft and yet not callused, not wrinkled and yet not smooth; not murdering hands at all—and yet not innocent. He seemed to find them miracles to look upon.
    It was not the hands as hands he was interested in, nor the fingers as fingers. In the numb timelessness after an accomplished violence he found interest only in the tips of his fingers.
    The clock ticked upon the mantel.
    He knelt by Huxley’s body, took a handkerchief from Huxley’s pocket, and began methodically to swab Huxley’s throat with it. He brushed and massaged the throat and wiped the face and the back of the neck with fierce energy. Then he stood up.
    He looked at the throat. He looked at the polished floor. He bent slowly and gave the floor a few dabs with the handkerchief, then he scowled and swabbed the floor; first, near the head of the corpse; secondly, near the arms. Then he polished the floor all around the body. He polished the floor one yard from the body on all sides. Then he polished the floor two yards from the body on all sides. The he polished the floor three yards from the body in all directions. Then he
    He stopped.
     
    There was a moment when he saw the entire house, the mirrored halls, the carved doors, the splendid furniture; and, as clearly as if it were being repeated word for word, he heard Huxley talking and himself just the way they had talked only an hour ago.
    Finger on Huxley’s doorbell. Huxley’s door opening.
    “Oh!” Huxley shocked. “It’s you, Acton.”
    “Where’s my wife, Huxley?”
    “Do you think I’d tell you, really? Don’t stand out there, you idiot. If you want to talk business, come in. Through that door. There. Into the library.”
    Acton had touched the library door.
    “Drink?”
    “I need one. I can’t believe Lily is gone, that she—”
    “There’s a bottle of burgundy, Acton. Mind fetching it from that cabinet?”
    Yes, fetch it. Handle it. Touch it. He did.
    “Some interesting first editions there, Acton. Feel this binding. Feel of it.”
    “I didn’t come to see books, I—”
    He had touched the books and the library table and touched the burgundy bottle and burgundy glasses.
    Now, squatting on the floor beside Huxley’s cold body with the polishing handkerchief in his fingers, motionless, he stared at the house, the walls, the furniture about him, his eyes widening, his mouth dropping, stunned by what he realized and what he saw. He shut his eyes, dropped his head, crushed the handkerchief between his hands, wadding it, biting his lips with his teeth, pulling in on himself.
    The fingerprints were everywhere, everywhere!
    “Mind getting the burgundy, Acton, eh? The burgundy bottle, eh? With your fingers, eh? I’m terribly tired. You understand?”
    A pair of gloves.
    Before he did one more thing, before he polished another area, he must have a pair of gloves, or he might unintentionally, after cleaning a surface, redistribute his identity.
    He put his hands