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embarrass them when they were kissing each other; '(b)' that he was possibly coming back in a moment; or '(c)' that he was too annoyed with their behavior to say good night to either of them. Explanation '(b)' was the correct one, but only Melinda would think of it, because Mr. Gosden had never seen him leave and come back. He had done it several times with Jo-Jo.
           Vic turned on the fluorescent light in the garage and walked slowly through, glancing at his neat herb boxes, at his aquaria full of land snails that were gliding through the moistened jungle of oat shoots and Bermuda grass in which they lived, glancing at his opened electric drill case on his worktable and automatically noting that every tool was present and in its proper place.
           His own room was almost as severe and functional as the garage—a plain three-quarter bed with a dark-green slipcover on it, one straight chair and one leather desk chair, a huge flat-topped desk on which stood dictionaries and carpenters' manuals, ink bottles, pens and pencils, account books, and paid and unpaid bills, all arranged in an orderly manner. There were no pictures at all on his walls, only a plain calendar, donated by a local lumber company, over his desk. He had the ability to sleep for as long as he wished without the aid of anything or anyone to awaken him, and he looked at his wristwatch and set himself to awaken in half an hour, at seventeen minutes to five. He lay down on the bed and methodically relaxed himself from head to toe.
           Within about a minute he was asleep. He had a dream of being in church and of seeing the Mellers there. Horace Meller smiled and congratulated him for having murdered Malcolm McRae in defense of his marriage. The whole town of Little Wesley was in church, and everyone smiled at him. Vic woke up smiling at himself, at the absurdity of it. He never went to church, anyway. Whistling, he combed his hair, straightened his shirt under his pale-blue cashmere sweater, and strolled back through the garage.
           Ralph and Melinda were in a corner of the sofa and had apparently been reclining, or half reclining, because they both straightened up at the sight of him. Ralph, pink-eyed now, looked him up and down with drunken disbelief and resentment.
           Vic went to the bookshelf and bent over, scanning the titles.
           "Still reading?" Melinda asked.
           "Um-hm," Vic said. "No more music?"
           "I was just about to leave," Ralph said hoarsely, getting up. He looked exhausted, but he lighted a cigarette and threw the match viciously in the direction of the fireplace.
           "I don't want you to leave." Melinda reached for his hand, but Ralph swung away and took a step back, staggering a little. "'S awfully late," Ralph said.
           "Practically time for breakfast," Vic said cheerfully. "Can I interest anybody in some scrambled eggs?"
           He got no answer. He chose the pocketbook 'World Almanac', a book he could always browse in with pleasure, and went to his armchair.
           "I should think 'you'd' be getting sleepy," Melinda said, looking at him as resentfully as Ralph.
           "No." Vic blinked his eyes alertly. "Had a little nap just now in my room."
           Ralph wilted visibly at this information and stared at Vic with a stunned expression as if he were about to throw up the sponge, though his eyes, shrunken and pink in his pale face, burned all the harder. He stared at Vic as if he could have killed him. Vic had seen the same look on Jo-Jo's face, and even on Larry Osbourne's lean, blank face, a look inspired by Vic's demoniacal good humor, by his standing clear-eyed and sober at five in the morning while they wilted on the sofa, wilted lower and lower in spite of their efforts to haul themselves upright every fifteen minutes or so. Ralph picked up his full glass and drank half of it at one draft. He'd stay to the bitter