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　person；　after　all；　he　had　expected　to　meet　here。　She　went　down　in　a　white　burst；　like　a　teacup　breaking。　Four　men　were　around　her　now；　batting　at　the　flames　with　helmets　and　caps。
　　The　great　work　of　containing　the　blaze　went　on；　a　labor　that　seemed　as　old　and　lost　as　cathedral…building；　the　men　driven　by　a　spirit　of　lofty　munal　craft。　A　Dalmatian　sat　in　the　cab　of　a　hook…and…ladder　truck。
　　〃It's　funny　how　you　can　look　at　it　and　look　at　it；〃　Heinrich　said。　〃Just　like　a　fire　in　a　fireplace。〃
　　〃Are　you　saying　the　two　kinds　of　fire　are　equally　pelling？〃
　　〃I'm　just　saying　you　can　look　and　look。〃
　　〃'Man　has　always　been　fascinated　by　fire。'　Is　that　what　you're　saying？〃
　　〃This　is　my　first　burning　building。　Give　me　a　chance；〃　he　said。
　　The　fathers　and　sons　crowded　the　sidewalk；　pointing　at　one　or　another　part　of　the　half　gutted　structure。　Murray；　whose　rooming　house　was　just　yards　away；　sidled　up　to　us　and　shook　our　hands　without　a　word。　Windows　blew　out。　We　watched　another　chimney　slip　through　the　roof；　a　few　loose　bricks　tumbling　to　the　lawn。　Murray　shook　our　hands　again；　then　disappeared。
　　Soon　there　was　a　smell　of　acrid　matter。　It　could　have　been　insulation　burning—polystyrene　sheathing　for　pipes　and　wires—　or　one　or　more　of　a　dozen　other　substances。　A　sharp　and　bitter　stink　filled　the　air；　overpowering　the　odor　of　smoke　and　charred　stone。　It　changed　the　mood　of　the　people　on　the　sidewalk。　Some　put　hankies　to　their　faces；　others　left　abruptly　in　disgust。　Whatever　caused　the　odor；　I　sensed　that　it　made　people　feel　betrayed。　An　ancient；　spacious　and　terrible　drama　was　being　promised　by　something　unnatural；　some　small　and　nasty　intrusion。　Our　eyes　began　to　burn。　The　crowd　broke　up。　It　was　as　though　we'd　been　forced　to　recognize　the　existence　of　a　second　kind　of　death。　One　was　real；　the　other　synthetic。　The　odor　drove　us　away　but　beneath　it　and　far　worse　was　the　sense　that　death　came　two　ways；　sometimes　at　once；　and　how　death　entered　your　mouth　and　nose；　how　death　smelled；　could　somehow　make　a　difference　to　your　soul。
　　We　hurried　to　our　cars；　thinking　of　the　homeless；　the　mad；　the　dead；　but　also　of　ourselves　now。　This　is　what　the　odor　of　that　burning　material　did。　It　plicated　our　sadness；　brought　us　closer　to　the　secret　of　our　own　eventual　end。
　　At　home　I　fixed　warm　milk　for　us　both。　I　was　surprised　to　see　him　drink　it。　He　gripped　the　mug　with　both　hands；　talked　about　the　noise　of　the　conflagration；　the　air…fed　wallop　of　bustion；　like　a　ramjet　thrusting。　I　almost　expected　him　to　thank　me　for　the　nice　fire。　We　sat　there　drinking　our　milk。　After　a　while　he　went　into　his　closet　to　chin。
　　I　sat　up　late　thinking　of　Mr。　Gray。　Gray…bodied；　staticky；　unfinished。　The　picture　wobbled　and　rolled；　the　edges　of　his　body　flared　with　random　distortion。　Lately　I'd　found　myself　thinking　of　him　often。　Sometimes　as　Mr。　Gray　the　posite。　Four　or　more　grayish　figures　engaged　in　a　pioneering　work。　Scientists；　visionaries。　Their　wavy　bodies　passing　through　each　other；　mingling；　blending；　fusing。　A　little　like　extraterrestrials。　Smarter　than　the　rest　of　us；　selfless；　sexless；　determined　to　engineer　us　out　of　our　fear。　But　when　the　bodies　fused　1　was　left　with　a　single　figure；　the　project　manager；　a　hazy　gray　seducer　moving　in　ripples　across　a　motel　room。　Bedward；　plotward。　I　saw　my　wife　reclining　on　her　side；　voluptuously　rounded；　the　eternal　waiting　nude。　I　saw　her　as　he　did。　Dependent；　submissive；　emotionally　captive。　I　felt　his　mastery　and　control。　The　dominance　of　his　postion。　He　was　taking　over　my　mind；　this　man　I'd　never　seen；　this　half　image；　the　barest　smidge　of　brainlight。　His　bleak　hands　enfolded　a　rose…white　breast。　How　vivid　and　living　it　was；　what　a　tactile　delight；　dusted　with　russet　freckles　about　the　tip。　I　experienced　aural　torment。　Heard　them　in　their　purling　foreplay；　the　love　babble　and　buzzing　flesh。　Heard　the　sloppings　and　smackings；　the　swash　of　wet　mouths；　bedsprings　sinking　in。　An　interval　of　mumbled　adjustments。　Then　gloom　moved　in　around　the　gray…sheeted　bed；　a　circle　slowly　closing。
　　Panasonic。
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　　What　time　was　it　when　I　opened　my　eyes；　sensing　someone　or　something　nearby？　Was　it　an　odd…numbered　hour？　The　room　was　soft　and　webby。　I　stretched　my　legs；　blinked…　slowly　focused　on　a　familiar　object。　It　was　Wilder；　standing　two　feet　from　the　bed；　gazing　into　my　face。　We　spent　a　long　moment　in　mutual　contemplation。　His　great　round　head；　set　as　it　was　on　a　small…limbed　and　squattish　body；　gave　him　the　look　of　a　primitive　clay　figurine；　some　household　idol　of　obscure　and　cultic　derivation。　I　had　the　feeling　he　wanted　to　show　me　something。　As　I　slipped　quietly　out　of　bed；　he　walked　in　his　quilted　booties　out　of　the　room。　I　followed　him　into　the　hall　and　toward　the　window　that　looks　out　on　our　backyard。　I　was　barefoot　and　robeless　and　felt　a　chill　pass　through　the　Hong　Kong　polyester　of　my　pajamas。　Wilder　stood　looking　out　the　window；　his　chin　about　an　inch　above　the　sill。　It　seemed　I'd　spent　my　life　in　lopsided　pajamas；　the　shirt　buttons　inserted　in　mismatching　slits；　the　fly　undone　and　drooping。　Was　it　dawn　already？　Were　those　crows　I　heard　screaming　in　the　trees？
　　There　was　someone　sitting　in　the　backyard。　A　white…haired　man　sitting　erect　in　the　old　wicker　chair；　a　figure　of　eerie　stillness　and　posure。　At　first；　dazed　and　sleepy；　I　didn't　know　what　to　make　of　the　sight。　It　seemed　to　need　a　more　careful　interpretation　than　I　was　able　to　provide　at　the　moment。　I　thought　one　thing；　that　he'd　been　inserted　there　for　some　purpose。　Then　fear　began　to　enter；　palpable　and　overwhelming；　a　fist　clenching　repeatedly　in　my　chest。　Who　was　he；　what　was　happening　here？　I　realized　Wilder　was　no　longer　next　to　me。　I　reached　the　doorway　to　his　room　just　in　time　to　see　his　head　sink　into　the　pillow。　By　the　time　I　got　to　the　bed；　he　was　fast　asleep。　I　didn't　know　what　to　do。　I　felt　cold；　white。　I　worked　my　way　back　to　the　window；　gripping　a　doorknob；　a　handrail；　as　if　to　remind　myself　of　the　nature　and　being　of　real　things。　He　was　still　out　there；　gazing　into　the　hedges。　I　saw　him　in　profile　in　the　uncertain　light；　motionless　and　knowing。　Was　he　as　old　as　I'd　first　thought—or　was　the　white　hair　purely　emblematic；　part　of　his　allegorical　force？　That　was　it；　of　course。　He　would　be　Death；　or　Death's　errand…runner；　a　hollow…eyed　technician　from　the　plague　era；　from　the　era　of　inquisitions；　endless　wars；　of　bedlams　and　leprosariums。　He　would　be　an　aphorist　of　last　things；　giving　me　the　barest　glance—civilized；　ironic—as　he　spoke　his　deft　and　stylish　line　about　my　journey　out。　I　watched　for　a　long　time；　waiting　for　him　to　move　a　hand。　His　stillness　was　manding。　I　felt　myself　getting　whiter　by　the　second。　What　does　it　mean　to　bee　white？　How　does　it　feel　to　see　Death　in　the　flesh；　e　to　gather　you　in？　I　was　scared　to　the　marrow。　I　was　cold　and　hot；　dry　and　wet；　myself　and　someone　else。　The　fist　clenched　in　my　chest。　I　went　to　the　staircase　and　sat　on　the　top　step；　looking　into　my　hands。　So　much　remained。　Every　word　and　thing　a　bead…work　of　bright　creation。　My　own　plain　hand；　crosshatched　and　whorled　in　a　mesh　of　expressive　lines；　a　life　terrain；　might　itself　be　the　object　of　a　person's　study　and　wonder　for　years。　A　cosmology　against　the　void。
　　I　got　to　my　feet　and　went　back　to　the　window。　He　was　still　there。　I　went　into　the　bathroom　to　hide。　I　closed　the　toilet　lid　and　sat　there　a　while；　wondering　what　to　do　next。　I　didn't　want　him　in　the　house。
　　I　paced　for　a　time。　I　ran　cold　water　over　my　hands　and　wrists；　splashed　it　in　my　face。　I　felt　light　and　heavy；　muddled　and　alert。　I　took　a　scenic　paperweight　from　the　shelf　by　the　door。　Inside　the　plastic　disk　floated　a　3…D　picture　of　the　Grand　Canyon；　the　colors　zooming　and　receding　as　I　turned　the　object　in　the　light。　Fluctuating　planes。　I　liked　this　phrase。　It　seemed　the　very　music　of　existence。　If　only　one　could　see　death　as　just　another　surface　one　inhabits　for　a　time。　Another　facet　of　cosmic　reason。　A　zoom　down　Bright　Angel　Trail。
　　í　turned　to　immediate　things。　If　I　wanted　to　keep　him　out　of　the　house；　the　thing　to　do　was　go　outside。　First　1　would　look　in　on　the　smaller　children。　I　moved　quietly　through　the　rooms　on　bare　white　feet。　I　looked　for　a