As he crossed a street, he heard a bell tolling the same note over and over.

Death, he said; a funeral. And he passed on.

Then he heard sirens. But he continued on, not seeking their source.

He came to the store where he had taken a meal several days earlier. It was closed, and there was a dark remembrance set upon the door.

He walked on, suddenly fearing the worst, knowing it.

He waited for a procession to pass the corner where he stood. A hearse rumbled by, lights on.

They still bury the dead here, he reflected; and, Not what I think, he told himself. Just a death, an ordinary death ... Who am I trying to fool?

He walked on, and a man crossed his path and spat upon it.

Again? What have I become?

He walked the streets, wending his slow way to the airfield.

If I am responsible, how can they know so soon? he asked himself.

They cannot, not for sure ...

But then he thought of himself as they knew him. What? A god-touched being dropped into their midst. Mutual apprehension would prevail, along with the awe. He had stayed too long, that day, centuries ago. Now every moment's pleasure was refined, drained, siphoned, lessened by each bellnote. Every new moment here was closed to pleasure.

He moved along the street, cutting toward his right.

A young boy drew attention to him: "There he is!" he cried. "That's H!"

He could not deny it--but the tone made him wish he were catching his air car elsewhere.

He walked on, and the boy--along with several adults-- followed him.

But she lived, he told himself. I made her live ...

Big victory.

He passed a vehicle repair shop, and the men in blue uniforms who worked there sat in the front of the building, their chairs tilted back against the brick wall. They did not move. They sat there and smoked and stared at him as he passed by, silent.

The bells continued to ring. People moved out of doors and side passages to stare at him as he passed along the streets.