squashed under the thumb of humiliation.

The monstrous indignity of it all!

To be thrown out of an asylum!

After a time, Malloy felt a coolness, a wetness on his head.

He dreamed a little dream to himself that he knew was a dream: they were coming to wrap him in warm sheets again.

But it was only a dream. This wetness wasn't warm—it was chilly. He finally identified it from his memories. This was rain.

He stirred himself and gathered up the brown bundle that he knew must contain his suit, papers and a little money.

Malloy trudged down the road toward the town that lay below the sanitarium, his collar turned up.

He found he didn't mind the rain so much. It tended to settle the dust, and the walk would be a long one.

Grayson Amery, the iron-haired publisher, greeted Malloy with a firm, warm, dry handshake.

"Michael, it's certainly good to see you again. You are looking well."

"Yes, the bruises left by the strait jacket straps don't show," said Malloy.

"A unique miscarriage of justice," Amery said.

"I certainly hope it's unique. I hope there aren't any more poor devils like me locked away."

Amery offered Malloy a chair with a broad, well-manicured hand. "I'm confident that there aren't. And you are out now, fortunately."

"You can call it fortune if you like," Malloy said uneasily.

"But you are glad to be out?"

Malloy hesitated. "I'm resigned to it. The flow of time washed some of the salt out of the wound. Being born is definitely a traumatic experience."

"How well I remember!" Amery said.

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