He was in a strange bed. There was murmuring around
him. An impression of white， Machinery. The sound o]
the distant breaking o/ the sea against the shore. Or per-
haps the liquid surf of his blood， pulsing against interior
walls. He was floating--somewhere. It was difficult ]or
him io open his eyes， the lids were heavy. There was a
spring sunshine. He
man be]ore. Finally，
had the impression
he realized， it Was
Attired in mismatched flapping clothes， Allen Strand strode
into the fragrant greenhush of Central Park， the rumble
of Fifth Avenue diminishing behind him. He walked slow-
ly， his weekend pace. On work days he loped， his tall， lean
figure crowned by a long narrow head， his nose， a sharp;
inherited bowsprit， leaning into a private oceanic wind.
His wing of straight， iron-gray hair flashed in the up and
down sea motion of his stride. His daughter Eleanor， after
meeting him once by accident on the street， had said she
almost expected to see a bow wave curling around his
prow as he sailed through the currents of city traffic.
The thought that he was going to see Eleanor that eve-
ning pleased him. She had a sharp eye and sharp tongue，
and her observations were not always benign， but the glint
of weapons she brought to the family dinner table made
him look forward， as he strolled along the bench-bordered
path， to what otherwise might have been a dutiful weekly
ritual.
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