Pedestrians walked by along the sidewalk, and autos glided in both
directions on the street. Dogs yapped at my heels. I ignored them. They
did not exist.
But I knew the police station did exist.
I walked directly toward the entrance--a long kitty-corner across the
street. When a powerfully humming auto headed toward me, I closed my
eyes and braced myself and continued walking.
It is not a pleasant sensation to be run down by a car--even a dream-car
with no substance.
My skin was prickly and my palms moist. I could feel the blood pounding
in my head.
The door to the police station was open. A short flight of stairs went
up to another door that was closed. I did not ring the bell, but opened
the door and stepped into the reception room.
The room was empty except for the uniformed policeman sitting at the
radio bank on the other side of the railing with his back to me. He wore
earphones.
As the door clicked shut, the policeman turned in his swivel chair to
face me.
"Hello, Langston, we've been expecting you," he said.
It was Isaac Grogan.