Vertigo gets to me fast. My psychiatrist said he thought it was a
symbol--in my case--for striving. I spent too much effort trying to get
to some summit where skill, not effort, alone could take anybody. And
the struggle was reflected as a physical horror of high places. There
must have been something in it, because after assimilating the idea,
I was at least able to live in high rooms without feeling queasy. But
there may be even more in it--since I still get sick, hanging around
the edge of sixteen-story walls.
Paul also was looking down at all the people and the people constantly
arriving.
"I'm going in," I said.
He hardly paid any attention.
Such clothes as I had on were soaked clear through again. I was
thinking about changing when the door knocked and the cop stood there
with some other men--in and out of uniforms.
"He's moved."
"I know."
"We can't get at him good, there. A net won't be possible. We've got
some guys looking over the picture on the roof. But it's risky. Twice,
that squad has gotten a line around somebody--and had them get loose
and go. One bird threw the rope off before they could pull it tight.
And a woman cut it while she was hanging over the street. Can we come
in?"
I opened the door. They looked at me. "My name's Black," one said.
"Captain--your precinct." He introduced the rest the way an undertaker
presents pallbearers to each other. They all went over near the windows
and knelt and peeked furtively at Paul.
"Should I stay out there?" I asked.