sted they all drink more than was
good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along
on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.

They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to
Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee
and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he
merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.

There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been there
many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized
him. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as
if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.

At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he
said, "I haven't danced with my girl Rhona." His tongue was thick, his
mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her
face--pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual
of flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were going
to be sick.

"So let's rock," he said and stood up.

They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.
And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,
mechanical dancing doll.

The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,
"Beddy-bye time."

Hank said, "First one dance with my loving wife."

He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waited
for her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.
Because while she put herself against him, there was something in her
face--no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes--that made him know
she was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time when
the music ended, he was ready to go home.

They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear of
Phil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,
Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his old
self. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self with
the First One.

They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, and
Phil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen and
looked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fence
paralleling the road. "Hey," he said, pointing, "do you know why that's
the most popular place on earth?"