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The living room, where John was mixing a small pitcher of Martinis, was dominated by two walls of glass transparent only to those standing inside; a huge fireplace was squared off on a third wall, and directly across from it, beyond the conversation pit, were hung several paintings of rather eerie landscapes, which carried the initials “A.W.” in one corner. A door near the fireplace opened into what Wilson assumed was the domain of his servant—a pantry, kitchen, and tiny bedroom—to which he gave only cursory attention before he returned to accept the drink John had prepared, and eased himself into a chair before the fireplace.

“I had a curious experience at the airport, John,” he remarked at length, deciding to proceed with the interrogation of his servant, but in a circuitous manner.

“What was that, sir?”

“I was accosted by a large man dressed somewhat like a Texan. He seemed to know me; that is, he called me by name, although I was fairly certain I'd never met him.” Wilson glanced questioningly at his servant who, however, remained impassive. “I suppose it was a mistake on his part,” he added. “Don't you imagine so, John?”

“So it would seem, sir.”

Wilson was not completely satisfied with this response, but resolved to abandon the subject for matters of more immediate concern.

“Tell me, John, are you familiar with the state of my finances?”

“Your accounts, sir? Yes, of course. Let me get the books for you.”

Here Wilson's inquiry was more successful, for John produced a set of bank statements which indicated a checking balance that had lately been reinforced by a handsome deposit. John intimated that similar ample sums would be forthcoming every six weeks. Wilson was relieved to find that the company's pension was so generous, for in the confusion attendant on his sojourn at the company's headquarters, he had neglected to assure himself specifically on this point. It was a most efficient arrangement, and moreover, he learned that he was freed from the details of managing his new household, for it seemed that John was taking care of all routine expenses by means of a separate account established along the lines of a modest budget.

However, in the course of their discussion, Wilson was struck by the fact that his servant never openly mentioned the company, nor even once referred to anything that would indicate that Antiochus Wilson was other than what he appeared to be: a well-to-do bachelor in his late thirties who pursued a moderately successful artistic career. The company's pension payments, for example, John guardedly identified as “proceeds of stock investments,” and as for the supply of new paintings which Wilson would need to maintain his standing as an artist, John merely noted that these were to be received by post every two months, without suggesting that anyone except Wilson himself had actually produced them.

Wilson, relaxed by the effects of his drink, became ironically amused by John's evident desire to preserve the fiction of his new identity, but at the same time he judged that it would be imprudent for him to ignore it himself. In the first place, he
was
Antiochus Wilson, after all, and he should discipline his own mind to accept the fact, and then, further, he felt a certain reluctance to place himself on an intimate footing with a servant by initiating a discussion of personal matters. Nevertheless, he could not help speculating as to what an open and frank discussion would reveal, particularly about John, this sober little man who would, apparently, remain a part of his new life for quite a while. Presumably John had been trained by the company and dispatched to California to rent the house and make all of the other preliminary arrangements. And undoubtedly there were many just like him, schooled to act more or less as Sancho Panzas to the other quixotic gentlemen being reborn in such numbers on the surgical tables of the company. Wilson wondered whether John would stay with him merely long enough to see him properly launched, and then, being replaced by an ordinary valet, leave on reassignment to serve some more recently reborn client. In any event, Wilson decided, John's calling was a unique specialization even in a remarkably complex modern world.

He accepted the remaining contents of the Martini pitcher, and as he sipped from his glass, he became positively genial. His servant impressed him as being a fine, clever fellow, and his present situation was beginning to take on a most appealing aspect. He gazed with approval through the glass wall, which disclosed the grand sweep of countryside and thin blue strip of ocean.

“What kind of people live around here, John?” he asked at length.

“Professional people, sir, and some in business, and there are some who write, I believe.”

“No artists, I hope,” said Wilson, with a mock conspiratorial wink at his servant, but John treated the question with his customary gravity.

“I think you are the only one, Mr. Wilson,” he said, and then, after a pause, he added: “Perhaps you'd like to give a small cocktail party for the immediate neighbors, sir.”

“Well, I don't know about that.” Wilson frowned into his glass. The prospect of meeting a crowd of new faces when he was not yet accustomed to his own was none too attractive. “I think it's a bit early to think about a party, John. I'd better get myself used to things first, don't you think? Later on, maybe.”

“As you wish, Mr. Wilson. In any case,” John went on, deferentially, “I thought you might want a little diversion after your trip, sir, and with that thought in mind I arranged for a model to call this afternoon for you to sketch. I hope this meets with your approval.”

“Oh. Well, yes—I suppose so.” Wilson yawned and set down his glass. “Will I have time for a nap?”

“You will, sir. I will awaken you at four o'clock with a tray. The model will be here at four-thirty. Her name is Sara Jane, sir.”

“Good enough, John.”

Wilson was in fact quite tired, but his nap was a fitful one. Several times he rose and stood smoking cigarettes by the window, staring out toward the ocean. It looked terribly empty. So did the clumps of trees and brush and the wind-swept knolls of the intervening landscape. He saw not a single bird or rabbit anywhere, nor any other living thing, and he imagined that the ocean likewise was devoid of life. Even the few residences within view, perched on the knolls, had a vacant appearance. He took some comfort in this, for it helped allay his fears that his neighbors would come to call unbidden, before he was ready to face them, but at the same time he was uneasily impressed by the emptiness of the entire scene from his window. It seemed to have no more validity than the fanciful canvases in the living room that were initialed “A.W.”

When he returned to his bed to doze, his apprehensions were further heightened, for he was plagued by fantasies of a nightmarish character. Once he imagined himself in the process of demonstrating his artistic skills in public before a group of skeptical critics wearing tan cloth jackets like those of the clerks in the company's office; they jeered at his ineptitude, which was indeed appalling, for he could not manage to put his brush on the canvas, even when he began lunging desperately at it, but missed every time, greatly to his humiliation.

Thus, when John knocked and entered carrying a tray of food, Wilson awoke in a glum mood, disagreeably impressed by his situation. The company had given him a guarantee of personal freedom, it was true, but he was feeling very far removed from the exercise of his new liberty; moreover, he suspected that he would probably find it necessary to go through a further adjustment that might be fully as disturbing as the one he had recently concluded.

The arrival of Sara Jane, who seemed to be hardly more than a high school girl, did not ease his mind, either, for she began immediately to remove her clothing. He was horrified. Of course, that's what models did, but a man of his position and reputation could hardly stand idly by under such circumstances.

“Here now,” he called out, dodging behind his easel. “Don't, um—”

“What's that?”

“Won't you be too—too chilly like that?”

“Heck, no. I'm used to it.” She had already hung her jacket on a wire hanger in the closet and had zipped down her skirt. “Anyhow, you need a life model, don't you?”

“Well, I suppose . . .” Nervously he tested a stick of charcoal against a fresh sheet of paper tacked on the easel. He peered around the edge of the frame, feeling as though he must stop this indecent performance at once, yet not having the slightest idea of how to do so.

“I—I want to ask you something,” he stammered, feeling as though he were on the verge of committing some unforgivable trespass against the modesty of this young creature, now clad only in her brassiere and pants. “What I mean,” he went on, hastily, attempting to compose his features into a judicious frown, “is, um, don't you think it's a little late in the day? I mean, the light isn't too good now.”

Sara Jane cocked her head inquiringly at him, meanwhile reaching around beneath one arm to find her brassiere hook. Wilson could not help noticing that despite her youth she was undeniably voluptuous, but in an awkward way, as if she had acquired the fleshly trappings of womanhood all at once, and on the previous day, so that she had not yet been able to adjust her habits of movement to the altered circumstances of her body. Still, there was nothing of discomposure in her manner. She seemed fully at her ease, with that special innocence of youth which is alarming because it implies a basis not of morality but merely of ignorance.

“You made the appointment, not me,” she said, answering his question and simultaneously shrugging herself out of her brassiere.

“Yes, well. Of course, that's right.”

“Want to give it a whirl, then?”

“Ah, well, I suppose I might as well.”

“Okay. How's this?”

She went to a stool directly in front of the easel and perched on it with her legs crossed, her torso arched, and her head flung back dreamily.

“That's—fine.”

Wilson made a few desperate strokes with his charcoal, trying to summon up memories of his art class at prep school where the pupils had sketched each other, taking turns on the stool, attired in track uniforms. But it was no good. He drew an arm which resembled a pump handle, and his memories, too, failed him, for his consciousness was wholly dominated by the prospect of young flesh before him.

He wiped his forehead. It was shameful; a man of his background ogling this girl on the pretense of being an artist. He was old enough to be her father, besides. His stick of charcoal snapped in his fingers. Hastily, as though that mishap had revealed his imposture, he picked up a fresh one and scratched away at the paper. Once more he sought to recall some of the sketching principles enunciated by the art master, but now he could not remember anything about the classroom, the students, or the master himself. It had all been long ago, and it was faded; and indeed, he thought ironically, such memories did not even belong to him now. Antiochus Wilson had no memories.

“You must be getting tired,” he said at length, when he had completed his hopeless sketch.

“A little, yeah.” Sara Jane stretched her arms and began to rub the back of her neck. “I'm stiff back here, mostly.”

“Well, maybe that's enough for today,” Wilson said cautiously. “I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice, myself.”

She eased herself off the stool. “Whatever you want. Say,” she added, still kneading her neck, “this is kind of giving me a little trouble. How about your rubbing it for me some, huh?”

“Well—”

“Just loosen it up for me. Look, it'll be easier in here where I can sort of relax the other muscles.” She strolled into Wilson's bedroom where she stretched herself out comfortably on the bed. “Okay?”

Wilson followed, assailed by doubts. Surely the girl must realize the implication of her action, and yet even in California there must be a law defining statutory rape. He had a vision of entrapment, accusation, prosecution and scandal . . . but against whom? Antiochus Wilson, who had practically nothing to lose.

“Um, like this?” He sat warily on the edge of the bed, his fingers gently massaging the back of her neck as she gazed up at him with her nonchalant, impersonal expression.

“Yeah, that's good.” She closed her eyes contentedly, but as he simply continued to rub her neck, she reopened them and studied him for a moment. “Say, don't you want to do anything else? I mean, you're a pretty good-looking guy, you know. Like this.” She sat up, embraced him firmly, and gave him a healthy kiss. “See? Don't worry about that other guy. John, I mean. He went into town when I came and he won't be back for a couple hours, so we can do whatever we want to. Play around, sort of, you and me.” She began to unbutton his shirt. “It's a free country, isn't it?” She snickered, and he had the impression that she was chewing gum. “Sure, and everybody's got the right to a little fun-fun . . .”

Wilson cleared his throat. He could think of no suitable response, and so, as she continued to work at his shirt, he kissed her in return, tasting a peppermint flavor. He waited for the onset of sexual desire, but its promptings were impeded by considerations which, he tried to remind himself, were appropriate not for Antiochus Wilson, but for his obsolete predecessor. He could not banish the notion that he was engaging in some criminal molestation of an innocent minor, despite the fact that Sara Jane was obviously the aggressor in this case.

She tugged at his belt. “Come on, you help. Let's live a little,” she said. He obediently removed the rest of his clothing and almost desperately plunged at her, athletically rolling about with her on the bed in a prolonged series of nuzzlings and clutchings which, however, did not quite result in a certain necessary effect.

“I'm sorry. Wait a minute.” He stopped trying and sat up nervously, reaching for his cigarettes. The room was brilliant with late afternoon light; he felt that their tumblings had been exposed to public view through the great windows, and yet there was nothing outside. He could see the blank sky, the vacant ocean, the naked roll of land that was spotted with brush and houses which appeared empty of life. He was exposed—to nothingness. What was wrong?