He discovered that he could not find his electric razor. He realized suddenly that unless he could devise a method of generating 110 volts at sea he would have to grow a beard or use blades. He finally found the razor in the “OUT” box. Very funny, but today he was not in the mood.

They were not only giving up electric razors but frozen foods and ice-cubes, showers, hot water, Walter Cronkite, and the Raiders’ games on Sunday. They were stepping outside the normal stream of their culture. He was all at once dubious of his own ability to do it, and of Lindy’s.

He heard a whine outside the bathroom door. Christ, he had forgotten Justice Holmes. Today was goodbye to him, too. He let him in and began to rub his velvet ears. The dog’s eyes were tragic. He had known they were leaving from the moment Mitch had dragged the first suitcases from the attic. He had been lumbering brokenly at Lindy’s heels every second for the last week.

Mitch dressed quickly and slipped to the kitchen. He made coffee for himself and filled Justice Holmes’ dish with Red Heart. The dog ignored it. Mitch backed the car out of the garage, and when he had it on the street, he whistled softly. For the first time in a week, Justice Holmes came alive. He bounded across the lawn and into the passenger seat, squealing joyfully. Mitch, feeling like a trundle-driver heading for the guillotine, reached across to close the door and saw Lindy’s face at the bedroom window. In a moment, her nightgown whipping, she was at the door of the car.

“He thinks you’re taking him riding,” she quavered. “Mitch, he could sleep topside!”

Someone had to be firm. “Honey, we decided. Now, let me go.”

“Just until we shove off?” she choked.

“No,” he said. He leaned across and kissed her. He drove away, narrowly missing the neighbor’s car parked at the curb. After twelve years of commuting, he forgot the toll gate on the Bridge and almost rear-ended the line of autos waiting to pay. By the time he turned Justice Holmes and his feeding schedule over to his sister-in-law in St. Francis Woods, he felt like crying himself.

He entered the marble lobby of their building. He had not been to work for three days. The ruddy, obsequious elevator dispatcher, who disliked him but saluted him every morning, the blind news-dealer in the stand who recognized him by his footsteps, the Nisei elevator-starter they’d won a case for, all filled him with guilt. Bernie and they were doomed to work here forever; he was a useless drone, a rat leaving the sinking ship of law.