The wonder of it was that Arthur still felt like a private individual. He had driven Marty through drizzling rain to school, in a fit of parental solicitude—the school bus was perfectly adequate and stopped less than fifty yards from the front door. Returning, while parking in the carport, he had heard distant voices, some speaking English, most not. He had sat in the car with eyes closed, listening as if he were on some ham radio or satellite dish connection, but the voices had stopped, replaced only by a humming expectancy.

He had walked into the house, removing his overcoat. Francine had met him with a cup of hot cocoa. His eyes misting, he had sipped the cocoa, put it down on the kitchen counter, and hugged her. She had moved against him with more and more enthusiasm, verging on desperation, and he had led her into the bedroom, where they had made love.

He had not been "watched."

When not carrying out specific tasks, he was as free— within rational limits—as anybody he knew. He would not even contemplate leaving his zone of activity, the northwestern area of the United States. And if he tried to do so, he would be prevented. But there was plenty of work to do here, and more would be coming later on . . .

He lay with his head on his wife's ample tummy, hand around one breast, dozing lightly. She curled a lock of his hair in one finger and watched him with that womanly calmness he had so often marveled at. There had been passion, even obsession, in their bed that morning, yet now she was as placid as a crockery madonna.

He could tell her about the spider. Nothing would prevent him. He lifted his head and was about to speak, but then stopped. So who's in charge? Is it me, hesitating, or something else? It was him. She had enough to think about without learning her husband was possessed. That word amused and irritated him. It did not describe what was happening . . .

Why don't they take her, too? Possess her?

Because they didn't need her, and their resources were limited. Suddenly his spine tingled and his neck tightened. Only one or two thousand . . . What if nobody in his family was among that chosen group? None of his friends, colleagues, acquaintances? What if he was not?

"Something wrong, Art?" she asked, stroking his forehead.

He shook his head and caressed her nipple.

"You make me feel like something other than a mother and PTA member," she said. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Oh, I am," he said. "Thoroughly."

The rain gusted against the windows and a cold wind howled under the eaves. Ominous, patently ominous, yet it made him feel safe and warm. He could lie nude beside his woman in an enclosed warm bedroom and feel himself a master of infinite space. His body did not yet understand.