Gone. All thought of gladdening them with gifts has gone too. He knows he will never be able to do that again. His throat tightens.

What do they think is the matter? he wonders. But when he starts thinking like this, perspectives open up that he dare not look into more closely: how all this will turn out for Frank and Freda.

The hands of the clock move. Soon it will be bedtime again. He sits crumpled in the chair. As soon as he listens for it he can hear the quiet warning that it has been set in motion. And he has never doubted that it has been set in motion for him.

I must prepare for it, he thinks confusedly, staring about him.

Frank appears in the doorway.

‘May I go to bed?’ he asks uncertainly, ‘it’s time, and I…’

‘Yes, of course,’ answers his father, somehow ashamed.

Frank goes across to his bed, undresses and pulls the bedclothes round himself, taking care not to say a word. Freda has probably gone to bed feeling dejected too. The arrow polisher sits thinking about them, and his throat tightens. I must go to bed or they’ll get frightened and start calling the neighbours, he thinks.

‘Are you asleep, Frank?’

‘No!’

Frank raises his head from the pillow at once, eager to see what his father wants.

But then the arrow polisher feels afraid again. He wants to talk to Frank, yet he dare not. He does not know what he might happen to say without meaning to.

‘Lie down and try to sleep,’ he says to Frank. ‘There’s nothing serious the matter with me. As long as I can sit and let it pass. We’ll talk about it when it’s over.’

His lies are fabricated quickly and easily, and at the same time his face is so tortured that Frank cannot bear to look at it. He ducks down into his pillow, beyond reach.

The arrow polisher tears himself free and lies down on his bed. But fully dressed. They’re not going to find me undressed, he thinks, shuddering.

A sound jerks him up again. But it is only Frank breathing in his sleep. Nothing can prevent Frank from sleeping.

Time passes.

The house is cracking.

What is happening to Stig now? comes the searing question.

He listens as if trying to hear from where Stig is. And image after image tortures him. And time passes. He stays on the bed for a while, but intends to go back to the chair before long.

What’s that? Is it coming? he asks, but nothing answers his fearful questioning. Over there on the desk the warning is probably still being given. He is dressed and ready to sit there and wait.

This is his second vigil, and it is so tense that it does not seem possible that he could survive a third.

What is Stig doing now? he thinks, and seems to know.

Stig is dying.

The chill of icy space is streaming through him. But it is not the cold; someone is asking: