The cab door closed. The driver put the clutch down, then up, and the cab rolled away into the darkness. Horner lit a cigarette. It tasted harsh and bitter, stale. The darkness engulfed him and a pulse hammered, of all places, in his right leg. He felt all at once old—or at least aging. He sighed and it was not a sound a young man would make. In the darkness on the unknown road, he longed for his youth, his lost youth. Then he walked resolutely up the dimly lit driveway flanked by the high hemlock hedge.
The door-knocker was brass, and Horner let it fall. It made a resounding noise and the door opened within a second, as if someone were standing half a foot away on the other side with no job but to admit Hugh Horner the instant he knocked.
"Come in, Mr. Horner," the girl said. "Naturally, we were expecting you."
She was tall and she wore a cashmere sweater, loose but not so loose that it failed to reveal high, maidenly breasts. She wore a skirt not provocatively tight, but tight enough to suggest the good thighs that she had. Her hair fell almost to her shoulders in abundant auburn waves. She had a lovely face and Horner thought she was about twenty years old.
"You were expecting me?" Horner said.
"Of course. You see, Bodies, Inc. carefully screens its applicants...."
"But I didn't apply!"
"Ah, but we knew you were going to. We have to be sure of our clients. Because if a single client decided to talk, we'd be out of business."
"The authorities?"