"I'd take it easy going down the step, sir,” counseled the doorman.
An aero-taxi driver held open the door of the cab and saluted.
"Where to, sir?"
Wilson stumbled in and stammered out his address. The taxi droned into the traffic lane.
Hands twitching, Wilson fumbled with the key, took minutes to open the door into his apartment. Finally the lock clicked and he pushed open the door. His questing finger found the wall switch. Light flooded the room.
Wilson heaved a sigh of relief. He felt safe here. This place belonged to him. It was his home, his retreat…
A low laugh, hardly more than a chuckle, sounded behind him. He whirled and for a moment, blinking in the light, he saw nothing. Then something stirred by one of the windows, gray and vague, like a sheet of moving fog.
As he watched, shrinking back against the wall, the grayness deepened, took the form of a man. And out of that mistiness a face was etched, a face that had no single line of humor in it, a bleak face with the fire of anger in the eyes.
"Manning!” shrieked Wilson. “Manning!” He wheeled and sprinted for the door, but the gray figure moved, too… incredibly fast, as if it were wind-blown vapor, and barred his path to the door.
"Why are you running away?” Manning's voice mocked. “Certainly you aren't afraid of me."