"Yes, I am." What followed was extremely difficult to say, but having it out and confessed to another person made him feel much better. "I think she might be considering, well, suicide." He rushed on: "It's not just me, don't get the idea I think any girl would kill herself just because she can't have sexy old Larry Underwood. But the boy she was taking care of has come out of his shell, and I think she feels alone, with no one to depend on her."
"If her depression deepens into a chronic, cyclic thing, she may indeed kill herself," the Judge said with chilling indifference.
Larry looked at him, shocked.
"But you can only be one man," the Judge said. "Isn't that true?"
"Yes."
"And your choice is made?"
"Yes."
"For good?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then live with it," the Judge said with great relish. "For God's sake, Larry, grow up. Develop a little self-righteousness. A lot of that is an ugly thing, God knows, but a little applied over all your scruples is an absolute necessity! It is to the soul what a good sun-block is to the skin during the heat of the summer. You can only captain your own soul, and from time to time some smartass psychologist will question your ability to even do that. Grow up! Your Lucy is a fine woman. To take responsibility for more than her and your own soul is to ask for too much, and asking for too much is one of humanity's more popular ways of courting disaster."
"I like talking to you," Larry said, and was both startled and amused by the open ingenuousness of the comment.
"Probably because I am telling you exactly what you want to hear," the Judge said serenely. And then he added: "There are a great many ways to commit suicide, you know."
And before too much time had passed, Larry had occasion to recall that remark in bitter circumstances.
At quarter past eight the next morning, Harold's truck was leaving the Greyhound depot to go back to the Table Mesa area. Harold, Weizak, and two others were sitting in the back of the truck. Norman Kellogg and another man were in the cab. They were at the intersection of Arapahoe and Broadway when a brand-new Land-Rover drove slowly toward them.
Weizak waved and shouted, "Where ya headed, Judge?"
The Judge, looking rather comic in a woolen shirt and a vest, pulled over. "I believe I might go to Denver for the day," he said blandly.
"Will that thing get you there?" Weizak asked.
"Oh, I believe so, if I steer clear of the main-traveled roads."
"Well, if you go by one of those X-rated bookstores, why don't you bring back a trunkful?"
This sally was greeted with a burst of laughter from everyone - the Judge included - but Harold. He looked sallow and haggard this morning, as if he had rested ill. In fact, he had hardly slept at all. Nadine had been as good as her word; he had fulfilled quite a few dreams the night before. Dreams of the damp variety, let us say. He was already looking forward to tonight, and Weizak's sally about p**n ography was only good for a ghost of a smile now that he had had a little first-hand experience. Nadine had been sleeping when he left. Before they dropped off around two, she had told him she wanted to read his ledger. He had told her to go ahead if she wanted to. Perhaps he was putting himself at her mercy, but he was too confused to know for sure. But it was the best writing he had ever done in his life and the deciding factor was his want - no, his need. His need to have someone else read, experience, his good work.
Now Kellogg was leaning out of the dump truck's cab toward the Judge. "You be careful, Pop. Okay? There's funny folks on the roads these days."
"Indeed there are," the Judge said with a strange smile. "And indeed I will. A good day to you, gentlemen. And you too, Mr. Weizak."
That brought another burst of laughter, and they parted.
The Judge did not head toward Denver. When he reached Route 36, he proceeded directly across it and out along Route 7. The morning sun was bright and mellow, and on this secondary route, there was not enough stalled traffic to block the road. The town of Brighton was worse; at one point he had to leave the highway and drive across the local high school football field to avoid a colossal traffic jam. He continued east until he reached I-25. A right turn here would have taken him into Denver. Instead he turned left - north - and nosed onto the feeder ramp. Halfway down he put the transmission in neutral and looked left again, west, to where the Rockies rose serenely into the blue sky with Boulder lying at their base.
He had told Larry he was too old for adventure, and God save him, but that had been a lie. His heart hadn't beat with this quick rhythm for twenty years, the air had not tasted this sweet, colors had not seemed this bright. He would follow I-25 to Cheyenne and then move west toward whatever waited for him beyond the mountains. His skin, dry with age, nonetheless crawled and goosebumped a little at the thought. I-80 west, into Salt Lake City, then across Nevada to Reno. Then he would head north again, but that hardly mattered. Because somewhere between Salt Lake and Reno, maybe even sooner, he would be stopped, questioned, and probably sent somewhere else to be questioned again. And at some place or other, an invitation might be issued.
It was not even impossible to think that he might meet the dark man himself.