tte was in a strange bed. There was murmuring around him. An irnpre~<br >sion of white. Machinery. The sound o[ the distant breaking o[ the se，<br >against the shore. Or perhaps the liquid surf of his blood， pulsing agains<br >interior walls， lie was floating--somewhere. It was difficult [or him t，<br >open his eyes， the lids were heavy. There was a man walking in sprini<br >sunshine. He had the impression he had met the man be[ore. Finall><br >he realized， it was himself<br > FTIRED iIl mismatched flapping clothes， Allen Strand strode int(<br > the fragrant green hush of Central Park， the rumble of Fiftl<br >Avenue diminishing behind him. He walked slowly， his weekend pace<br >On work days he loped， his tall， lean figure crowned by a long narrov<br >head， his nose， a sharp， inherited bowsprit， leaning into a privat，<br >oceanic wind. His wing of straight， iron-gray hair flashed in the up an(<br >down sea motion of his stride. His daughter Eleanor， after meeting hin<br >once by accident on the street， had said she almost expected to see<br >bow wave curling around his prow as he sailed through the currents a<br >^ j... l._~ ( l- ~<br >