Outside he went to the bench and picked up the bob knife. He heard the sound again. There it was, _color_, black and bright red, a small helicopter, bearing this way, seeming to push against the wind.

Little bastards must be serious, out flying in this weather.

He walked about a hundred yards beyond the compound. The sand stung his eyes. He heard the motor but kept losing sight of the aircraft. Then he saw it again, off to the left, shouting distance, touching down near a gulley, trim, vivid in the murky gusts, its spiral blades coming slowly to a halt.

Inside the projector the film run continued noisily.

_The first room_.

_There are now six children and five adults, all seated, facing the camera. Among the adults are the two women from the flower sequence in the furnished room_.

_The smaller children are restless. Several adults wear rigid smiles; they look like victims of prolonged formalities. Two children trade seats. A woman turns to whisper_.

_For the first time the camera is active_.

_In a long slow panning movement, it focuses eventually on a figure lust beyond the doorway. A man in costume. After an interval of distortion, the camera, starting at the man's feet, moves slowly up his body_.

_Oversized shoes, turned up slightly at the points_.

_Baggy pants_.

_Vest and tight-fitting cutaway_.

_A dark narrow tie_.

_A wing collar, askew_.

_A battered derby_.

_A white boutonniere in the lapel of the cutaway_.

_A cane hooked over his wrist_.

_This footage has the mysterious aura of an event that cuts across time. This is because the man, standing beyond the doorway, is not yet visible to the audience of adults and children in the immediate vicinity. The other audience, watching in a dark room in New York in the 1970s, is aware of this, and they feel a curious sense of preview. They are seeing the man "first."_

"Is it?" Moll said.

"It could be."

"Jesus, it's almost charming."

"But do I want it?"

"He looks so very old."

"Do I need it?" Lightborne said.

_The camera is trained on the man's face. Again it moves, coming in for a medium close-up_.

_Eyes blank_.

_Little or no hair alongside his ears_.

_Face pale and lined_.

_Flaccid mouth_.

_Smoothly curved jaw_.

_The famous mustache_.

_Head shaking, he acknowledges the presence of the camera. It pulls back. The man moves forward, walking in a screwy mechanical way. Here the camera pans the audience. As the man enters the room, the adults show outsized delight, clearly meant to prompt the children, who may or may not be familiar with Charlie Chaplin_.

_Back on the performer, the camera pulls back to a corner of the room, providing a view from the wings, as it were_.

_He's a relatively small man with narrow shoulders and wide hips. It's now evident that his pantomime, intended as Chaplinesque, of course, is being enlarged and distorted by involuntary movements-trembling arm, nodding head, a stagger in his gait_.

"Do you want me to tell you what this is?"

"He's not bad, you know," Moll said. "Despite the tottering and such. He's doing fairly well."

"This is one of her home movies."

"Whose?"

"We saw her before."

"Eva Braun, you mean."

"This is her idea. She was a home-movie nut. She had movies made of herself swimming, walking in the woods, standing around with _him_. He's in some of them."

"He's in this one."

"But he didn't like Chaplin, if I recall correctly. I think he's on record as not being a Chaplin fan."

"I believe it was mutual."

"On the other hand he was a gifted mimic. He did imitations."

"Who did imitations? Say it."

"There were resemblances other than physical. He and Charlie."

_The figure shuffles toward the camera, his cane swinging. Behind him, in a corner of the screen, one of the small girls earnestly looks on_.

_Briefly the man is flooded in light_the bleached and toneless effect of overexposure. With the return of minimal detail and contrast, he is very close to the camera, and his lifeless eyes acquire a trace of flame, the smallest luster. A professional effect. It's as though the glint originated in a nearby catch light_.

_He produces an expression, finally-a sweet, epicene, guilty little smile. Charlie's smile. An accurate reproduction_.

"They were born the same week of the same month of the same year."

"Is that a point?"

"Within days of each other."

"But is that a point?"

"It's a fact. A truth. It's history."

"You're overwrought, Mr. Lightborne."

"Not that I'm convinced it's him. It's not him. He didn't empathize with the tramp character at all. Why is he doing this?"

"For the children, presumably."

"Who do I sell this to?"

_Three-quarter view. At first he seems to be speaking to the smallest of the children, a girl about three years old. it is then evident he is only moving his lips-an allusion to silent movies. One of the women can be seen smiling_.

"Hitler humanized."

"It's disgusting," Lightborne said. "What do I do with a thing like this? Who needs it?"

"I would think it has considerable value."

"Historical. Historical value."

"It's almost touching."

"Has to be one of her home movies. That bitch. What is she, stupid? Artillery shells are raining down and she's making movies. That whole bunch, they were movie-mad."

"You're certain about the children."

"Cyanide."

"So here we are."

"I expected something hard-edged. Something dark and potent. The madness at the end. The perversions, the sex. Look, he's twirling the cane. A disaster."

_Flash frames_.

"I set things in motion."

_New camera setup_.

_This is the sole attempt at "art." The camera faces the audience head-on. The members of the audience are attempting to pretend that the Chaplinesque figure is still performing at a point directly behind the camera_.

_Two adults remain, an unidentified man and woman. Both gaze dutifully past the camera, forcing tight smiles. Of the six children, only three seem interested in the illusion. One of the others kneels on the chair, her back to the "action." One looks directly at the camera. The smallest climbs down from her chair_.

_There is a general shifting of eyes. The members of the audience are clearly being prompted by someone off-camera_.

"I put powerful forces to work."

_Silently they applaud the masquerade_.

The hoods of their ski parkas kept getting blown off their heads. He saw the bright orange lining.

He gave a neighborly shout. _Hey_. Louder. One more time. He saw the ranger on the left reach out and touch the other's arm. Both had him in view now. They turned into the wind, which was at his back.

They came toward him like skiers cross-country, absorbed in economy and method, beaning into the force of the storm, each step a deliberate and nearby ritual movement, diagonal stride with poles.

He forced the bower part of the hood up over his nose so that only his eyes were visible. He saw the bright nylon lining intermittently. He had his feet firmly planted in the dirt, to maintain balance. They emerged from a swirl of dust, vanishing in a single stride.

He held the long knife across his stomach. Handle in his right hand. Blunt edge resting lightly in his left. He was rocked by the wind. The sound gathered density.