He hung up.

Back in the living room, he thought of Olivia and of living-the two seemed constantly bound up together. He thought of GOING AWAY. He thought of Charlie, and he could hardly remember Charlie’s face anymore, except in snapshot fashion. How could this be possibly happening, then?

With sudden resolution he got up, went to the phone, and turned to TRAVEL in the yellow pages. He dialed a number. But when a friendly female voice on the other end said, “Arnold Travel Agency, how may we help you?” he hung up and stepped quickly away from the phone, rubbing his hands together.

The Revel Lanes Bowladrome was a long, fluorescent-lit building that resounded with piped-in Muzak, a jukebox, shouts and conversation, the stuttering bells of pinball machines, the rattle of the coin-op bumper-pool game, and above all else, the lumbering concatenation of falling pins and the booming, droning roll of large black bowling balls.

He went to the counter, got a pair of red-and-white bowling shoes (which the clerk sprayed ceremonially with an aerosol foot disinfectant before allowing them to leave his care), and walked down to Lane 16. The two men were there. He saw that the one standing up to roll was the mechanic who had been replacing the muffler on the day of his first trip to Magliore’s Used Car Sales. The fellow sitting at the scoring table was one of the fellows who had come to his house in the TV van. He was drinking a beer from a waxed-paper cup. They both looked at him as he approached.

“I’m Bart,” he said.

“I’m Ray,” the man at the table said. “And that guy"-the mechanic was rolling now-"is Alan.”

The bowling ball left Alan’s hand and thundered down the alley. Pins exploded everywhere and then Alan made a disgusted noise. He had left the seven-ten split. He tried to hang his second ball over the right gutter and get them both. The ball dropped into the gutter and he made another digusted noise as the pin-setter knocked them back.

“Go for one,” Ray admonished. “Always go for one. Who do you think you are, Billy Welu?”

“I didn’t have english on the ball. A little more and kazam. Hi, Bart.

“Hello.”

They shook hands all around.

“Good to meet you,” Alan said. Then, to Ray: “Let’s start a new string and let Bart in on it. You got my ass whipped in this one anyhow.”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead and go first, Bart,” Alan said.

He hadn’t bowled in maybe five years. He selected a twelve-pound ball that felt right to his fingers and promptly rolled it down the left-hand gutter. He watched it go, feeling like a horse’s ass. He was more careful with the next ball but it hooked and he only got three pins. Ray rolled a strike. Alan hit nine and then covered the four pin.

At the end of the five frames the score was Ray 89, Alan 76, Bart 40. But he was enjoying the feeling of sweat on his back and the unaccustomed exertion of certain muscles that were rarely given the chance to show off.

He had gotten into the game enough that for a moment he didn’t know what Ray was talking about when he said: “It’s called maglinite.”

He looked over, frowning a little at the unfamiliar word, and then understood. Alan was out front, holding his ball and looking seriously down at the four-six, all concentration.

“Okay,” he said.

“It comes in sticks about four inches long. There are forty sticks. Each one has about sixty times the explosive force of a stick of dynamite.”

“Oh,” he said, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Alan rolled and jumped in the air when he got both pins for his spare.

He rolled, got seven pins, and sat down again. Ray struck out. Alan went to the ball caddy and held the ball under his chin, frowning down the polished lane at the pins. He gave courtesy to the bowler on his right, and then made his four-step approach.

“There’s four hundred feet of fuse. It takes an electrical charge to set the stuff off. You can turn a blowtorch on it and it will just melt. It-oh, good one! Good one, Al!”

Al had made a Brooklyn hit and knocked them all back.

He got up, threw two gutterballs, and sat down again. Ray spared.

As Alan approached the line, Ray went on: “It takes electricity, a storage battery. You got that?”

“Yes,” he said. He looked down at his score. 47. Seven more than his age.

“You can cut lengths of fuse and splice them together and get simultaneous explosion, can you dig it?”

“Yes.”

Alan rolled another Brooklyn strike.

When he came back, grinning, Ray said: “You can’t trust those Brooklyn hits, boy. Get it over in the right pocket.”

“Up your ass, I’m only eight pins down.”

He rolled, got six pins, sat down, and Ray struck out again. Ray had 116 at the end of seven.

When he sat down again Ray asked: “Do you have any questions?”

“No. Can we leave at the end of this string?”

“Sure. But you wouldn’t be so bad if you worked some of the rust off. You keep twisting your hand when you deliver. That’s your problem.”

Alan hit the Brooklyn pocket exactly as he had on his two previous strikes, but this time left the seven-ten split and came back scowling. He thought, this is where I came in.

“I told you not to trust that whore’s pocket,” Ray said, grinning.

“Screw,” Alan growled. He went for the spare and dropped the ball into the gutter again.

“Some guys,” Ray said, laughing. “Honest to God, some guys never learn, you know that? They never do.”

The Town Line tavern had a huge red neon sign that knew nothing of the energy crisis. It flicked off and on with mindless, eternal confidence. Underneath the red neon was a white marquee that said:

There was a plowed parking lot to the right of the tavern, filled with the cars of Saturday night patrons. When he drove in he saw that the parking lot went around to the back in an L. There were several parking slots left back there. He drove in next to an empty one, shut off the car, and got out.

The night was pitilessly cold, the kind of night that doesn’t feel that cold until you realize that your ears went as numb as pump handles in the first fifteen seconds you were out. Overhead a million stars glittered in magnified brilliance. Through the tavern’s back wall he could hear the Fabulous Oysters playing “After Midnight.” J.J. Care wrote that song, he thought, and wondered where he had picked up that useless piece of information. It was amazing the way the human brain filled up with road litter. He could remember who wrote “After Midnight,” but he couldn’t remember his dead son’s face. That seemed very cruel.

The Custom Cab pickup rolled up next to his station wagon; Ray and Alan got out. They were all business now, both dressed in heavy gloves and Army surplus parkas.

“You got some money for us,” Ray said.

He took the envelope out of his coat and handed it over. Ray opened it and riffled the bills inside, estimating rather than counting.

“Okay. Open up your wagon.”

“He opened the back (which, in the Ford brochures, was called the Magic Doorgate) and the two of them slid a heavy wooden crate out of the pickup and carne d it to his wagon.

“Fuse is in the bottom,” Ray said, breathing white jets out of his nose. “Remember, you need juice. Otherwise you might just as well use the stuff for birthday candles.”

“I’ll remember.”

“You ought to bowl more. You got a powerful swing.”

They got back into their truck and drove away. A few moments later he alsc drove away, leaving the Fabulous Oysters to their own devices. His ears were cold, and they prickled when the heater warmed them up.