Prelude to Terror [antikvár]

OneThe sun was edging round and soon would flood the tenth-floor living room. By the time a July noon came to New York, thought Colin Grant, this place would be turned into a pressure cooker. Pull down the shades, shutter yourself as if you were in Spain; yes, that was the obvious solution. Except that the light would be dimmed, and the small breeze blocked. There was no air conditioning to solve these prob-lems: O'Malley (who owned this place and had leased it for a year to old friend Grant) hadn't gone to that expense; or perhaps it was his contribution to energy-saving. O'Malley was seldom here, anyway, jaunting ofi to Europe for his firm. Someday, Grant decided, I'll get around to asking him what possible business is now keeping him for a year in Geneva. But as one old Washington hand to another, in-formation was better volunteered than requested.He spread the photographs over the deskone of the few relics from Washington, along with a collection of books and records, and his typewriter and files. O'Malley wouldn't object to the coolest corner in the room being turned into a miniature office. "Just keep the place clean and aired, and scare away the burglars," he had said. And pay the main-tenance, Grant thought wryly. Still, it had seemed a bargain last November, when he had seen the sun, welcome in winter, streaming into the living room. He could work here, if not cheerfullyconsidering the emotional and mental agonies of these last monthsthen at least in privacy during the morning hours. For a moment, with his hands on the photo-