SAM ATKINS. THE CRYSTAL. Baker wished he could reach the cursed thing and hurl it away from him. That must be how Atkins was communicating with him. Yes, somehow it was possible. He had found no trick, no gimmick. Somehow, the miserable things worked.
But what did Sam Atkins want? He had broken in on a moment that was as private as a dream. There was nothing he could do. Baker was dying. He knew he was dying. There was no medicine that could heal the battering his body had taken. He had been slipping away into peace and release of pain. He had no desire to have it interrupted.
There was no more evidence of Sam Atkins’ presence. It was there—and Baker wished furiously that Atkins would let his death be a private thing—but he was not interfering now.
There was the faint suggestion of othe
