I TRIED NOT TO BE GLOOMY during dinner, and I think I succeeded, but by reading time I was exhausted. I felt old, finished. Everything had come to nothing, that was the feeling. . . .

I TOOK MY COFFEE to my workroom and shut the door. Standing at the window, I reread the letter from Preston and Douglas announcing the cancellation of the Larry Peters series. As I read, I had the oddest sensation . . .

LYING IN BED that night, awake, I found that I was afraid of moving to Foggy Cove. . . .

WHEN I WAS A BOY, there was quite a lot of interest in flying saucers. . . .

AT MY USUAL EARLY HOUR I sat at the computer to do some work on the passage that I would be reading in the evening, but it was Albertine who wrote: . . .

MY LITTLE AUDIENCE was receptive, even appreciative, . . .

ALBERTINE and I had the dining room to ourselves that night. After dinner, I built a fire in the lounge, poured the last of the cognac for us, and began reading the sixth episode of Dead Air, “Flying Saucers: The Untold Story,” to an audience of one.

EARLY IN THE MORNING, I ferried our three guests back to the mainland. Dick and Jane sat in the bow with their arms around each other for the whole trip. They had told Albertine, while they were checking out, that their stay at Small’s had “really meant something,” . . .

AS SOON AS we were under the covers, Albertine said, “The boiler is on its last legs.” “What happened to ‘Good night, my darling, I love you a zillion’?” I asked. “It’s the scale.” “Okay, a billion. I can understand that we’ve got to cut back — ” . . .

AFTER DINNER, in the lounge, Lou stood the entire crowd of eight to a round of drinks from our well-stocked bar, and I read episode five of Dead Air, “A Case of the Family Illness.”