around him, speaking in soft tones, grinning a lot, sidestepping every situation

  of potential stress or conflict. Obviously all of them afraid he might flip at

  the first jarring stimulus. It was a regression to the way they had treated him

  weeks ago, when he had first come here, when they thought a Rehab needed to be

  handled as carefully as a barrel of eggs. He wondered why. Was it because he had

  called in sick yesterday, and now they assumed he had been suffering from some

  special affliction of Rehabs, some slippage of the identity, that required

  extracautious handling? Their excessive kindness, implying as it did that he was

  more vulnerable than they, irritated him. After two and a half hours of it he

  cornered Loftus, Stilton Fredericks’ executive assistant, and asked her about

  it.

  He said, “I want you to know that what kept me home yesterday was simply an

  upset stomach. A case of the runs and a lot of puking, okay?”

  She looked at him blankly. “I don’t remember asking.”

  “I know you didn’t ask. But everybody else around this place seems to think I

  had some sort of nervous breakdown. At least, that’s how they’ve been treating

  me today. So fucking kind it’s killing me. So I thought I’d let you spread the

  word that I’m all right. A mere internal indisposition.”

  “You don’t like people to be nice to you, Macy?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t want my fellow workers making inaccurate

  assumptions about the state of my head.”

  “Okay, so you didn’t have a nervous breakdown. So why do you look so strange?”

  “Strange?”

  “Strange,” Loftus said.

  “What way?”

  “Look in the mirror.” Then, a moment of tenderness breaking through the steel:

  “If anything’s the matter that any of us could fix—”

  “No. No. Honestly, it was only an upset stomach.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, if anybody asks, I’ll tell them. Nobody’s going to whisper behind

  your back.”

  He thanked her and made a quick escape. Executive washroom: amid all the

  electronic gimmickry, the sonic shavers and the Klein-bottle urinals, he found a

  mirror, standard variety, silver-backed glass as in days of yore. A fierce,

  bloodshot face looking back at him. Furrowed forehead. Nostrils flaring. Lips

  compressed, mouth drawn off to one side. Jesus, no wonder! He was Mr. Hyde and

  Dr. Jekyll both at the same time, his features all snarled up, reflecting the

  most intense kind of interior agonies.

  And this without a buzz from Hamlin for the past eighteen hours. This double

  existence, this squatter occupation of the lower reaches of his mind, was

  corroding his face, turning him into an ambulatory flag of distress. Of course

  they were all being sweet to him today; they could see the signals of imminent

  collapse inscribed on his brow.

  Yet he felt relatively relaxed today. What must he look like when Hamlin was

  near the surface and prodding him? Macy ventured an exploratory sweep.Hamlin?

  Hamlin, you there? My private permanent bad dream. Come up where I can see you.

  Let’s have a chat.

  But no, all quiet on the cerebral front. Feeling snubbed, Macy set out to repair

  his face. Stripped to the waist. Sticking his head into the hot-air blower.

  Loosen the muscles, soften the scowl. A little humidity, maestro. Ah. Ah, how

  good that is on the tactile net. Thrust noggin now into whirlpool sink. Round

  and round and round, bubble bubble bubble, hold your breath and let the lovely

  water work its magic. Ah. Ah. Splendid. Back to the hot air to dry off. Now pop

  a trank. Blow a gold. Survey the map. Better, much better. The tension draining

  away; a lucky thing, too, they wouldn’t have let you step in front of a camera

  looking all screwed up.

  Macy was still refurbishing himself, putting his clothes back on, when

  Fredericks walked into the john. A hearty phony laugh out of him, ho ho ho.

  “Interrupting you in a moment of relaxation, Paul?”

  “No. All done relaxing now. And feeling much better.”

  “We were all quite concerned when you phoned in yesterday.”

  “Just a jumpy stomach, was all. Much better now. See?” Flashing his

  rehabilitated features at Fredericks. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m really

  pretty tough, Stilton,” he added reluctantly. A hell of a name to carry through

  life. Fredericks addressed himself to the task of unloading his bladder. Macy

  went out, working hard at looking loose. The effort must have been worthwhile;

  people stopped pampering him.

  At half past two he picked up his script for the day, ran through the visuals

  four or five times, rehearsed the audio. A two-minute squib on the coronation in

  Ethiopia, surging throngs, lions marching on chains through the streets, a

  herniated corner of the fifteenth century poking into the twenty-first.

  Macy wondered how Mr. Bercovici, he who had selected him at the Rehab Center for

  this job, was making out in Addis Ababa. Was that him at the edge of the crowd,

  picked up by the trusty hovereye, that plump white face among the hawk-featured

  brown ones? Here and gone; probably the South African consul-general, or

  whoever. Macy carried off his voice-over nobly.“Amid the pomp and glamor of a

  medieval empire, the former Prince Takla Haymanot today became the Lion of

  Judan, King of the Kings of Ethiopia, His Excellency the Negus Lebna Dengel II,

  newest monarch in a line of royalty descended from King Solomon himself ...”

  Beautiful.

  And then home to Lissa through thin rain.

  She was in bed, reading, wearing a tattered green housecoat that looked old

  enough to be one of the Queen of Sheba’s hand-me-downs, nothing at all

  underneath it, pinkish-brown nipples peeping through. One quick look and he

  knew, as if by telepathic transmission, that she had had a bad day. Her face had

  that sullen, pouty look; her hair was uncombed, a wild auburn tangle; the stale

  smell of dried sweat was sharp in the air of the bedroom. He felt strangely

  domesticated. Hubby coming home from hard day at office, slatternly wife about

  to tell him of the day’s petty crises.

  She tossed aside her book and sat up. “Christ,” she said. Her favorite

  expletive. “An all-day bummer, this was. Rainy weather indoors and out.”

  He kicked off his shoes. “Bad?”

  “The anvil chorus in my head.” Shrugging. “Let’s not talk about it. I was going

  to whip up a fancy dinner, but I didn’t get up the energy. I could put something

  together fast.”

  “We’ll go out. Don’t bother.” He eased out of his overclothes. Fifteen seconds

  of dead air. Despite her saying she didn’t want to talk about today, she seemed

  obviously waiting for him to start questioning her. Gambit declined. He was

  tired and fretful himself: Hamlin beginning to clamber toward the surface again,

  maybe.

  He looked at her. She at him. The silence continued, dragging on until it had

  attained a tangible presence of its own. Then Lissa appeared to tune the tension

  out; she disconnected something in herself and slumped back against the pillow,

  sinking into that brooding withdrawal that she affected about half the time.

  Macy got himself a beer. When he returned to the bedroom she was still eighteen

  thousand light-years away. A curious notion came to him: that unless he made

  contact with her in some fashion this very minute, she would be wholly lost to

  him. Her closedness annoyed him; but he hid his pique and, going to her, pulled

  back the coverlet to caress the outside of her bare thigh. A friendly gesture,

  loving almost. She didn’t seem to notice. He touched his cold beer to her skin.

  A hiss. “Hey!”

  “Just wanted to find out if you were still here,” he said.

  “Very funny.”

  “What’s the matter, Lissa?” The question out of him at last.

  “Nothing. Everything. This shitty rain. The air in here. I don’t know.”

  Momentary wildness in her eyes. “I’ve been picking up noise all day in my head.

  You and Hamlin, Hamlin and you. Like a kind of radioactive trace in the air. I

  shouldn’t have moved in here.”

  “Surely you can’t pick up telepathic impulses from someone who isn’t even in the

  room!”

  “No? How do you know? Do you know anything at all about it? Maybe your ESP waves

  soak into the paint, into the woodwork. And radiate back at me all day. Don’t

  try to tell me what I’ve been feeling. The two of you, banging at me off the

  walls, blam blam blam, hour after hour.” These sharp sentences were delivered in

  an inappropriately flat, absent tone. At the end of which she disconnected

  again.

  “Lissa?”

  Silence.

  “Lissa?”

  “What?”

  “Remember, you came looking forme. I told you it wasn’t good for us to be

  together. And you said we needed each other, right? So don’t take it out on me

  if it doesn’t work well.”

  “I’m sorry.” A ten-year-old’s insincere apology.

  More silence.

  He tried to make allowances for her mood. Cooped up all day. Raining. Hostile

  ions in the air. Her period coming on, maybe. A woman’s entitled to be bitchy

  sometimes. Still, he didn’t need to take it. If there was too much telepathic

  noise here, she could go back to the pigsty.

  “I heard that,” she said.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “My period isn’t due for a week. And if you want me to go to the pigsty, say it

  out loud and I’ll pack right now.”

  “Do you read my mind all the time?”

  “Not like that, no. What I get, it’s a general hazy fuzz that I can identify as

  your signal, and a different fuzz that’shis, but not usually any sharp words.

  Except that time it was perfectly clear. Am I really being bitchy?”

  “You aren’t being much fun,” he said.

  “I’m not having much fun, either.”

  “How about a shower? And then a good dinner.” Trying to repair things. “A

  dress-up dinner, downtown. All right?” Like humoring a cranky child. Did she

  hear that too? Apparently not. Getting up, shucking her housecoat. Not bothering

  to hold herself upright; shoulders slumped, breasts dangling, belly pushed

  outward. Padding across and into the shower. Well, we all have our bad days.

  Sound of water running. Then her head sticking into the bedroom.

  She said, “By the way, the Rehab Center phoned this morning.”

  Macy looked up, and in the same instant Hamlin awoke and did something to his

  heartbeat, something transient and painful, that made him gasp and clap his hand

  to his breastbone.

  “I said, the Rehab Center phoned—”

  “I heard you.” Macy coughed. “Wait a second. Hamlin acting up.” He shot a

  furious thought downward.Let me be. Knock it off. The pain subsided. Macy said,

  “Who was it?”

  “A woman doctor with an Italian name.”

  “Ianuzzi.”

  “That’s the one. She wanted to know why you hadn’t shown up for your therapy

  yesterday. After making a special early appointment and everything.”

  “What did you tell her?” he asked.

  Hopes suddenly soaring. His previous identity has surfaced and is trying to take

  him over, Dr. Ianuzzi. A terrible struggle going on inside him. Oh, is that so,

  Miss Moore? How unexpected. But we can handle it, of course. We’ll have our

  mobile ego-smashing unit on the spot at seven o’clock sharp. Three quick bursts

  of rays from the egotron machine, beamed up from the street, and that’ll be the

  end of Mr. Nat Hamlin for once and all, oh, yes, oh, yes. Tell Mr. Macy not to

  worry about a thing. Thank you for giving me the details, Miss Moore.

  Lissa very far away. Dreamy. Macy said again, more sharply, “What did you tell

  her?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “What?”

  “She called at a bad time for me. I don’t even know why I answered. I couldn’t

  make much sense out of what she was asking me until afterward.”

  “So you just hung up?”

  “No, I talked, more or less. I said I didn’t know much about why you missed your

  appointment. Or where you were at the moment.” A distant shrug. “I guess I was

  pretty foggy.”

  “Jesus, Lissa, you had a chance to help me, and you blew it! You could have told

  her the whole story!”

  She said, “Didn’t you tell me that Hamlin threatened to kill you if you brought

  the Rehab Center into the picture?”

  “That’s right. But he wouldn’t have known it ifyou had given them the story

  while I was at work. It was a perfect chance. And you blew it. You blew it.”

  “Sorry.” But not very.

  “If they phone again, will you do things right?”

  “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “The straight story. Hamlin coming back. And especially the part about his

  saying he’ll stop my heart if I go near a Rehab Center. Make sure they know he

  means it. How I set out to go there, how he knocked me down at the Greenwich

  terminal. You won’t forget that part of it?”

  “Maybe you better call them yourself.”

  “I told you, I can’t. Hamlin monitors everything I think or say. The moment I

  pick up the phone, he’ll have his clutches on my—”Jesus! Another twinge in the

  chest. Clammy invisible fingers tweaking the aorta. A cough. A gasp. A slow

  shivering recovery. Lissa watching, unconcerned. “There,” Macy said finally. “He

  just did it. To let me know he’s tuned in.”

  “What good is having them know, though, if he’ll kill you if they try to help

  you?”

  “At least they’ll know. Maybe they have a remote-control way of dealing with

  situations like this. Maybe they can sneak up on him somehow. They’ve got their

  tricks. It can’t hurt to have them realize what’s happened. Provided they’re

  aware of the risks involved for me. You won’t forget that part?”

  “If they call,” Lissa said vaguely, “I’ll try to tell them everything. I’ll

  try.” She didn’t sound too sure of it.

  In the night, fragmentary episodes of not-quite-nightmare, slippery bulletins

  issued by the psychic underground. Oddly unfrightening moments out of an

  unremembered past arriving on top deck for the sleeper’s inspection and

  enlightenment. Bucolic scenes: the arrest, the arraignment, the detention

  center, the courthouse, the trial, the verdict, the sentence.Keep your fucking

  hands off me, I told you I’d go peacefully!

  Lights flashing in his eyes. A hovereye camera practically touching his nose.

  Viewers around the world enjoying the spectacle. See the famed doer of

  abominations! Watch justice triumph! Death to the enemies of chastity! A jury of

  twelve honest computers and truth.

  Sweartotellthetruththewholetruthnothingbutthetruth. IdoIdoIdoIdo.See the sobbing

  witnesses. Observe their haunted vindictive faces! What memories of obscene

  violations blaze in their souls?Yes, that’s the man, he’s the one! I’d know him

  anywhere. The courtroom silent.Your honor, I ask permission to enter as evidence

  the taped record of the defendant’s intrusion into the home of Maria Alicia

  Rodriguez on the night of— Red lights flickering on the lawyerboard.Objection!

  Objection! Commotion.Denied. Prosecution may proceed.

  On the wallscreen the defendant appears, bent on rape. Had he but known he was

  performing for a camera, he would have been ever so much more stylish about it.

  Up onto the windowledge, hup! Pry the window open. Hands cold; this miserable

  winter weather. Yes. Inside. The trembling victim. And the camera descends to

  get a good view of the action. If they were so concerned about chastity, why did

  they let him consummate the rape? A good question for the victim to ask. But of

  course it was all taped automatically; not till later did anyone realize that

  the hovereye had caught the mad rapist at his trade. White thighs gleaming in

  the moonlight. Wiry black bush, almost blue. Push. Push. Wham!

  Will the defendant please rise. Nathaniel James Hamlin you have heard the

  verdict of your peers. This court now declares you guilty on eleven counts of

  aggravated assault fourteen counts of unsolicited carnal entry five counts of

  third-degree sodomy seven counts of irremediable psychic injury seventeen counts

  of violation of marital propriety seven counts of first-degree illicit proximity

  nine counts of eleven counts of sixteen counts of.

  The sleeper becomes restless. Let us perhaps turn our attention to happier

  times. The artist at work in his splendid studio, cascades of spring sunlight

  pouring through the grand window. Cleverly constructing the armature for the

  latest masterpiece. First comes the all-encompassing vision, you understand, the

  sense of the work as a wholeness, without which it is impossible to begin. This