hits you like a bolt of lightning, if it comes any other way, don’t trust it.

  Afterward it’s just plonking drudgery, a lot of soldering. I wouldn’t bother

  except that I have to. It’s the first moment, the white light falling out of

  heaven, that makes it all worthwhile.

  But of course any shithead phony can say he has inspirations. Can he realize

  them? I can. You build the armature, see, which means you have to crap around

  with relays and solenoids and connectors and power-shunts and gate-nexuses and

  such. You calculate the atmospherics you want; a computer gives you the

  ionization tables, but then you have to make the corrections yourself,

  intuitively. You do the lighting. Then you put the skin on. Throughout the whole

  business you never lose sight of the initial impulse, which is, item one, a

  matter of form, of the actual goddam shape of the piece, and, item two, a matter

  of psychological insight, of the particular movement of the spirit you mean to

  express. Now you know as much about my working methods as I do. You want to know

  more, buy one of my pieces and take it apart.

  The scene changes. At the gallery now, we are watching the elite of the art

  world scrambling to buy his 2002 output; that was the year of the phallic

  miniatures, they walk, they talk, they jerk off, eight grand apiece, every

  distinguished creator is entitled to have his little black jest. Sold like

  hotcakes. Better than hotcakes: did you ever buy a hotcake in your life? The

  hotcake market is extremely depressed these days.

  Macy, slumbering, maybe even snoring, makes desperate mental notes. I must

  remember all this when I wake up. This is my genuine past, accept no

  substitutes. Is Hamlin sending all this stuff up by way of making friendly

  overtures to me, or is he trying to torment me? In any event, more. More, he

  cried, give me more! So more. Look at the world through a madman’s eyes. Take

  the hallucinogenic trip for free. Breathe in, breathe out, turn on,tilt! What

  are those streaks spanning the sky? That cockeyed rainbow, black, green,

  turquoise, gray, purple, white. And what colors do you see when your eyes are

  closed? The same. The very same.

  Why is there so much pressure in the groin? You can feel the pulsations, the

  throbbings. It’s like being sixteen all over again. You want to plant it fast,

  you want to pump yourself dry. Insatiable. But only in strange and reluctant

  cunts. Why is that? Can you offer a rational explanation? Ha. Time to prowl the

  winter streets. A tightness in the ass, a dryness in the throat. Your own sweet

  wifey willing to come across for you, any time, any place, and the same is true

  of a myriad of others, hot available Lissa, so why endanger yourself in this

  fashion? But danger defines the man. I climb these peaks because they’re here.

  Do you realize, though, that you’re out of your mind? Naturally I do.Will the

  defendant please rise. Nathaniel James Hamlin you have heard the verdict of your

  peers. There, you see the risks? You know what those bastards can do to you?

  Sure I know. I accept the risks. Let them do their worst.It is the decision of

  this court that the identity known as Nathaniel James Hamlin having been found

  guilty of repeated and numerous instances of intolerably antisocial activity and

  having been declared an incurable and incorrigible sociopathic menace by a

  properly constituted panel of authorities shall be withdrawn permanently from

  access to society and shall be at once expunged under the provisions of the

  Federal Social Rehabilitation Act of 2001 and that in accordance with the terms

  of that act the physical container as legally defined of the proscribed identity

  be reconstructed and returned to society at the earliest possible time.

  Let me have your left arm, please, Mr. Hamlin. No, this isn’t a needle, it’s an

  ultrasonic injector, you won’t feel a thing. How long will it be before it takes

  effect? Oh, you’ll sense some effects almost immediately, I’d say, as the

  short-term memory processes begin to break down. The left arm, now? Thank you.

  There. See how easy it was? We’ll be back in ten hours to begin the next

  phase.What is my name? Who am I? Why are they doing this to me? Now the right

  arm, please, Mr. Hamlin.Who? Mr. Hamlin. That’s you, Nathaniel Hamlin.Oh. The

  right arm, please? No, it’s not a needle, it’s an ultrasonic injector, just like

  the last one. You don’t remember the last one? Well, of course, I should have

  realized that. Here we go!They’re washing away my mind! No no no no no no no no

  no no no no

  At the office the next afternoon Hamlin, who had not been heard from in any

  overt way for almost two full days, made another attempt at seizing the speech

  centers of Macy’s brain. He chose his moment carefully. Late in the day; Macy

  trying for the tenth or twelfth time to tape his commentary for the evening

  news; inner tensions high.

  The words weren’t flowing and the tones were thorny. He was covering the

  presumed assassination of the Croatian prime minister, a particularly nasty

  incident: a gang of monadist radicals had kidnapped the man a week ago and,

  spiriting him away to an illegal mindpick laboratory thought to be located

  somewhere in the Caucasus, had subjected him to an intensive three-day

  personality deconstruct that had wholly obliterated his identity. His soulless

  shell had been picked up during the night in Istanbul and was now in Zagreb,

  where platoons of neurologists now were converging in the hope of summoning back

  his eradicated self. Scarcely any chance of success, according to a British

  authority on deconstruct techniques. If an identity is taken apart properly,

  there’s no known way of reassembling it. All the king’s horses and all the

  king’s men, and so forth. A bad show.

  When the story had started to come off the pipe around lunchtime, Macy had

  instantly volunteered to handle it. He felt he had to prove to his colleagues

  that he did not need to be sheltered against references to deconstructs and

  reconstructs, rehabilitation work, and related matters. But it was proving

  unexpectedly difficult for him to carry out the assignment. The story was full

  of lumpy Croatian names that refused to cross his tongue in the right order of

  syllables. Moreover, he was more sensitive to the theme of the incident than he

  had realized; he burst into uneasy sweats at odd moments while reading his

  script, usually around the place where he was doing the lead-in to the statement

  from the London neurologist.

  Take it slow, the platform monitor kept calling out to him. You’re pressing,

  Paul. Just go easy and let the words slide out. Everybody was being kind to him,

  again. A whole taping crew immobilized here for well over an hour while he

  blundered and staggered his way through an infinity of faulty takes. Take it

  slow, take it slow.

  This time he thought he had it. The polysyllabic names all safely taped. The

  intricate explication of Balkan politics handled without calamity. For the first

  time this afternoon, a single usable take covering ninety percent of the script.

  Now to clinch things: “This morning in London, we spoke with the celebrated

  British brain expert Varnum Skillings, whovdrkh cmpm gzpzp vdrkh— ”

  “Cut!”

  “Shqkm. Vtpkp. Smss! Grgg!”

  People rushing toward him from all sides of the studio. His skull ablaze. Eyes

  unfocused. Macy knew precisely what had happened, and after the first

  instinctive moment of terror he began to take counteroffensive action. Just as

  he had on Tuesday, he labored to pry Hamlin’s mental grip loose. There was a

  complicating factor here, the public nature of his fit, the disturbed colleagues

  fluttering around him, asking him things, loosening his collar, otherwise

  distracting him. And the feeling of calamity that came over him at the

  realization that he had suffered this upheaval in front of everybody, exposed

  himself thoroughly as too sick to hold this job. Brushing aside those matters,

  he worked on Hamlin. The devil had bided his time, collected his strength, made

  his try when Macy was least prepared for it. All the same, Macy was more

  powerful. He had the leverage that controlling the body’s main neural trunks

  provided. Back, you fucker! Back! Back! Let go!

  Hamlin let go. Foiled again.

  Macy’s vision returned and he found himself staring into the agitated onyx face

  of Loftus. Asking him over and over what had happened, was he all right, should

  they send for a doctor, an ambulance, get him a drink, a gold.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. Voice like corroded copper.

  “You sounded so weird just then—and your face was so twisted up—”

  “I said I’d be all right.” Normal tone returning.

  No one must know. No one.

  The platform monitor, Smith, Jones, some name like that, coming up to him. “We

  got a nearly perfect take, Macy. If you’d like to rest a while, and then you can

  do the finale for us—no problem to splice it—”

  “We’ll do it now,” said Macy.

  No one must know.

  The camera crew returning to places. Confusion defused. Macy, alone under the

  lights, swaying a little, searched his mind for Hamlin, could not find him,

  decided that he really had succeeded once again in thwarting a takeover.

  Nevertheless, he would keep on guard. If it happened again under the cameras

  he’d be in trouble. No room in this organization for newsmen who throw fits at

  unpredictable moments.

  “Roll it,” said Jones or Smith.

  “This morning in London,” Macy said smoothly, “we spoke with the celebrated

  British brain expert Varnum Skillings, who gave us this assessment of the

  situation.”

  “Cut,” said Smith or Jones.

  Macy smiled. Almost home free, now. The platform monitor gave the signal. Macy

  delivered the final line. Done. Sighs of relief. People trooping out. Low

  whispers, everyone no doubt talking about his creepy paroxysm.

  Let them talk. I beat him down again, didn’t I? He loses every time.

  For once Macy thought it might be almost tolerable to have Hamlin alive within

  him. Hamlin was the perpetual challenge that defined him. Every man needs a

  nemesis. He arises, I smite him. He arises again, I smite again. And so we go on

  together through the busy, happy days. He gives me texture and density. With

  him, I am a man with a unique affliction; I carry tragicangst. Without him I

  would be a shadow. And so we are comfortable with one another. Until the time

  when the pattern of testing, of thrust and parry, is broken. Until he conquers

  me. Or I him. When it comes, it will come with one quick sudden triumphant

  thrust, and one of us will succumb. He? I? We’ll see. Home, now. A long wearying

  day.

  NINE

  LISSA wasn’t there. He looked through the apartment with great care,

  methodically passing several times from one room to the other and quickly

  doubling back, as though she might be slipping invisibly through the door just

  ahead of him; but no, she wasn’t anywhere around. He checked the bathroom and

  the closets. Her things were still hanging helterskelter among his. Not gone

  permanently, then. A note from her? No, nothing. Might have gone out to take a

  walk. Or to buy some groceries for dinner. At this hour, though? Knowing he

  always came home punctually? Briefly alarmed, he searched the place once again,

  looking now for traces of violence. No. A mystery, then.

  She had her own key, and he had reprogrammed the thumbplate safety latch to

  accept her fingerprint; she could come and go as she pleased. But she should

  have been on hand when he arrived. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t. What

  now? Notify the police? There was this girl, officer, she’s been living with me

  since Tuesday night, she wasn’t home when I returned from work, I wonder if

  you—No. Hardly. Ask the neighbors if they had seen her? No. Go out and look for

  her in the local shops? No. Search for her at her own apartment? Maybe. Do

  nothing, stay here, wait for her to show up? Maybe. For the time being, yes.

  Give her an hour, two hours. She has her moods. Maybe she went to a show.

  Feeling tense, just went off by herself. Odd that there’s no note, anyway.

  He showered, put on his worn dressing gown, poured himself a little cream sherry

  to blunt the edge of his appetite. Getting later all the time. Half past six, no

  Lissa. Worry mounting in him, They had not, in the course of constructing him at

  the Rehab Center, prepared him to handle this sort of situation. He reviewed the

  possible options. Police. Local shops. Her apartment. Neighbors. Sit and wait.

  No tactic seemed adequate.

  Out of the silence, the voice of the serpent:

  —Don’t worry about her.

  Right now, in his jangled state, even the presence of Hamlin was a comfort. His

  other self had spoken in a casual, easy way; no challenge, at the moment, merely

  conversation. Macy was grateful for the muted approach. He wondered how to be

  properly hospitable. Offer Hamlin some sherry? A gold? Sit down, Nat, make

  yourself at home. An impulse of lunatic sociability.

  I can’t help worrying,Macy said.

  —She can look after herself.

  Can she, though?

  —I know her better than you.

  You haven’t had anything to do with her for almost five years. She’s unstable,

  Hamlin. I don’t like the idea of her wandering off by herself this way.

  —She probably felt she needed some fresh air. Bad telepathic vibrations bouncing

  off the walls in here, isn’t that what she told you? Getting her down. So she

  went out.

  Without leaving a note?

  —Lissa doesn’t leave notes much. Lissa’s not awfully big on responsibility.

  Relax, Macy.

  That’s easy enough to say.

  —You know, maybe she walked out for good. Sick of us both, maybe. All the

  tension and brawling.

  Her things are still here, though,Macy pointed out. Grasping at straws. Lissa!

  Lissa!

  —That wouldn’t matter to her. Abandoned possessions fall from her like dandruff.

  Hey, cheer up, will you? The worst that can happen is that you won’t ever see

  her again. Which maybe would be not such a terrible thing.

  You’d like it a lot, wouldn’t you?

  —What’s it to me?

  You don’t want me to have anything to do with her. You’re jealous because I’m

  alive and you’re not. Because I have her and you don’t.

  Robust interior chuckles bubbling in the brain. Derisive guffaws echoing through

  the involuted corridors.

  —You’re such a prick, Macy.

  Can you deny what I said?

  —What you said had more nonsense per square inch than is allowed under present

  brain-pollution laws.

  For example?

  —Where you say you “have” Lissa. Nobody “has” Lissa, ever. Lissa floats. Lissa

  drifts in a private orbit. Lissa lives inside a sealed airtight glass cage. She

  doesn’t involve herself with other people. She spends time with them, yes, she

  talks with them, she fucks them sometimes, but she doesn’t surrender anything

  that’s real to her.

  She involved herself with you.

  —That was different. She loved me. The great exception in her life. But she

  doesn’t love you or anybody else, herself included. You’re fooling yourself if

  you think you mean anything to her.

  How can you claim to know so much about her when you haven’t seen her in five

  years?

  —I’ve had all this week to watch her too, haven’t I? That girl is very sick.

  This ESP thing is pulling her apart. She thinks she has to be alone in order to

  keep the voices out of her head. She can’t give herself to anybody for long; she

  has to retreat, pull back, sink into herself. Otherwise she hurts too much. So

  you mustn’t be surprised that she’s walked out. It was inevitable. Believe me,

  Macy, I’m telling the truth.

  A strange note of sincerity in Hamlin’s tone. As if he’s trying to protect me

  from a troublesome entanglement, Macy thought. As if he’s got my welfare at

  heart. Curious.

  Seven o’clock, now. No Lissa. Another sherry. Feet up on the hassock. Feeling

  almost relaxed, despite everything. Hardly even hungry. A slight headache. Where

  is she? She can look after herself. She can look after herself.

  —Have you done any further thinking about the proposal I made?

  What proposal?

  —On Tuesday, in the museum. That you go away and let me have my body back.

  You know the answer to that one.

  —You’re being unreasonable, Macy. I mean, look at it objectively. You may think

  you exist, but you actually don’t. You’re a construct. You don’t have any more