The apartment was large, its walls pretty much un- adorned, its color combinations unnerving. A great library of tapes filled one corner; a monstrous combination- broadcaster stood beside it. There was a wide bow- legged table set in front of the window, and a low couch along the right-hand wall; there was a closed door beside the couch: an archway to the left apparently led to other rooms. Eileen sat in an overstuffed chair in the far corner by the window. Sigmund stood beside the chair.

Render crossed the room and extracted a cigarette from his case. Snapping open his lighter, he held the flame until her head turned in that direction.

"Cigarette?" he asked.

"Charles?"

"Right."

99.

"Yes, thank you. I will."

She held out her hand, accepted the cigarette, put it to her lips.

"Thanks. -What are you doing here?"

"Social call. I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"I didn't hear a buzz or a knock."

"You must have been dozing. Sig let me in."

"Yes, I must have." She stretched. "What time is it?"

"It's close to four-thirty."

"I've been home over two hours then. . . . Must have been very tired. .. "

"How do you feel now?"

"Fine," she declared. "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"A steak to go with it?"

"No, thanks."

"Bacardi in the coffee?"

"Sounds good."

"Excuse me, then. It'll only take a moment."

She went through the door beside the sofa and Render caught a glimpse of a large, shiny, automatic kitchen.

"Well?" he whispered to the dog.

Sigmund shook his head.

"Not same."

Render shook his head.

He deposited his coat on the sofa, folding it carefully about the medkit. He sat beside it and thought.

Did I throw too big a chunk of seeing at once? Is she suffering from depressive side-effects-say, memory re- pressions, nervous fatigue? Did I upset her sensory- adaptation syndrome somehow? Why have I been pro~ ceeding so rapidly anyway? There's no real hurry. Am I so damned eager to write the thing up?-Or am I doing it because she wants me to? Could she be that strong, consciously or unconsciously? Or am I that vulnerable- somehow?

She called him to the kitchen to carry out the tray. He set it on the table and seated himself across from her.

"Good coffee," he said, burning his lips on the cup.

"Smart machine," she stated, facing his voice.

Sigmund stretched out on the carpet next to the table, lowered his head between his forepaws, sighed and closed his eyes.

"I've been wondering," said Render, "whether or not

100 .

there were any after effects to that last session-like in- creased synesthesiac experiences, or dreams involving forms, or hallucinations or . . ."

"Yes," she said flatly, "dreams."

"What kind?"

"That last session. I've dreamed it over, and over."

"Beginning to end?"

"No, there's no special order to the events. We're riding through the city, or over the bridge, or sitting at the table, or walking toward the car-just flashes, like that. Vivid ones."

"What sort of feelings accompany these-flashes?"

"I don't know, they're all mixed up."

"What are your feelings now, as you recall them?"

"The same, all mixed up."

"Are you afraid?"

"N-no. I don't think so."

"Do you want to take a vacation from the thing? Do you feel we've been proceeding too rapidly?"

"No. That's not it at all. It's-well, it's like learning to swim. When you finally learn how, why then you swim and you swim and you swim until you're all exhausted.

Then you just lie there gasping in air and remembering what it was like, while your friends all hover and chew you out for overexerting yourself-and it's a good feeling, even though you do take a chill and there are pins and needles inside all your muscles. At least, that's the way I do things. I felt that way after the first session and after this last one. First Times are always very special times. . . . The pins and the needles are gone, though, and I've caught my breath again. Lord, I don't want to stop now! I feel fine."