"That may be possible later."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes. Can you be available tomorrow morning and have Vergil and your uncle available?"

"Sure. You mean-"

"I mean stay there. By the phone. We have to get Claude. It's no good calling the police. Wait by the phone until you hear from me."

"Sure. I will. Are you-"

"What?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. A little tired."

"You sound funny."

"I'm fine."

"Please-"

"What?"

"Take care of yourself."

"I will."

Sure enough, the pajamas are under the pillow. They are silk. The cot is hard but comfortable. The sheets and pillowcase are fresh.

I never slept better. There is something to be said for having no choice in what one does. I felt almost as good as I did in prison in Alabama.

IV.

1. WEDNESDAY MORNING.

Bob Comeaux is striding up and down my cell. He is shaking his head mournfully.

"Son, you blew it. You really blew it."

"How is that, Bob?"

He is on his way to the wedding at Kenilworth and is dressed in a kind of plantation tuxedo, a formal white linen suit with a long-skirted jacket, scarlet cummerbund, ruffled shirt, and scarlet bow tie. He carries a broad-brimmed panama hat. His sideburns seem longer. He looks like an old Howard Keel in a revival of Showboat.

I am sitting at my little desk. He sets his hat on the desk and brushes back his sideburns. He stands over me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Tom, you've not only violated your parole-by trespassing on the shunt compound. Hell, like I told you, we can live with that. But now you've blown your security."

"How is that?"

"We know that you and your friend, Mrs. Lipscomb-Dr. Lipscomb?-have accessed the NIH data bank on Blue Boy. We can't have the cover blown on Blue Boy until we're ready. Think of it as another Manhattan Project."

"All right."

"Now we have reason to believe you're trying to shoot down John Van Dorn. Tom, we can't afford to lose him. He's a bit eccentric, but he's our resident genius."

"He's a pedophile."

"Look, Tom"-Bob Comeaux picks up his hat and, spreading the skirt of his jacket, rests a haunch on my desk- "I know there've been some reports of irregularities in the staff out there. But I've got some news for you."

"Yes?"

"Belle Ame is closing down. Van is on his way to M.I.T. within the month. I knew we couldn't keep him. But we picked his brain while he was here and we've got Blue Boy on track. Exit Dr. Van Dorn. End of chapter. End of problem." He clears his throat. "I would think you of all people, Tom, would be glad of that."

"I am."

"Tell me one thing, Tom." Bob Comeaux puts a hand on my shoulder.

"What?"

"Were your kids molested in any way?"

"No."

"O-kay." He stands up briskly. "Look. I think I see a simple way out of this silly business."

"Yes?"

"Just to show you what we think of you, you old turkey, we're going to convene a little ad hoc meeting of the med-ethics parole board right here, today, in this room, and get this dumb-ass business squared away for once and all."

"Where is Gottlieb?"

"He'll be here. Two o'clock. Okay?"

"Sure."

"We're going to make you a proposition you can't refuse, ha ha."

"What?"

"You know, I think. We want you aboard. We're losing Van Dorn, but if we can sign you on as senior consultant in cortex pharmacology, we'll be ahead of the game."

"And if I don't?"

Bob is holding the panama at arm's length, eyeing it, evening up the brim. "That would be your choice. It would be out of our hands."

"Back to Fort Pelham."

"Look, Tom. Tom, please turn around and look at me."

I turn my chair around and look at him. He has put his hat on and is standing, feet wide apart, hands clasped behind his back.

"Hear this, Tom. I'll make it short and sweet. We're not talking about some bush-league medical project-fluoridating water to cure tooth decay. We're not even talking about curing AIDS. We're not even talking medicine, Tom. We're talking about the decay of the social fabric. The American social fabric. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know-all the way from the destruction of the cities, crime in the streets, demoralization of the underclass, to the collapse of the family. I don't have to tell you this, because you already know. What I'm telling you is that we'll be here at two o'clock and that we need you."

"All right. I'll be here."

He gazes at me, eyes going fine, then laughs. "Well, I'll be damned. Gottlieb said you'd give me static."

"No static. I'll be here."

He looks at me curiously. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You seem-"

"I'm fine."

"Terrific!" He actually claps his hands. "I'll be on my way. A wedding of the daughter of an old friend right down the road. At Kenilworth. Tom, I got news for you. There is still grace, style, beauty, manners, civility left in the world. It's not all gone with the wind. You know who's coming up for the reception? Pete Fountain and his Half Fast Band. And Al Hirt. Both are personal friends of mine. I wish you could join me."

"So do I."

He taps on the door for the guard. When the door opens, he steps out, but then, bethinking himself, steps back and waves me toward him.

"Tom, I want you to see something. Okay, Officer? It's okay, Tom. Just step out here for a second."

Standing on the top deck of the stranded crewboat, we look out over the vast prison farm. Rows of cotton, mostly picked, stretch away into the bright morning sunlight. Hundreds of black men and women, the men bare-chested, the women kerchiefed, bend over the rows, dragging their long sacks collapsed like parachutes. Armed horsemen patrol the levee.

"Listen, Tom," says Bob Comeaux softly.

From all around, as murmurous as the morning breeze, comes the singing.

Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home, "Isn't that something?" Bob Comeaux almost whispers.

"Yes, it is."

"It beats Attica and Sing Sing, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."

"Why do you think they're so content with their lot?"

"I couldn't say."

"Yes, you could, if you thought of it-you of all people, with your knowledge."

"I see."

"They're not only making restitution for their crimes, paying their victims, they're enjoying it. Can you force anyone to sing like that?"

"No."

"I'll tell you another little secret of our success."

"What's that?"

"We allow-ahem-conjugal visits."

"Good."

"Would you believe that some of them don't want to leave and go back to the streets of New Orleans and Baton Rouge when they've served their time?"

"Yes."

"Don't you love those colorful kerchiefs the women wear?"

"Yes."

We shake hands. He holds my hand in a firm grip for a second, gives me a final level-eyed look. He's quite handsome with his long sideburns, handsomer than Howard Keel. "Glad to have you aboard, Doctor. Guard!"

"Yes, sir."

"Lock this fellow up. He's a dangerous character."

2. I CALL ELMO on the desk phone.

"How you doing, Doc?"

"I'm fine, Elmo."

"What can I do for you, Doc?"

"Elmo, I need to get out of here."

Elmo sighs. "I'd like nothing better, Doc. But you know as well as I do we got to hold you for the ATFA. Doc, all you got to do is clear it with that doctor dude from Fedville and he can clear it with the feds."

"I know that. I'm meeting with them this afternoon. But I need to get out now for a while."

"Oh, I got you. No problem, Doc. We got exercise period coming up in a few minutes. You can walk the levee. No problem. It'll do you good."