Having boarded his wheel, Dr Superb started up the feeder-road and presently he was rolling along the autobahn towards San Francisco, still feeling lousy, dreading what he knew to be inevitable: the clash with the authorities which lay directly ahead.

He was not a young man any more. There was too much spare flesh at his midsection; physically, he was too dumpy, almost middle-aged, to be a participant in these events. And he had a bald spot, which his bathroom mirror took pains to disclose to him each morning. Five years ago he had divorced his third wife, Livia, and had not remarried; his career was his life, his family. So what now? It was indisputable that, as the reporting machine had said, today he went to his office for the last time. Fifty million people in North America and Europe would watch, but would this get him a new vocation, a new transcendental goal to replace the old one? No, it would not.

To cheer himself up he picked up the wheel's phone receiver and dialled a prayer.

When he had parked and had walked to his Post Street office he found a small crowd of people and several more reporting machines and a handful of blue-uniformed San Francisco police waiting.

‘Morning,' Dr Superb said to them awkwardly as he ascended the stairs of the building, key in hand. The crowd parted for him. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting morning sunlight spill into the long corridor with its prints by Paul Klee and Kandinsky which he and Dr Buckleman had put up seven years ago when together they had decorated this rather old building.

One of the reporting machines declared. ‘The test will come, TV-viewers, when Dr Superb's first patient of the day arrives.'

The police, at parade rest, waited silently.

Pausing at the doorway before going on into his office, Dr Superb looked back at the people and then said, ‘Nice day.

For October, anyhow.' He tried to think of something more to say, some heroic phrase which would convey the nobility of his sentiments and position. But nothing came to mind.

Perhaps, he decided, it was because there simply was no nobility involved; he was simply doing what he had done five days a week now for years on end and it did not involve any special courage to keep the routine alive one more time. Of course, he would pay for this donkey-like persistence by being arrested; intellectually he knew that, but his body, his lower nervous system, did not. Somatically, he continued along his path.

Someone in the crowd, a woman, called, ‘We're with you, doctor. Good luck.' Several others grinned at him, and a flimsy cheer went up, briefly. The police looked bored. Dr Superb shut the door and went on.

In the front room, at her desk, his receptionist Amanda Conners raised her head and said, ‘Good morning, doctor.'

Her bright red hair glowed, tied by a ribbon, and from her low-cut mohair sweater, her breasts protruded divinely.

‘Morning,' Dr Superb said, pleased to see her here today, and so well-groomed at that. He handed her his coat, which she hung in the closet. ‘Um, who's the first patient?' He lit a mild Florida cigar.

Consulting her book, Amanda said, ‘It's Mr Rugge, doctor. At nine o'clock. That'll give you time for a cup of coffee. I'll fix it.' She quickly started towards the coffee machine in the corner.

‘You know what's going to be happening here in a little while,' Superb said. ‘Don't you?'

‘Oh yes. But the IAPP will provide bail, won't it?' She brought him the small paper cup, carrying it with shaking fingers.

‘I'm afraid this means the end of your job.'

‘Yes.' Mandy nodded, no longer smiling; her large eyes had become dark. ‘I can't understand why der Alte didn't veto that bill; Nicole was against it and so I was sure he would, right up to the last moment. My god, the government's got that time travel equipment; surely they can go ahead and see the harm this'll cause -- the impoverishment to our society.'

‘Maybe they did look ahead.' And he thought, there will be no impoverishment.

The office door opened. There stood the first patient of the day, Mr Gordon Rugge, pale with nervousness.

‘Ah, you came,' Dr Superb said. In fact, Rugge was early.

‘The bastards,' Rugge said. He was a tall, lean man, in his mid-thirties, well dressed; professionally he was a broker on Montgomery Street.

Behind Rugge appeared two plainclothes members of the City Police. They fixed their gaze on Dr Superb, waiting.

The reporting machines extended their hose-like receptors, sucking in data rapidly. For an interval no one moved or spoke.

‘Let's step into my inner office,' Dr Superb said to Mr Rugge. ‘And pick up where we left off last Friday.'

‘You're under arrest,' one of the two plainclothes police said at once. He advanced and handed Dr Superb a folded writ. ‘Come along.' Taking hold of Superb's arm he started to lead him towards the door; the other plainclothes man moved to the other side so that they had Superb between them. It was all done neatly, with no fuss.

To Mr Rugge, Dr Superb said, ‘I'm sorry, Gordon. Obviously there's nothing I can do by way of continuing your therapy.'

‘The rats want me to take drugs,' Rugge said bitterly. ‘And they know that pills make me sick; they're toxic to my particular system.'

‘It is interesting,' one of the reporting machines was murmuring, for the benefit of its TV audience, ‘to observe the loyalty of the analyst's patient. And yet, why not? This man has placed his faith in psychoanalysis possibly for years.'

‘For six years,' Rugge said to it. ‘And I'd go six more, if necessary.'

Amanda Conners began to cry silently into her handkerchief.

As Dr Superb, escorted by both the plainclothes men and the uniformed San Francisco police, was led to the waiting patrol car, the crowd once again gave a meagre cheer of encouragement. But for the most part, Superb observed, they were older people. Remnants from earlier times when psychoanalysis was respected; like himself, part of another era entirely. He wished there were a few youths to be seen, but there were not.

At the police station the thin-faced man in the heavy overcoat, smoking the Bela King handmade Philippine cigar, glanced out the window with flat, cold eyes, consulted his watch, then paced restlessly.

He was just putting out his cigar and preparing to light another when he caught sight of the police car. At once he hurried outside on to the loading platform where the police were preparing to begin processing of the individual in question. ‘Doctor,' he said. ‘I'm Wilder Pembroke. I'd like to talk to you a moment.' He nodded to the police and they fell back, leaving Dr Superb unhanded. ‘Come inside; I've got temporary use of a room on the second floor. This won't take long.'

‘You're not one of the City Police,' Dr Superb said eyeing him acutely. ‘Or perhaps you're NP.' He looked uneasy, now. ‘Yes, that must be it.'

Pembroke, as he led the way to the elevator, said, ‘Just consider me an interested party.' He lowered his voice as a group of police officials passed them. ‘Interested in seeing you back in your office, treating your patients.'

‘You have authority to do that?' Superb asked.

‘I think so.' The elevator came and the two of them entered it. ‘It'll take an hour or so to get you back there, however. Please try to be patient.' Pembroke lit a fresh cigar.

He did not offer one to Superb.

‘May I ask -- what agency you are with?'

‘I told you.' Pembroke felt irritable. ‘You're simply to consider me an interested party; don't you understand?' He glared at Superb, and neither of them spoke again until they had reached the second floor. ‘Sorry to be abrupt,' Pembroke said as they walked down the hall. ‘But I'm very concerned about your arrest. Very disturbed.' He held the door open, and Superb cautiously entered room 209. ‘Of course, I get disturbed rather readily. It's my job, more or less. Just as it's your job not to permit yourself to become emotionally involved.' He smiled, but Dr Superb did not smile back. Too tense for that, Pembroke observed. Superb's reaction fitted the profile contained in the dossier.