"There is snow falling outside. Take it away and whatyou have left is black.""What else?"

"There is slush on the road. When it starts to freeze,traffic will drop to a crawl unless we outrun this storm.The slush looks like an old, dark syrup, just starting toget sugary on top."

"Anything else?"

"That's it, lady."

"Is it snowing harder or less hard than when we leftthe club?"

"Harder, I should say."

"Would you pour me a drink?" she asked him.

"Certainly."

They turned their seats inward and Render raised thetable. He fetched two glasses from the cupboard.

"Your health," said Render, after be had poured.

"Here's looking at you."

Render downed his drink. She sipped hers. He waitedfor her next comment. He knew that two cannot play atthe Socratic game, and he expected more questions before she said what she wanted to say.

She said: "What is the most beautiful thing you haveever seen?"

Yes, he decided, he had guessed correctly.

He replied without hesitation: "The sinking ofAtlantis."

"I was serious."

"So was I."

"Would you care to elaborate?" lt! sank Atlantis," he said, "personally.

"It was about three years ago. And Godi it was lovely!It was all ivory towers and golden minarets and silverbalconies. There were bridges of opal, and crimsonpenants and a milk-white river flowing between lemoncolored banks. There were jade steeples, and trees as oldas the world tickling the bellies of clouds, and ships inthe great sea-harbor of Xanadu, as delicately constructedas musical instruments, all swaying with the tides. Thetwieve princes of the realm held court in the dozenpillared Colliseum of the Zodiac, to listen to a Greektenor sax play at sunset

"The Greek, of course, was a patient of mine—paranoiac. The etiology of the thing is rather complicated,but that's what I wandered into inside his mind. I gavehim free rein for awhile, and in the end I had to splitAtlantis in half and sink it full fathom five. He's playingagain and you've doubtless beard his sounds, if you likesuch sounds at all. He's good. I still see him periodically,but he is no longer the last descendent of the greatestminstrel of Atlantis. He's just a fine, late twentiethcentury saxman.

"Sometimes though, as I look back on the apocalypseI worked within his vision of grandeur, I experience afleeting sense of lost beauty—because, for a single moment, his abnormally intense feelings were my feelings,and he felt that his dream was the most beautiful thingin the world."

He refilled their glasses.

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," she said.

"I know."

"I meant something real."

"It was more real than real, I assure you.'*

"I don't doubt it, but..."

"—But I destroyed the foundation you were layingfor your argument. Okay, I apologize. I'll hand it backto you. Here's something that could be real:

"We are moving along the edge of a great bowl ofsand," he said. "Into it, the snow is gently drifting. Inthe spring the snow will melt, the waters will run downinto the earth, or be evaporated away by the heat of thesun. Then only the sand will remain. Nothing grows in thesand, except for an occasional cactus. Nothing lives herebut snakes, a few birds, insects, burrowing things, and awandering coyote or two. In the afternoon these thingswill look for shade. Any place where there's an old fencepost or a rock or a skull or a cactus to block out the sun,there you will witness life cowering before the elements.But the colors are beyond belief, and the elements aremore lovely, almost, than the things they destroy."

"There is no such place near here," she said.

"If I say it, then there is. Isn't there? I've seen if

"Yes ... you're right."

"And it doesn't matter if it's a painting by a womannamed O'Keefe, or something right outside our window,does it? If I've seen it?"

"I acknowledge the truth of the diagnosis," she said."Do you want to speak it for me?"

"No, go ahead."

He refilled the small glasses once more."The damage is in my eyes," she told him, "not mybrain."

He lit her cigarette.

"I can see with other eyes if I can enter other brains."

He lit his own cigarette.

"Neuroparticipation is based upon the fact that twonervous systems can share the same impulses, the samefantasies. .. ."

"Controlled fantasies."

"I could perform therapy and at the same time experience genuine visual impressions."

"No," said Render.

"You don't know what it's like to be cut off from awhole area of stimuli! To know that a Mongoloid idiotcan experience something you can never know—and thathe cannot appreciate it because, like you, he was condemned before birth in a court of biological hapstance, -in a place where there is no justice—only fortuity, pureand simple."

"The universe did not invent justice. Man did. Unfortunately, man must reside in the universe."

"I'm not asking the universe to help me—I'm askingyou.'*

"I'm sorry," said Render.

"Why won't you help me?"

"At this moment you are demonstrating my main reason."

"Which is .. .T

"Emotion. This thing means far too much to you. Whenthe therapist is in-phase with a patient he is narcoelectrically removed from most of his own bodily sensations. This is necessary—because his mind must becompletely absorbed by the task at hand. It is also necessary that his emotions undergo a similar suspension.This, of course, is impossible in the one sense that a person always emotes to some degree. But the therapist'semotions are sublimated into a generalized feeling ofexhilaration—or, as in my own case, into an artistic reverie. With you, however, the 'seeing' would be too much.You would be in constant danger of losing control of thedream."

"I disagree with you."

"Of course you do. But the fact remains that you wouldbe dealing, and dealing constantly, with me abnormal.

The power of a neurosis is unimaginable to ninety-ninepoint etcetera percent of the population, because we cannever adequately judge the intensity of our own—letalone those of others, when we only see them from theoutside. That is why no neuroparticipant will ever undertake to treat a full-blown psychotic. The few pioneers inthat area are all themselves in therapy today. It wouldbe like diving into a maelstrom. If the therapist loses theupper hand in an intense session, he becomes the Shapedrather than the Shaper. The synapses respond like a fission reaction when nervous impulses are artificially augmented. The transference effect is almost instantaneous.

"I did an awful lot of skiing five years ago. This is because I was a claustrophobe. I had to run and it took mesix months to beat the thing—all because of one tinylapse that occurred in a measureless fraction of an instant.I had to refer the patient to another therapist. And thiswas only a •minor repercussion. —If you were to go gaga over the scenery, girl, you could wind up in a resthome for life."

She finished her drink and Render refilled the glass.The night raced by. They had left the city far behindthem, and the road was open and clear. The darknesseased more and more of itself between the falling flakes.The Spinner picked up speed.

"AH right," she admitted, "maybe you're right. Still,though, I think you can help me."

"How?" he asked.

"Accustom me to seeing, so that the images will losetheir novelty, the emotions wear off. Accept me as a patient and rid me of my sight-anxiety. Then what you havesaid so far will cease to apply. I will be able to undertakethe training then, and give my full attention to therapy.I'll be able to sublimate the sight-pleasure into somethingelse."

Render wondered.

Perhaps it could be done. It would be a difficult undertaking, though.