He paused to dispose of his cigar and formulate hisnext words.

"Autopsychomimesis," he thought aloud, "a selfperpetuated imitation complex—almost an attentiongetting affair. —A jazzman, for example, who actedhopped-up half the time, even though he had never usedan addictive narcotic and only dimly remembered anyone who had—because all the stimulants and tranquilizersof today are quite benign. Like Quixote, he aspired aftera legend when his music alone should have been sufficientoutlet for his tensions.

"Or my Korean War Orphan, alive today by virtue ofthe Red Cross and UNICEF and foster parents whom henever met. He wanted a family so badly that be madeone up. And what then?—He hated his imaginary fatherand be loved his imaginary mother quite dearly—for hewas a highly intelligent boy, and he too longed after thehalf-true complexes of tradition. Why?

"Today, everyone is sophisticated enough to understand the time-honored patterns of psychic disturbance.Today, many of the reasons for those disturbances havebeen removed—not as radically as my now-adult warorphan's, but with as remarkable an effect We are livingin a neurotic past. —Again, why? Because our presenttimes are geared to physical health, security and wellbeing. We have abolished hunger, though the backwoodsorphan would still rather receive a package of food concentrates from a human being who cares for him than toobtain a warm meal from an automat unit in the middleof the jungle.

"Physical welfare is now every man's right in excess.The reaction to this has occurred in the area of mentalhealth. Thanks to technology, the reasons for many of theold social problems have passed, and along with themwent many of the reasons for psychic distress. But between the black of yesterday and the white of tomorrowis the great gray of today, filled with nostalgia and fear ofthe future, which cannot be expressed on a purely material plane, is now being represented by a willful seekingafter historical anxiety-modes...."

The phone-box buzzed briefly. Render did not hear itover the Eighth.

"We are afraid of what we do not know," he continued,"and tomorrow is a very great unknown. My own specialized area of psychiatry did not even exist thirty years ago.Science is capable of advancing itself so rapidly now thatthere is a genuine public uneasiness—I might even say'distress'—as to the logical outcome: the total mechanization of everything in the world... ."

He passed near the desk as the phone buzzed again.He switched off his microphone and softened the Eighth.

"Hello?"

"Saint Moritz," she said.

"Davos," he replied firmly.

"Charlie, you are most exasperatingi"

"Jill, dear—so are you."

"Shall we discuss it tonight?"

"There is nothing to discussi"

"You'll pick me up at five, though?"

He hesitated, then:

"Yes, at five. How come the screen is blank?"

"I've had my hair fixed. I'm going to surprise youagain."

He suppressed an idiot chuckle, said, "Pleasantly, Ihope. Okay, see you then," waited for her "good-bye,"and broke the connection.

He transpared the windows, turned off the light on hisdesk, and looked outside.

Gray again overhead, and many slow flakes of snow—wandering, not being blown about much—moving downward and then losing themselves in the tumult... .

He also saw, when he opened the window and leanedout, the place off to the left where Irizarry had left hisnext-to-last mark on the world.

He closed the window and listened to the rest of thesymphony. It had been a week since he had gone blind-spuming with Eileen. Her appointment was for oneo'clock, He remembered her fingertips brushing over his face,like leaves, or the bodies of insects, learning his appearance in the ancient manner of the blind. The memorywas not altogether pleasant. He wondered why.

Far below, a patch of hosed pavement was blank onceagain; under a thin, fresh shroud of white, it was slipperyas glass. A building custodian hurried outside and spreadsalt on it, before someone slipped and hurt himself.

Sigmund was the myth of Fenria come alive. AfterRender had instructed Mrs. Hedges, "Show them in," thedoor had begun to open, was suddenly pushed wider, anda pair of smoky-yellow eyes stared in at him. The eyeswere set in a strangely misshapen dog-skull.

Sigmund's was not a low canine brow, slanting upslightly from the muzzle; it was a high, shaggy craniummaking the eyes appear even more deep-set than theyactually were. Render shivered slightly at the size andaspect of that head. The muties he had seen had all beenpuppies. Sigmund was full-grown, and his gray-black furhad a tendency to bristle, which^nade him appear somewhat larger than a normal specimen of the breed.

He stared in at Render in a very un-doglike way andmade a growling noise which sounded too much like,"Hello, doctor," to have been an accident.

Render nodded and stood.

"Hello, Sigmund," he said. "Come in."

The dog turned his head, sniffing the air of the room—as though deciding whether or not to trust his ward withinits confines. Then he returned his stare to Render, dippedhis head in an affirmative, and shouldered the door open.Perhaps the entire encounter had taken only one disconcerting second.

Eileen followed him, holding lightly to the doubleleashed harness. The dog padded soundlessly across thethick rug—head low, as though he were stalking something. His eyes never left Render's.

"So this is Sigmund ... ? How are you, Eileen?"

"Fine. —Yes, he wanted very badly to come along, andI wanted you to meet him."

Render led her to a chair and seated her. She un-snapped the double guide from the dog's harness andplaced it on the floor. Sigmimd sat down beside it andcontinued to stare at Render.

"How is everything at State Psych?""Same as always. —May I bum a cigarette, doctor? Iforgot mine."

He placed it between her fingers, furnished a light.She was wearing a dark blue suit and her glasses wereflame blue. The silver spot on her forehead reflected theglow of his lighter; she continued to stare at that point inspace after he had withdrawn his hand. Her shoulderlength hair appeared a trifle lighter than it had seemed onthe night they met; today it was like a fresh-minted copper coin.

Render seated himself on the corner of his desk, drawing up his world-ashtray with his toe.

"You told me before that being blind did not meanthat you had never seen. I didn't ask you to explain itthen. But I'd like to ask you now."

"I had a neuroparticipation session with Doctor Riscomb," she told him, "before he had his accident. Hewanted to accommodate my mind to visual impressions.Unfortunately, there was never a second session.""I see. What did you do in that session?"She crossed her ankles and Render noted they werewell-turned.

"Colors, mostly. The experience was quite overwhelming."

"How well do you remember them? How long ago wasit?"

"About six months ago—and I shall never forget them.I have even dreamed in color patterns since then.""How often?""Several times a week.""What sort of associations do they carry?""Nothing special. They just come into my mind alongwith other stimuli now—in a pretty haphazard way.""How?"

"Well, for instance, when you ask me a question it's asort of yellowish-orangish pattern that I 'see'. Your greeting was a kind of silvery thing- Now that you're just sittingthere listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you witha deep, almost violet, blue."Sigmund shifted his gaze to the desk and stared at theside panel.

Can he hear the recorder spinning inside? wonderedRender. And if he can, can he guess what it is and whatit's doing?

If so, the dog would doubtless tell Eileen—not that shewas unaware of what was now an accepted practice—and she might not like being reminded that he consideredher case as therapy, rather than a mere mechanical adaptation process. If he thought it would do any good (hesmiled inwardly at the notion), be would talk to the dogin private about it Inwardly, he shrugged.