She bated getting up, but once she did she would permit the day to begin and continue on without lapsethrough its orderly progression of events.

"Damn him," she smiled. She had wanted her breakfast in bed, but it was too late now.

Between thoughts as to what she would wear, she observed an alien pair of skis standing in the corner. Asheet of paper was impaled on one. She approached it.

"Join me?" asked the scrawl.

She shook her head in an emphatic negative andfelt somewhat sad. She had been on skis twice in herlife and she was afraid of them. She felt that she shouldreally try again, after his being a reasonably good sportabout the chateaux, but she could not even bear the memory of the unseemly downward'rushing—which, OD twooccasions, had promptly deposited her in a snowbank—without wincing and feeling once again the vertigo thathad seized her during the attempts.

So she showered and dressed and went downstairs forbreakfast.

All nine fires were already roaring as she passed thebig hall and looked inside. Some red-faced skiers wereholding their hands up before the blaze of the centralhearth. It was not crowded though. The racks held onlya few pairs of dripping boots, bright caps hung on pegs,moist skis stood upright in their place beside the door. Afew people were seated in the chairs set further backtoward the center "of the hall, reading papers, smoking,or talking quietly. She saw no one she knew, so shemoved on toward the dining room.

As she passed the registration desk the old man whoworked there called out her name. She approached himand smiled.

"Letter," he explained, turning to a .rack. "Here itis," he announced, handing it to her. "Looks important."

It had been forwarded three times, she noted. It was abulky brown envelope, and the return address was thatof her attorney.

"Thank you."

She moved off to a seat beside the big window thatlooked out upon a snow garden, a skating rink, and adistant winding trail dotted with figures carrying skisover their shoulders. She squinted against the brightnessas she tore open the envelope.

Yes, it was final. Her attorney's note was accompaniedby a copy of the divorce decree. She had only recentlydecided to end her legal relationship to Mister Fotlock,whose name she had stopped using five years earlier,when they had separated. Now that she had the thing shewasn't sure exactly what she was going to do with it. Itwould be a hell of a surprise for dear Rendy, though, shedecided. She would have to find a reasonably innocentway of getting the information to him. She withdrew hercompact and practiced a "Well?" expression. Well, therewould be time for that later, she mused. Not too muchlater, though ... Her thirtieth birthday, like a huge blackcloud, filled an April but four months distant. Well ...She touched her quizzical lips with color, dusted morepowder over her mole, and locked the expression withinher compact for future use.

In the dining room she saw Doctor Bartelmetz, seatedbefore an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, greatchains of dark sausages, several heaps of yellow toast,and a half-emptied flask of orange juice. A pot of coffeesteamed on the wanner at his elbow. He leaned slightlyforward as he ate, wielding his fork like a windmill blade.

"Good morning," she said.

He looked up.

"Miss DeVille—Jill ... Good morning." He noddedat the chair across from him. "Join me, please."

She did so, and when the waiter approached shenodded and said, "I'll have the same thing, only aboutninety percent less."

She turned back to Bartelmetz.

"Have you seen Charles today?"

"Alas, I have not," he gestured, open-handed, "and Iwanted to continue our discussion while his mind wasstill in the early stages of wakefulness and somewhatmalleable. Unfortunately," he took a sip of coffee, "hewho sleeps well enters the day somewhere in the middleof its second act."

"Myself, I usually come in around intermission andask someone for a synopsis," she explained. "So why notcontinue the discussion with me?—I'm always malleable,and my skandhas are in good shape."

Their eyes met, and he took a bite of toast."Aye," he said, at length, "I had guessed as much.Well—good. What do you know of Render's work?"She adjusted herself ia the chair.

"Mm. He being a special specialist in a highly specialized area, I find it difficult to appreciate the few things hedoes say about it. I'd like to be able to look inside otherpeople's minds sometimes—to see what they're thinkingabout me, of course—but I don't think I could stand staying there very long. Especially," she gave a mockshudder, "the mind of somebody with—problems. I'mafraid I'd be too sympathetic or too frightened or something. Then, according to what I've read—powl—likesympathetic magic, it would be my problem.

"Charles never has problems though," she continued,"at least, none that he speaks to me about. LatelyI've been wondering, though. That blind girl and hertalking dog seem to be too much with him."'Talking dog?"

"Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mutants."

"How interesting.... Have you ever met her?""Never.""So," he mused.

"Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whoseproblems are so akin to his own that the sessions becomeextremely mordant," he noted. "It has always been thecase with me when I treat a fellow-psychiatrist. PerhapsCharles sees in this situation a parallel to something whichhas been 'troubling him personally. I did not administerhis personal analysis. I do not know all the ways of hismind, even though he was a pupil of mine for a longwhile. He was always self-contained, somewhat reticent; he could be quite authoritative on occasion, however.—What are some of the other things which occupy hisattention these days?"

"His son Peter is a constant concern. He's changed theboy's school five times in five years."

Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin anddrew her chair closer to the table.

"And he has been reading case histories of suicidesrecently, and talking about them, and talking aboutthem, and talking about them."

"To what end?"

She shrugged and began eating.

"He never mentioned why," she said, looking up again."Maybe he's writing something...."

Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee,

"Are you afraid of this patient of his?" he inquired.

"No .. . Yes," she responded, "I am."

"Why?"

"I am afraid of sympathetic magic," she said, flushingslightly.

"Many things could fall under that heading."

"Many indeed," she acknowledged. And, after a moment, "We are united in our concern for his welfare andin agreement as to what represents the threat. So, mayI ask a favor?"

"You may."

"Talk to him again," she said. "Persuade him to dropthe case."

He folded his napkin.

"I intend to do that after dinner," he stated, "becauseI believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions.They shall be made."

Dear Father-Image, Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting thatway, and my classmates are a congenial lot. No, Iam not short on cash, undernourished, or havingdifficulty fitting into the new curriculum. Okay?

The building I will not describe, as you have already seen the macabre thing. The grounds I cannotdescribe, as they are currently residing beneath coldwhite sheets. Brr! I trust yourself to be enjoying thearts wint'rish. I do not share your enthusiasm forsummer's opposite, except within picture frames oras an emblem on ice-cream bars.

The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommatehas gone home for the weekend—both of which arereally blessings (saitb Pangloss), for I now have theopportunity to catch up on some reading. I will doso forthwith.

Prodigally,Peter Render reached down to pat the huge head. It acceptedthe gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Austrian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say,"Must I endure this indignity?" The man laughed at theexpression, snapping shut the engraved lighter on whichRender noted the middle initial to be a small 'v.*