“I understand,” Goldstream said, “that the U.S. Department of Mental Health is on the verge of asking the Justice Department to pick up the Mercerites.”

Suddenly he swung to face camera two. A faint smile touched his face and he said smoothly, “Gray-green began about four years ago, in Pinole, California, at the now justly-famous Double Shot Club where Ray Meritan played, back in 1993 and ‘4. Tonight, Ray will let us hear one of his best known and liked numbers, Once in Love with Amy.” He swung in Meritan’s direction. “Ray… Meritan!”

Plunk-plunk, the harp went as Ray Meritan’s fingers riffled the strings.

An object lesson, he thought as he played. That’s what the FBI would make me into for the teenagers, to show them what not to grow up to be. First on Paracodein, now on Mercer. Beware, kids!

Off camera, Glen Goldstream held up a sign he had scribbled.

Underneath this, Goldstream wrote with a marking pencil:

Invasion from outside there somewhere, Meritan thought to himself as he played. That’s what they’re afraid of. Fear of the unknown, like tiny children. That’s our ruling circles: tiny, fear-ridden children playing ritualistic games with super-powerful toys.

A thought came to him from one of the network officials in the control room. Mercer has been injured.

At once, Ray Meritan turned his attention that way, scanned as hard as he could. His fingers strummed the harp reflexively.

Government outlawing so-called empathy boxes.

He thought immediately of his own empathy box, before his TV set in the living room of his apartment.

Organization which distributes and sells the empathy boxes declared illegal, and FBI making arrests in several major cities. Other countries expected to follow.

How badly injured? he wondered. Dying?

And—what about the Mercerites who had been holding onto the handles of their empathy boxes at that moment? How were they, now? Receiving medical attention?

Should we air the news now? the network official was thinking. Or wait until the commercial?

Ray Meritan ceased playing his harp and said clearly into the boom microphone, “Wilbur Mercer has been injured. This is what we’ve expected but it’s still a major tragedy. Mercer is a saint.”

Wide-eyed, Glen Goldstream gawked at him.

“I believe in Mercer,” Ray Meritan said, and all across the United States his television audience heard his confession of faith. “I believe his suffering and injury and death have meaning for each of us.”

It was done; he had gone on record. And it hadn’t even taken much courage.

“Pray for Wilbur Mercer,” he said and resumed playing his gray-green style of harp.

You fool, Glen Goldstream was thinking. Giving yourself away! You’ll be in jail within a week. Your career is ruined!

Plunk-plunk, Ray played on his harp, and smiled humorlessly at Glen.

Mr. Lee said, “Do you know the story of the Zen monk, who was playing hide and go seek with the children? Was it Basho who tells this? The monk hid in an outhouse and the children did not think of looking there, and so they forgot him. He was a very simple man. Next day—”

“I admit that Zen is a form of stupidity,” Joan Hiashi said. “It extols the virtues of being simple and gullible. And remember, the original meaning of ‘gullible’ is one who is easily gulled, easily cheated.” She sipped a little of her tea and found it now cold.

“Then you are a true practitioner of Zen,” Mr. Lee said. “Because you have been gulled.” He reached inside his coat and brought out a pistol, which he pointed at Joan. “You’re under arrest.”

“By the Cuban Government?” she managed to say.

“By the United States Government,” Mr. Lee said. “I have read your mind and I learn that you know that Ray Meritan is a prominent Mercerite and you yourself are attracted to Mercerism.”

“But I’m not!”

“Unconsciously you are attracted. You are about to switch over. I can pick up those thoughts, even if you deny them to yourself. We are going back to the United States, you and I, and there we will find Mr. Ray Meritan and he will lead us to Wilbur Mercer; it is as simple as that.”

“And this is why I was sent to Cuba?”

“I am a member of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party,” Mr. Lee said. “And the sole telepath on that committee. We have voted to work in cooperation with the United States Department of State during this current Mercer crisis. Our plane, Miss Hiashi, leaves for Washington, D.C. in half an hour; let us get down to the airport at once.”

Joan Hiashi looked helplessly about the restaurant. Other people eating, the waiters… nobody paid attention. She rose to her feet as a waiter passed with a heavily-loaded tray. “This man,” she said, pointing to Mr. Lee, “is kidnapping me. Help me, please.”

The waiter glanced at Mr. Lee, saw who it was, smiled at Joan and shrugged. “Mr. Lee, he is an important man,” the waiter said, and went on with his tray.

“What he says is true,” Mr. Lee said to her.

Joan ran from the booth and across the restaurant. “Help me,” she said to the elderly Cuban Mercerite who sat with his empathy box before him. “I’m a Mercerite. They’re arresting me.”

The lined old face lifted; the man scrutinized her.

“Help me,” she said.

“Praise Mercer,” the old man said.

You can’t help me, she realized. She turned back to Mr. Lee, who had followed after her, still holding the pistol pointed at her. “This old man is not going to do a thing,” Mr. Lee said. “Not even get to his feet.”

She sagged. “All right. I know.”

The television set in the corner suddenly ceased its yammering of daytime trash; the image of a woman’s face and bottle of cleanser abruptly disappeared and there was only blackness. Then, in Spanish, a news announcer began to speak.

“Hurt,” Mr. Lee said, listening. “But Mercer is not dead. How do you feel, Miss Hiashi, as a Mercerite? Does this affect you? Oh, but that’s right. One must take hold of the handles first, for it to reach you. It must be a voluntary act.”

Joan picked up the elderly Cuban’s empathy box, held it for a moment, and then seized the handles. Mr. Lee stared at her in surprise; he moved toward her, reaching for the box…

It was not pain that she felt. Is this how it is? she wondered as she saw around her, the restaurant dim and faded. Maybe Wilbur Mercer is unconscious; that must be it. I’m escaping from you, she thought to Mr. Lee. You can’t—or at least you won’t—follow me where I’ve gone: into the tomb world of Wilbur Mercer, who is dying somewhere on a barren plain, surrounded by his enemies. Now I’m with him. And it is an escape from something worse. From you. And you’re never going to be able to get me back.

She saw, around her, a desolate expanse. The air smelled of harsh blossoms; this was the desert, and there was no rain.

A man stood before her, a sorrowful light in his gray, pain-drenched eyes. “I am your friend,” he said, “but you must go on as if I did not exist. Can you understand that?” He spread empty hands.

“No,” she said, “I can’t understand that.”

“How can I save you,” the man said, “if I can’t save myself?” He smiled: “Don’t you see? There is no salvation.”

“Then what’s it all for?” she asked.

“To show you,” Wilbur Mercer said, “that you aren’t alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go back and face them. And tell them that.”

She released the handles.

Mr. Lee, holding his gun to her, said, “Well?”

“Let’s go,” she said. “Back to the United States. Turn me over to the FBI. It doesn’t matter.”