“No,” Stockstill said, taking a chance and speaking directly.

“There’re there,” Mr. Tree said. “Thery’re on the inside of the skin, of cdurse. But people notice them anyhow and stare. I can’t ride on a bus or go into a restaurant or a theater; I can’t go to the San Francisco opera or the ballet or the symphony orchestra or even a nightclub to watch one of those folk singers; if I do succeed in getting inside I have to leave almost at once because of the staring. And the remarks.”

“Tell me what they say.”

Mr. Tree was silent.

“As you said yourself,” Stockstill said, “you are world-famous—and isn’t it natural for people to murmur when a world-famous personage comes in and seats ‘himself among them? Hasn’t this been true for years? And there is controversy about your work, as you pointed out… hostility and perhaps one hears disparaging remarks. But everyone in the public eye—”

“Not that,” Mr. Tree broke in. “I expect that; I write articles and appear on the TV, and I expect that; I know that. This—has to do with my private life. My most innermost thoughts.” He gazed at Stockstill and said, “They read my thoughts and they tell me about my private personal life, in every detail. They have access to my brain.”

Paranoia sensitiva, Stockstill thought, although of course there have to be tests… the Rorschach in particular. It could be advanced insidious schizophrenia; these could be the final stages of a life-long illness process. Or—

“Some people can see the blotches on my face and read my personal thoughts more accurately than others,” Mr. Tree said. “I’ve noted quite a spectrum in ability—some are barely aware, others seem to make an instantaneous Gestalt of my differences, my stigmata. For example, as I came up the sidewalk to your office, there was a Negro sweeping on the other side… he stopped work and concentrated on me, although of course he was too far away to jeer at me. Nevertheless, he saw. It’s typical of lower class people, I’ve noticed. More so than educated or cultured people.”

“I wonder why that is,” Stockstill said, making notes.

“Presumably, you would know, if you’re competent at all. The woman who recommended you said you were exceptionally able.” Mr. Tree eyed him, as if seeing no sign of’ ability as yet.

“I think I had better get a background history from you,” Stockstill said. “I see that Bonny Keller recommended me. How is Bonny? I haven’t seen her since last April or so… did her husband give up his job with that rural grammar school as he was talking about?”

“I did not come here to discuss George and Bonny Keller,” Mr. Tree said. “I am desperately pressed, Doctor. They may decide to complete their destruction of me any time now; this harassment has gone on for so long now that—” He broke off. “Bonny thinks I’m ill, and I have great respect for her.” His tone was low, almpst inaudible. “So I said I’d come here, at least once.”

“Are the Kellers still living up in West Marin?”

Mr. Tree nodded.

“I have a summer place up there,” Stockstill said. “I’m a sailing buff; I like to get out on Tomales Bay every chance I get. Have you ever tried sailing?”

“No.”

“Tell me when you were born and where.”

Mr. Tree said, “In Budapest, in 1934.”

Doctor Stockstill, skillfully questioning, began to obtain in detail the life-history of his patient, fact by fact. It was essential for what he had to do: first diagnose and then, if possible, heal. Analysis and then therapy. A man known all over the world who had delusions that strangers were staring at him—how in this case could reality be sorted out from lantasy? WThat was the frame of reference which would distinguish them one from the other?

It would be so easy, Stockstill realize, to find pathology here. So easy—and so tempting. A man this hated… I share their opinion, he said to himself, the they that Bluthgeld—or rather Tree—talks about. After all, I’m part of society, too, part of the civilization menaced by the grandiose, extravagant miscalculations of this man. It could have been—could someday be—my children blighted because this man had the arrogance to assume that he could not err.

But there was more to it than that. At the time, Stockstill had felt a twisted quality about the man; he had watched him being interviewed on TV, listened to him speak, read his fantastic anti-communist speeches—and come to the tentative conclusion that Bluthgeld had a profound hatred for people, deep and pervasive enough to make him want, on some unconscious level, to err, to make him want to jeopardize the lives of millions.

No wonder that the Director of the FBI, Richard Nixon, had spoken out so vigorously against “militant amateur anti-communists in high scientific circles.” Nixon had been alarmed, too, long before the tragic error of 1972. The elements of paranoia, with the delusions not only of reference but of grandeur, had been palpable; Nixon, a shrewd judge of men, had observed them, and so had many others.

And evidently they had been correct.

“I came to America,” Mr. Tree was saying, “in order to escape the Communist agents who wanted to murder me. They were after me even then… so of course were the Nazis. They were all after me.”

“I see,” Stockstill said, writing.

“They still are, but ultimately they will fail,” Mr. Tree said hoarsely, lighting a new cigarette. “For I have God on my side; He sees my need and often He has spoken to me, giving me the wisdom I need to survive my pursuers. I am at present at work on a new project, out at Livermore; the results of this will be definitive as regards our enemy.”

Our enemy, Stockstill thought. Who is our enemy… isn’t it you, Mr. Tree? Isn’t it you sitting here rattling off your paranoid delusions? How did you ever get ‘the high post that you hold? Who is responsible for giving you power over the lives of others—and letting you keep that power even after the fiasco of 1972? You—and they—are surely our enemies.

All our fears about you are confirmed; you are deranged—your presence here proves it. Or does it? Stockstill thought, No, it doesn’t, and perhaps I should disqualify myself; perhaps it is unethical for me to try to deal with you. Considering the way I feel… I can’t take a detached, disinterested position regarding you; I can’t be genuinely scientific, and hence my analysis, my diagnosis, may well prove faulty.

“Why are you looking at me like this?” Mr. Tree was saying.

“Beg pardon?” Stockstill murmured.

“Are you repelled by my disfigurations?” Mr. Tree said.

“No-no,” Stockstill said. “It isn’t that.”

“My thoughts, then? You were reading them and their disgusting character causes you to wish I had not consulted you?” Rising to his feet, Mr. Tree moved abruptly toward the office door. “Good day.”

“Wait.” Stockstill came after him. “Let’s get the biographical material concluded, at least; we’ve barely begun.”

Mr. Tree, eying him, said presently, “I have confidence in Bonny Keller; I know her political opinions… she is not a part of the international Communist conspiracy seeking to kill me at any opportunity.” He reseated himself, more composed, now. But his posture was one of wariness; he would not permit himself to relax a moment in Stockstill’s presence, the psychiatrist knew. He would not open up, reveal himself candidly. He would continue to be suspicious—and perhaps rightly, Stockstill thought.

As he parked his car Jim Fergesson, the owner of Modern TV, saw his salesman Stuart McConchie leaning on his broom before the shop, not sweeping but merely daydreaming or whatever it was he did. Following McConchie’s gaze he saw that the salesman was enjoying not the sight of some girl passing by or some unusual car—Stu liked girls and cars, and that was normal—but was instead looking in the direction of patients entering the office of the doctor across the street. That wasn’t normal. And what business of McConchie’s was it anyhow?