"Please! I need my beds for sick people." The sliding door cut him off.

"Well, where to?" asked Ari. "How about lunch? I'll buy." "Yes, to lunch. But I'll buy. I have a favor to ask you." "All right. Where shall we go?"

"Belles Exprit is okay with me. Okay with you?"

"My, it must be some favor. But I'm game. Let's go."

They made their way along the trafficways of Gotham to the so-called leisure level, taking several lifts and a shunt tube to their destination. When they arrived in the plaza there was a line of people waiting to be seated in the restaurant.

"Ah, perfect timing," said Spence. "That's the trouble with a good beanery. Word gets out and the tourists take over. Want to go someplace else?"

"It's worth the wait. Let's stay."

The line moved slowly and the two filled the time talking about mundane items of Gotham news. Spence did not mention again his reason for the rendezvous, but Ari let him work up to it in his own way.

At last they were ushered to a small table and sat facing one another over a stiff, white tablecloth. Spence hardly glanced at the menu and put it aside. Ari decided he was getting ready to tell her what he had begun to explain in sick bay.

"Ari-" The waiter, attired in a black suit with white shirt and tie and looking very continental, appeared to take their order.

"What would you like, Monsieur?" Even the French accent was commendable. Spence decided that the waiters for the various restaurants were recruited for their acting ability as much as for their efficiency. They seemed to be the flower of their flock, and far better than any Spence had had the fortune to run into on Earth. Perhaps they were in fact French waiters after all.

"We will have the artichokes vinaigrette to start. And the sole."

"New peas or cauliflower, Monsieur?"

"New peas. And I think I would like a nice Beaujolais."

"Shall I bring a bottle, sir?"

"A half bottle will be fine, thank you."

It was only after the waiter had gone that he realized he had not consulted his guest for her order. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I neglected to ask you what you wanted."

She laughed. "Don't be embarrassed. You read my mind."

"I do this so seldom, I'm afraid I'm out of practice."

"And don't apologize. There's nothing to apologize for."

"Just the same, next time I'll let you do all the talking."

"I'm not complaining, Spencer. A girl would be a fool to scorn a free meal."

The waiter returned with the wine. He showed Spence the bottle and Spence pretended to read the label. He then deftly uncorked it and splashed a swallow into Spence's glass and handed it to him, laying the cork at his hand. Spence took the cork and sniffed it, not knowing what he was smelling for, then took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and good, warming the palate with a vibrant charm.

"That's very good," he said. The waiter poured their glasses half full and then left.

The glasses stood before them, casting faint crimson shadows on the white cloth. Spence did not lift a hand toward his glass, so Ari folded her hands on the table and waited.

"I want to tell you something-it's about what has been happening. "

"You don't have to say anything."

"I want to-I want you to know." He raised his eyes from the white expanse of the tablecloth to meet hers.

"All right, I'm listening," she said gently.

"Ari, I don't know what's happening to me. Not really." He looked at her and for a moment she saw how frightened he was. He shook his head and the fear receded, pushed back behind its barrier once more. "But I don't think it's me. At least not entirely."

"Oh?"

"I know what Dr. Williams thinks. And I have a fair idea what he must have told you. But he's forgetting that I am trained in psychology, too. I know the symptoms and the causes.

"I don't think I fit the profile. I mean, I'm hardly manicdepressive, and I'm not schizophrenic. At least, I don't think I am.

The waiter returned to lay the glistening green-gray artichokes before them. He unrolled the napkins and placed them on their laps, arranged their silver, and then vanished.

Spence continued as if the waiter had never been there. "At this point, I realize I would have a very rough time proving my sanity."

"Nobody thinks you're insane."

"Dr. Williams might dispute that."

"Nonsense. He's concerned, and I am too. You have to admit, though, we haven't a lot to go on."

"Granted. These past few weeks, however, I have doubted my sanity. I could feel it slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like I was being drained, bit by bit, only I didn't realize it at first. I tried to tell myself that it was overwork, pressure, new surroundings. But I don't think so anymore."

He sampled some of the artichoke. Ari, who had been nibbling all along, laid down her fork. "I don't think I'm getting all of this, Spence. Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."

"You're right." He nodded and took a few more bites of his food. "I can't remember the beginning. There are a lot of things I can't remember. Whole chunks of my memory are missing.

"But it was some time after I came here, though not long after. A couple weeks, that's all. It started with the dreams."

"Dreams?"

"Don't ask me what they're about, because I don't know. Sometimes I am almost on the verge of remembering-I can almost see a picture in my mind. A word or a sound will trigger it, but then it's gone. Everything goes blank.

"But I can tell you this: they are strange, frightening dreams. I wake up in a cold sweat, trembling. Once or twice I believe I have screamed. I know I have cried in my sleep.

"There is no pattern to it that I can see. Sometimes it happens during a session-the experiments, you know-and sometimes when I'm asleep in my own quarters. But the emotional impact stays with me for a while, lingering over me like a ghostly presence, haunting me."

"That's horrible!"

"It gets worse."

"Your order, sir." The waiter materialized out of nowhere to place several steaming dishes before them. "Enjoy your meal, Monsieur, Mademoiselle."

"Uh-oh," said Spence. "Something's wrong."

"What is it?" said Ari, afraid that some new horror had descended upon Spence.

"Red wine with sole. How gauche." He pulled a wry grin. "Ari, you are dining with a gauche person."

She laughed and the sound was a bubbling of music. "Down with convention! I don't care. Besides, you know what they say."

"What do they say?"

"Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

"Is it?"

"Well, Emerson thought so. He said it."

They both laughed then and Ari saw the lines of strain ease from around his eyes and mouth. He let go; the ice had been broken. He had trusted her with his secret; now he would confide in her. She, too, relaxed, discovering she had been sitting on the edge of her chair since they were seated.

"Cheers!" said Spence, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers. He took a sip of wine and then dug into his food with the haste of a hungry man. They ate in silence until he pushed back his plate with a motion of finality. He had reached a decision.

He launched back into his confession willingly. The words spilled out in a torrent; the floodgates had opened. Ari sat spellbound as she listened.

"The blackouts began a week ago-five days, to be exact. Nothing in my family history would indicate a condition such as this. No epilepsy, catalepsy, or anything of that sort. It's completely original with me, whatever it is.

"What takes place during the blackouts, I have no idea. Neither do I know how long they last precisely. I estimate anywhere from six to ten hours, working backward from the time I can last remember until I wake up again. Obviously I am fairly active during these episodes, judging from the fact that I seem to be able to get myself into varying degrees of difficulty." He raised a hand to the red side of his face.