With his hands wired behind him he had to make three tries before he was able to get up into the camper without losing his balance and falling back. He stepped up on the pickup’s rear bumper and stooped to go inside.

“Sit down there on the bunk.”

It was a bare mattress in a frame against the aluminum sidewall. On the opposite wall were a compact bottled-gas stove and a tiny flap-table hinged down flat against the wall; there were booth seats on either side of the lowered table. The seats doubled as storage compartments. Camping gear was lashed down on top of them: blankets, a Coleman lantern, five-gallon water drums, canvas sacks that probably contained provisions. Overhead were narrow lockers. A long weapon case was suspended from cleats in the ceiling; probably a hunting rifle with a scope, hung up there out of the way so that it wouldn’t bang against anything that would knock the sights off center. Forward in the cramped space above the cab a child-size bunk lay crosswise near the ceiling; this too was piled with lashed-down objects and sacks. There was a water tank in the back corner to which a shower head could be screwed by way of a fitting outside the truck. The windows were small—one on each side, one in the back door—and he saw that the curtains had been tied securely across them.

Duggai had a short piece of heavy rope coiled into a noose. Mackenzie hadn’t seen him pick it up. “Raise your feet off the floor.”

He lifted his feet and Duggai flipped the noose under them, adjusting it and gesturing. Mackenzie dropped his feet back to the floor inside the noose. Duggai pulled it up tight, forcing him to cross his ankles; then Duggai swiftly ran the rope back under the cot and threaded it through something Mackenzie couldn’t see—a cleat under the seat or a metal cot leg. Duggai pulled the knot up tight. Then he took the cased rifle down off the ceiling. In the opening behind him birds flitted among the sunlit treetops.

“I don’t guess you’ll get loose right away.”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“You’ll figure it out for yourself by and by. Now just in case we stop for gas or a red light or anything I’m going to put a gag in your mouth. I guess you know enough not to strain against it. Man can choke to death on his vomit with a gag tied into his mouth.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“I want you in real good shape, Captain.” Duggai put a wad of cloth in his mouth and tied it in place with a length of precut clothesline. Mackenzie had to acknowledge that Duggai was well equipped for whatever his scheme was: everything—rope, cloth gag, clothesline—was at hand when Duggai needed it.

Finally Duggai backed out of the camper. “You take it easy now. Think about what I’m going to do to you.”

The door slammed. Mackenzie heard the lock shoot home. The truck swayed with Duggai’s weight when the big man climbed into the driver’s seat; the door chunked shut; the starter meshed; the engine chugged. After a moment the truck began to move, slinging Mackenzie from side to side on the cot.

Something skidded across the floor. It drew his attention. At first he couldn’t determine what it was; then he recognized it. A thin transparent plastic raincoat, folded into a tiny packet and held together by a snap-band of the same material. Camper’s emergency equipment.

The truck lurched across the uneven ground in low gear, the four-wheel drive whining. Mackenzie braced himself hard back against the wall to keep from being thrown off his seat.

The journey began.

3

Jay Painter came out of his classroom feeling hoarse. He fended off an eager student who tried to buttonhole him and escaped down the back flight of concrete stairs and emerged into the July sun to make his way through the flowing student throng.

A pair of handsome girls drew his attention. The big one had golden skin, darker than her unbleached hair—a surf-baby, California goddess, caricature of healthy athletic perfection. He thought wonderingly, She doesn’t get much change from six foot.

The girl’s companion was stouter, her skin pale, almost transparent; she walked pitched backward against the swaying counterweight of her pregnant belly. Associations caromed around in his mind and made him remotely bitter. He crossed the Stanford lawns toward the faculty parking lot and saw Elderslee getting into his car—enormous and shabby and old, a gray eminence crowned by a violent eruption of tangled hair.

Elderslee waved a thick folder of student papers at him as if in accusation. “We’re fast becoming a nation of illiterates. I’ve got a list of flunkees longer than your face. It’s disgusting.”

“The television generation,” Jay Painter said. Elderslee had written two books that had become definitive psychology texts. He loved disputation, hated humanity and loathed students; he loved human beings.

“Can I have ten seconds?”

Elderslee looked at his watch. “Barely. I’m on my way to a consultation.”

“They’ve roped me into testifying on Tuesday.”

“The Boley woman?”

“Yes. Can you arrange to have one of the lecturers take over my classes?”

“Certainly.” The old man unlocked his Volkswagen and tossed the file of papers inside. “Incidentally, what’s your testimony going to be? What are your conclusions?”

“I think she’s feigning it. I think she’s perfectly competent to stand trial.”

“Feigning madness is itself a sort of madness.”

“Not the kind that matters in court,” Jay Painter said.

“Some of the other boys found her convincing enough. Jack Feinberg’s going to testify for the defense, you know.”

“There are a few too many inconsistencies in her performance.”

Elderslee wedged himself into the car. He rolled the window down before he pulled the door shut; he looked up at Jay and squinted in the sunlight. “Doesn’t it ever begin to strike you as a silly childish game of pointmanship? The prosecution parades its battery of friendly expert witnesses and then the defense follows suit.”

“It’s what keeps our art from becoming a science. But it keeps it alive.”

“It’s why I gave up testifying in criminal cases. Legal definitions of insanity are the real insanities.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“I’ll ask Van Alstyne to cover for you Tuesday.” The old man put it in gear and Jay watched him drive away. The car spewed smoke from its tailpipe.

When he approached the station wagon he saw himself reflected in its back window—wavering image of a thin tall man thatched with dark hair, wearing a faint stoop and an aura of melancholy and what he fancied to be the look of confidence that came of knowing one’s way around in the world. As he drew closer he bent down to study his face in reflection. He could find no sign of the uncertainties that bubbled within.

He wasn’t sure whether to be heartened. Was it strength or weakness to wear a cloak of intact assurance over a body secretly racked with inadequacy?

I suppose everybody does it.

He got in the car.

Palo Alto was thick with traffic and he was ready for a drink by the time he got home. He parked the wagon in the driveway under the palm tree because the lawnmower was still scattered in dismantled chaos on the garage floor. Down the street a brown camper-body pickup truck was parked at the curb; he hadn’t seen it before and wondered briefly to whom it belonged.

He heard faint splashings and went around the side of the house and found Shirley floating in the pool on her back, kicking her feet each time her legs started to sink.

“Hey you.”

“Hey yourself.” She stood up in the pool and waded to the edge; he gave her a hand up and kissed her carefully so as not to get his suit wet.

“I want a drink.”

She said, “I haven’t got the nerve to make myself another martini, but if I hope and pray …”