that, but my doubts were swallowed up by his self-confidence.
My father once lay down on the living room floor and asked me to make a run at him. He wanted me to push off on his knees, flip over him, and land on my feet above his head. It sounded like suicide. 'Trust me,' he said. So I put my life in his hands, made a run at him, and, with his help, miraculously landed on my feet. I. never did it again. Prot had the same 'trust me' look in his eyes when he told me about Howie's last task. And on that note we began our twelfth session.
The minute I started to count, prot fell into a deep trance. I asked whether he could hear me.
'Of course.'
'Good. Now I want you to think back to the year 1979; that is, 1979 on Earth. It's Christmas Day, 1979. Where are you and what do you see?'
'I am on the PLANET TERSIPION in what you would call the CONSTELLATION TAURUS. I see orange and green everywhere. It's quite remarkable. The flora on this WORLD are not chlorophyll based as they are on EARTH and K-PAX. Instead, light is gathered by a pigment similar to that of your red algae. The sky is green because of the chlorine in the atmosphere. There are all kinds of interesting beings, most of whom you would characterize as insects. Some are bigger than your dinosaurs. All of them are quite slow-moving, fortunately, but you have to-'
'Excuse me, prot. I would love to hear about this planet, and all the other places you have visited, but right now I would prefer to concentrate on your passages to Earth.'
'Anything you say. But you asked me where I was and what I was doing on christmas of 1979.'
'Yes I did, but only as a point of reference. What I'd like to ask you to do now is to come forward in time to your next visit to Earth. Can you do that?'
'Of course. Um, let's see. January? No, I was still on TERSIPION. February? No. I was back on K-PAX then, learning to play the patuse, though I'll never be any good at it. It must have been in march. Yes, it was march, that delightful time in your northern hemisphere when the ice on the streams is melting and the mayapples and crocuses are coming up.'
'This is March 1980?'
'Precisely.'
'And he called you?'
'Well, not for anything in particular. He just wants someone to talk things over with now and then.'
'Tell me about him. What's he like? Is he married?'
'Yes, he's married to a girl he knew in-oh, I told you about that already, didn't I?
'The Catholic girl who was pregnant when they were seniors in high school?'
'What a memory! She's still a catholic, but no longer pregnant. That was five and a half years ago.'
'I've forgotten her name.'
'I never told you her name.'
'Can you tell me now?'
After a lengthy hesitation, during which he seemed to study my haircut (or the need thereof) he said, quietly, 'saran '
Barely concealing my elation: 'Did they have a son or a daughter?'
'Yes.'
'I mean which?'
'You should do something about that sense of humor, doctor brewer. A daughter.'
'So she's about five?'
'Her birthday is next week.'
'Any other children?'
'No. Sarah developed endometriosis and they gave her a hysterectomy. Stupid.'
'Because she was so young?'
'No. Because there is a simple treatment for it that your medical people should have figured out long ago.'
'Can you tell me the daughter's name? Or is that a secret?'
After only a moment's hesitation: 'rebecca.' When this was divulged so readily I wondered whether Pete had relented and had decided to allow prot to tell me his real name. Perhaps he was beginning to trust me! But prot must have anticipated my question. 'Forget it,' he said.
'Forget what?'
'He's not going to tell you that.'
'Why not? Will he at least tell me why not?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'You'll just use the answer to chip away at him.'
'All right. Then tell me this: Do they live in the same town he was born in?'
'Yes and no.'
'Can you be more specific?'
'They live in a trailer outside of town.'
'How far outside of town is it?'
'Not far. It's in a trailer park. But they want to get a house farther out in the country.'
A shot in the dark: 'Do they have a sprinkler?'
'A what?'
'A lawn sprinkler.'
'In a trailer park?'
'All right. Do they both work?'
His mouth puckered slightly, as if the fruit hadn't agreed with him. 'He has a full-time job, as you would call it. She earns some money making children's clothing.'
'Where does your friend work?'
'The same place his father and his grandfather did. Just about the only place in town there is to work, unless you're a grocer or a banker.'
'The slaughterhouse?'
'Yessir, the old butchery.'
'What does he do there?'
'He's a knocker.'
'What's a 'knocker'?'
'The knocker is the guy who knocks the cows in the head so they don't struggle so much when you cut their throats.'
'Does he like his job?'
'Are you kidding?'
'What else does he do? At home, for example?'
'Not much. He reads the newspaper in the evening, after his daughter has gone to bed. On weekends he tinkers with his car and watches tv like everybody else in town.'
'Does he still hike in the woods?'
'Sarah would like him to do that, but he doesn't.'
'Why not?'
'It depresses him.'
'Does he still collect butterflies?'
'He threw out his collection a long time ago. There was no room for it in the trailer.'
'Does he regret his decision to get married and raise a family?'
'Oh, no. He is truly devoted to his wife and daughter, whatever that means.'
'Tell me about his wife.'
'Cheerful. Energetic. Dull. Like most of the housewives you see at the a&p.'
'And the daughter?'
'A carbon copy of her mother.'
'Do they all get along well?'
