fragrance of pine trees, and I knew that Giselle had been there. Perched on top of the great mound of work piled on my desk was a note neatly handwritten in green ink:
There was only one disappearance in 1985 that occurred in a town where a slaughterhouse is located. It was in South Carolina, and the missing person was a woman. Am spending this week in the library going over newspaper files for that year.
See you later.
Love, G.
While I was reading it I got a call from Charlie Flynn, the astronomer, my son-in-law's colleague at Princeton. After he had returned from his vacation in Canada, Steve had told him about the discrepancy between his and prot's account of the orbit of K-PAX around its double suns. He was very excited. The calculation, he said, had been done by one of his graduate students. Upon hearing of prot's version he had recalculated the orbital pattern himself, and it turned out to be exactly as prot had described it: a pendulum-like back-and-forth motion, not a figure eight. All the star charts prot had drawn up were quite accurate as well. I thought nothing would faze me anymore where prot was concerned, but what this trained scientist said next shocked me as much as it fascinated him. He said, 'Savants are basically people with prodigious memories, aren't they? This is different, here is no way anyone could guess that orbital pattern or intuit it. I know this sounds crazy, but I can't see how he could have come up with this information unless he had actually been there!' This from a man who is as sane as, you or I. 'Could I talk to your patient?' he went on. 'There are several thousand questions I'd like to ask him!'
I rejected this idea, of course, for a number of reasons. I suggested, however, that he send me a list of fifty of the key questions he wanted to ask prot, and assured him that I would be happy to present them to him. 'But make it fast,' I said. 'He claims he's leaving on August seventeenth 'Can you get him to stay longer?'
'I doubt it.'
'Can you try?'
'I'm trying my damnedest,' I retorted.
THE rest of the morning was taken up with meetings and an interview with the third candidate for the directorship. I'm afraid I didn't give him the attention he deserved. He seemed capable enough, and had published some excellent work. His specialty was Tourette's syndrome, and he suffered from a mild form of the affliction himself-nervous tics, primarily, though he occasionally called me 'a piece of shit.' But I was too preoccupied with trying to formulate a way to get through to Robert to listen. At last an idea came to mind, and unforgivably I sat up and blurted, 'Ah!' Thinking I was referring to his discourse, our guest was quite pleased by my outburst and went on and on with an even greater display of facial twitching and name calling than before. I paid no attention to him-I was absorbed by the question: Could the host personality be hypnotized while the secondary alter is already under hypnosis?
'OKAY, ready for anything,' prot said after finishing a huge mixed fruit salad and blowing his nose on his napkin. He tossed it into the bowl and looked for the spot on the wall behind me. Knowing he would jump the gun, however, I had covered it up before he could throw himself into a trance.
'I'm not going to hypnotize you for a while.'
'I told you it wouldn't work,' he said, breaking into the all-too-familiar grin.
'I want to talk to you about Robert first.'
The smile vanished. 'How did you find out his name?'
'You told me.'
'Under hypnosis?'
'Yes.'
'Well, flatten my feet and call me daffy.'
'What happened to his wife and child?'
Prot seemed confused, edgy. 'I don't know.'
'Oh, come on. He must have told you that.'
'Wrong. He's never mentioned them since I found him by the river.'
'Where are they now?'
'I have no idea.'
Either prot was lying, which I strongly doubted, or he was genuinely unaware of Robert's activities when the latter didn't communicate them. If that were the case Rob could try almost anything-possibly even suicide-without prot's knowledge. I was more certain than ever that I had to get through to him as soon as possible. In fact, there wasn't a moment to lose. I stood up and removed the tape from the spot on the wall behind me. Prot fell into his usual deep trance immediately.
'We are now in the present. Prot? Do you understand?'
'Yes. It is not a difficult concept.'
'Good. Is Robert there with you?'
'Yes.'
'May I speak to him, please?'
'You may, but he probably won't speak to you.'
'Please let him come forward.'
Silence. Robert slouched down in the chair, his chin on his chest.
'Robert?'
No response.
'Robert, this is Doctor Brewer. Please open your eyes.' There was a barely detectable shift in his position. 'Robert, listen to me. I am not just trying to help you.
I know I can help you. Please trust me. Open your eyes!' His eyes flickered open for a moment, then closed again.
After a few seconds he blinked several times, as if vacillating, and finally they stayed open. It was little more than a vacant stare, but it was something.
'Robert! Can you hear me?' After what seemed like an eternity I detected a hint of a nod. 'Good. Now I want you to focus your attention on the spot on the wall behind me.'
The lifeless eyes, gazing emptily at the edge of my desk, shifted upward slightly.
'A little higher. Raise your eyes a little higher!'
Slowly his focus lifted, an inch at a time, slowly, slowly. Ignoring my presence completely, he lifted his gaze to the wall behind my shoulder. His mouth had fallen open.
'Good. Now, listen carefully. I'm going to count forward from six to ten. As I count, your eyelids will become heavy and you will grow increasingly sleepy. By the time I get to ten, you will be in a deep trance. But you will be able to hear and understand everything I say. Now this is very important: When I clap my hands, you will wake up. Do you understand?'
A tiny, but definite, nod.
'Good. We'll begin now. Six...' I watched carefully as his eyelids began to droop. '... and ten. Robert, can you hear me?'
No response.
'Robert?'
Unintelligible.'Please speak louder.'
A feeble 'Yes,' more like a gurgle. But someone was there! At that moment I was very, very glad I had chosen to become a psychiatrist.
'Good. Now listen to me. We are going to travel back in time. Imagine the pages of a calendar turning rapidly backward. It is now August eighth, 1989, exactly, one year ago. Now it is 1988; now 1987, now 1986. Now, Robert, it is August eighth, 1985,_ at noon. Where are you?'
He remained motionless for several minutes before murmuring, 'I am at work.' He sounded tired, but his voice was clear, though slightly higher-pitched than prot's.
'What are you doing there?'
'I am eating my lunch.'
'What are you eating?'
'I have a Dutch loaf sandwich with Miracle Whip and pickles, a peanut butter sandwich with Concord grape jelly, potato chips, a banana, two sugar cookies, and a thermos of coffee.'
