He had to know more.
As soon as he got time, he planned to ask the Society about the Fold, and research everything he could about Ettore Majorana and his theories. For the moment, he would focus on following the ball of string that led to the center of the labyrinth where the answers to these questions, and possibly Ettore himself, might reside.
As if on cue, Waylan Taylor walked into the lounge.
Just like the photos, the young neuropsychologist possessed an unassuming round face, thick sandy hair pushed back at the forehead, a mustache that turned down at the corners of his mouth, sleepy eyes, and the doughy hands of a desk jockey. What the photos did not show was the burnished skin from his travels, the slight hitch to his gait, and how his eyes burned behind his glasses with a detached intensity.
Though he wore a brown suit with a loosened tie and patent leather shoes—a criminally boring ensemble—there was something about him, perhaps the peach-colored tint of his glasses or the lack of press on his suit, that lent him a slightly unscrupulous air.
Dr. Taylor had degrees from Stanford and Harvard, a residency at Johns Hopkins, and papers published in the most respected journals of his field. What had led such an accomplished man to the fringes of his discipline, and more importantly, to a physicist in South America who claimed to be a disciple of Ettore Majorana?
Waylan purchased a glass of red wine from the bar and made his way to a chair near the stacked stone fireplace. Despite the season, a fire crackled inside the hearth. Dr. Corwin rose and followed him over. “Mind if I join you?”
Waylan agreed without meeting his gaze, strengthening the notion the psychologist was a slippery cat in some way. “Do I know you?”
“If I’m not mistaken, are you Waylan Taylor?”
He blinked in curiosity. “I am.”
Dr. Corwin offered a hand. “James Corwin, professor of physics at Columbia University. I’m familiar with your work.”
Waylan accepted the gesture. “I’m both surprised and flattered. Please, sit.”
He never flinched at my color, Dr. Corwin thought, or looked around to see who was watching.
Dr. Corwin sat to Waylan’s left, closer to the fire, so he could keep an eye on the room. The man with the hawkish gaze at the bar seemed to be paying them no attention.
“I’d like to think my publications are more well-known,” Waylan continued, “but I’m afraid they’re rather obscure. How is it you recognize my face?”
Waylan spoke in a soft and slow voice that, despite his lack of eye contact, commanded attention. He radiated a self-absorbed charisma that seemed to siphon off energy as they spoke, the rapacious magnetism of a cult leader.
It made Dr. Corwin uneasy.
“I’m a rather obscure reader, I must admit,” Dr. Corwin said. “And I believe we have something in common.”
“Oh?”
“We’re both unafraid to risk contempt by exploring the outer limits of our professions.”
Waylan swirled his wine, his expression indecipherable, waiting for the professor to continue.
“I’m especially intrigued by your recent article in the Journal of International Psychotherapy. The one influenced by your experiences among the shamans of the Amazon basin, which reexamined certain cornerstones of your profession.”
A faint smile lifted the corners of Waylan’s lips. “And the fall of which shibboleth did you most enjoy?”
“The prevailing wisdom among neuroscientists that the brain itself is the source of human consciousness.”
Waylan’s gaze slid to meet his, making contact for the first time. “Indeed an en vogue position. My colleagues believe they have it all figured out,” he said softly, and with disdain. “That the only remaining mysteries lie within the architecture of the brain itself.”
“And you disagree?”
“Oh, very much, sir. Very much indeed. Though I admit the brain is a wondrous enigma.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dr. Corwin said, “but the theme of your conclusions is twofold. One—and forgive my lack of technicality—is that if consciousness had arisen purely from evolutionary factors, there would not be such commonality among our mores, dreams, myths, and thought processes.”
“Exactly. I’ve studied indigenous societies on six continents, and what I’ve found is a remarkable . . . confluence . . . of the subliminal. One unexplainable by current models of the brain.”
“So you’re a Jungian?”
He chuckled. “Certainly not a Freudian. Jung was a genius—of that there was no doubt. Still, I believe we have evolved from that position, though not in a deconstructive, so-called progressive manner.”
“But what is it? From where does this strange confluence stem?”
“That’s the seminal question. A god, a parallel universe, a dream world, a higher reality, an alien mind—perhaps we can never know. But I plan to spend my career applying modern science to ancient practices in an attempt to codify the common elements.” He took a long drink of wine. “And I won’t stop at dreams either.”
“You’ve a very brave mind.”
“Thank you. I’m afraid the establishment doesn’t agree.”
“They never do.” Dr. Corwin leaned forward. “What if I told you I share a similar research interest—and can say with some certainty that I believe science agrees with you?”
Waylan regarded him closely for a moment. “Then I would say your colleagues might be even more surprised than mine. It’s difficult to find a physicist these days who believes the universe is not self-contained.”
“Indeed.” Dr. Corwin pursed his lips, contemplative. “I read about your consultation with the physicist in South America.”
“But how could you? That portion was never published.” Waylan’s eyes narrowed, and he stood. “At this point, I must ask if you’re a reporter seeking to discredit me. Because if so, I warn you this conversation—”
Dr. Corwin flashed a charming grin and reached for his wallet. He withdrew his Columbia ID and handed it to Waylan, who studied it carefully before easing back into his seat. “It appears you are who you say.”
“Since your unnamed source was a physicist,” Dr. Corwin continued, “the journal’s fact-checkers consulted a professional organization of which I’m a member. I was tapped to investigate the claims.”
“It was a fair decision not to publish,” Waylan said
