My therapist seems restless during this morning’s session and finally comes out with the truth of the matter as he sees it. “They are not satisfied,” he says. “They feel that the work, imperceptibly, has been slowing down for a long time and is not going forward at the expected rate. They want me to warn you against nonco-operation and to promise punitive measures. This is a general order which went out to all of us this morning. I do not want to terrorize or intimidate you. I am your friend; I know that you are trying. Nevertheless, I must tell you this.”

“I have held back nothing,” I say, and this is true. “I have told you everything which you wanted to know of geology.”

“Yes,” he says. “These orders come from the higher levels. Perhaps others are not cooperating; I cannot say. You are my only patient; I do not understand the range of cases. But the work must continue. They begin to feel some urgency now. They feel that further data is in order.”

“Why this urgency?”

“I cannot tell you that,” my therapist says, rubbing his hands. A strange expression dances across his face; behind it I can see the wires of stress. “That is not permitted. In the bargain, I do not know. They tell us little, for our own sake.”

“What more would you want to know?”

He looks at a series of notes scattered across his desk, selects one sheet of paper and looks at it, his chin balanced in his hands. “Metals,” he says. “The formation of quartz. They are interested in knowing its antecedents and how aging can be simulated.”

“Quartz is not a metal. It is a form of rock.”

“I know that. Nevertheless, this is what they want to know. They want to know about the metallic properties of quartz.”

“I am not a metallurgist. How can I tell you that?”

“I’m sorry, Quir,” my therapist says. He stands. “I can’t tell you that. I can only insist upon your cooperation. Believe me, it will go badly with you if you do not answer these questions they have listed.”

“So ask them,” I say. “Ask them.”

“That is the trouble,” he says after an instant, with a quizzical expression, staring at the page. “That is exactly the trouble; I cannot understand quite what they are asking. I cannot decipher their notes. I do not know what they want of quartz and since this is not my field cannot anticipate.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Listen, Quir,” he says. “We will make the session shorter today. We will stop now. Tomorrow you will come and be prepared to answer. I will try to have the questions in comprehensible shape by then.”

“Yes,” I say standing, the session over, then, an hour and three quarters of free time left to me to think about my plans. “Yes, I will.”

“I do not blame you for telling us what you did of Plotar,” he says abruptly. “You don’t think that, do you?”

“No.”

“You may feel, perhaps, that there is some contempt; that for some reason I look askance at your behavior. It is not that way. Haven’t we developed a good relationship? I know that you can trust me. In your position I would have done the same thing.”

“Yes,” I say.

“But then I’m not in your position and that makes it easy to say, doesn’t it? That I’m not in the situation you are in, so what I say comes easily. You must have thoughts like that, Quir, don’t you?”

“No,” I say. “I try to have no thoughts at all.”

“I don’t understand you. I don’t know what is going on in your mind at all. We are supposed to be your therapists and try to be faithful to that function. But it is very difficult. We do not understand you. I do not think that any of us understands you.”

“May I leave now?” I say, gesturing to the door. The therapist stares at me, my question apparently breaking off his thoughts, looking at me with a strange and confused expression. He does not seem, at this moment, to know who I am.

“I’m sorry, Quir,” he says, passing a hand across his face. “I’m very sorry. I’ve been under a good deal of strain, recently, and I shouldn’t let you be the object of it. Yes, by all means go. Leave. You are released. Why don’t you rest or read something? Here,” he says, going into his desk and producing two issues of theMorningTelegraph for me, “here’s something I’ve saved for you. This is contraband, you know. You’re not really supposed to have it. But haven’t I always looked out for you? Haven’t I tried to make things for you as reasonable as possible? I do not regard you as an inferior creature at all but one who could be my brother, trapped in appalling circumstances. Here,” he says, handing the newspapers to me, his hand shaking, “here, take them. These are consecutive issues so you will be able to check calculations if you desire. Won’t that be amusing? Haven’t I always tried to take care of you, Quir? Haven’t I always been reasonable and tried to keep these sessions as civilized as possible? Perhaps you don’t know what some of the other therapists do; the devices, the means they will take—”

“Thank you,” I say, holding the papers, waiting for him to finish. I stand respectfully, not wanting to interfere with his line of elaboration, whatever that might be. “Thank you for these newspapers.”

His face closes in upon itself and he says, “Quir, you may go now. That is all,” and I leave him quickly, folding the newspapers in businesslike fashion under my arm. At the door I cast a quick glance backward over my shoulder to see him sitting at his desk, the backs of his hands balanced on wood before him, staring at his palms as if his palms, no less than the blocks that hold my brain, retain the secrets which will release him.