"He's coughing. He's full of water, but he's coming around."
"And you are with him?"
"As close as I am to you right now."
"Can you talk to him?"
"I can talk to him, but he won't talk to me."
"What is he doing now?"
"He's just lying there." At this point prot took off his shirt and lay it on the floor in front of him. "You covered him?"
"He is shivering." Prot lay down on the carpet beside his shirt.
"You are lying down beside him?"
"Yes. We are going to sleep now."
"Yes, you do that. And now I'm going to ask you to come forward in time to the next morning. The sun is up. Where are you now?"
"Still lying here."
"He is sleeping?"
"No. He just doesn't want to get up."
"Did he say anything during the night?"
"No."
"Did you say anything to him?"
"No."
"All right. Now it's late afternoon. Where are you now?" Prot got up and returned to his chair. "In zaire."
"Zaire? How did you get to Zaire?"
"It's difficult to explain. You see, light has certain-"
"What I meant was, why did you go back there? Is your friend with you?"
"It looked like a beautiful country. I thought some sightseeing might cheer him up."
"Did you talk to him about it?"
"Yes. I said, 'Let's get out of here.' "
"What did he say?"
"Nothing."
"So now you're in Zaire."
"Yes."
"Both of you."
"Yes."
"What will you do next?"
"Get to know the beings here."
"And then what?"
"We'll move on to another place."
"All right. It's six months later. February seventeenth, 1986. Where are you?"
"Egypt."
"Still in Africa?"
"It's a big continent. By EARTH standards, anyway."
"Is your friend still with you?"
"Of course."
"What did you use for money on these travels?"
"Nothing. We just took what we needed."
"And nobody objected?"
"Not after I explained who we were."
"All right. It's one year after you left the river. August seventeenth, 1986. Where are you now?"
"Sweden."
"Do you like it there?"
"Very much. They are more like K-PAXians here than anywhere else we've been."
"In what way?"
"They are less warlike, and more tolerant toward their fellow beings than the other countries we have visited."
"August seventeenth, 1987."
"Saudi arabia."
"August seventeenth, 1988."
"Queensland, australia."
"August seventeenth, 1989."
"Bolivia."
"October seventeenth, same year."
"The united states. Indiana."
"December seventeenth."
"New york."
"February seventeenth, 1990."
"The long island psychiatric hospital."
"May seventeenth."
"The manhattan psychiatric institute."
"The present."
"Same old place."
"And your friend hasn't spoken to you in all this time?"
"Hardly a word."
"Have you tried to talk to him?"
"Occasionally."
"May I try?"
"Be my guest."
"I need a name. It would be so much easier if you would give me a name to call him."
"I can't do that. But I'll give you a hint. He can fly."
"Fly? Is his name Fred?"
"C'mon, you can do better than that. Can't you think of anything that flies besides airplanes?"
"He's a bird? He has the name of a bird?"
"Bingo!"
"Uh, uh, Donald? Woody? Jonathan Livingston?"
"Those aren't real birds, are they, gene?"
"Martin? Jay!"
"You're getting waaaaaarmeniiii!"
"Robin? Robert?"
"Well done, doctor brewer. The rest is up to you."
"Thank you. I'd like to speak to him now. Do you mind?"
"Why should I?" Suddenly prot/Robert slouched down in his chair. His hands fell limply to his sides. "Robert?"
No response.
"Robert, this is Doctor Brewer. I think I can help you." No response.
"Robert, listen to me. You've had a terrible shock. I understand your pain and suffering. Can you hear me?" No response.
At this point I took a chance. Knowing prot and, through him, something about Robert, I could not shake the feeling that if he had in fact hurt, or killed, someone, it must have been an accident or, more likely perhaps, self-defense. It was mostly speculation, but it was all I had. "Robert, listen to me. What happened to you could have happened to anyone. It is not something to be ashamed of. It is a normal response that human beings are programmed to carry out. It's in our genes. Do you understand? Anyone might have done the same thing you did. Anyone would condone what you did and why you did it. I want you to understand that. If you will just acknowledge that you hear me we can talk about it. We don't have to talk about what happened just yet. Only about how we can get you to overcome your grief and self-hatred. Won't you talk to me? Won't you let me help you?"
We sat silently for several minutes while I waited for Robert to make a move, a small gesture to indicate he he had heard my plea. But he never twitched a muscle.
"I'm going to ask you to think about it for a while. We'll talk about this again a week from today, all right? Please trust me."
No response.
"I'm going to ask to speak with your friend now."
In a twinkling prot was back, wide-eyed and smiling broadly. "Hiya, gene. Long time no see. How ya been?" We talked a bit about our first few meetings back in May, the tiniest details of which he described perfectly, as if he had a tape recorder inside his head.
I woke him and sent him back to Ward Two. Cheerful as ever, he didn't remember a thing about what had just transpired.
THERE was a seminar that afternoon in our lecture room, but I didn't hear a word of it. I was considering the possibility of increasing the number of sessions with prot/Robert. Unfortunately, I had a meeting in Los Angeles at the end of that week and the beginning of the next, something that had been arranged months before and would have been impossible to get out of. But I suspected that even a dozen more sessions wouldn't be enough. Maybe a hundred wouldn't be enough to sort everything out. True, I now knew his first name, but I wasn't sure this would be of much help in tracing his background. It was encouraging in another sense, however: It indicated a possible crack in the armor, a hint of willingness on Robert's part to begin to cooperate, to help with his own recovery, to get well. But there were only two weeks left before prot's "departure." If I couldn't get through to him by then, I was afraid it would be too late.
"His name is Robert Something," I told Giselle after the seminar.
"Great! Let me check it against my list." She bent over a long computer printout. Her profile was perfect, like one of those "Can you draw me?" advertisements. "Here's one! But this guy disappeared in April of 1985, and he was sixty-eight years old. Wait! Here's another one! And he disappeared in August! No, no, he was only seven then. That would make him twelve now." She looked at me sadly. "Those were the only two Roberts."
"I was afraid of that."
"He's got to exist," she wailed. "There has to be a record of his existence. We must have missed something. An important clue. .. " She jumped up and began pacing around my office. Eventually she spotted the picture of my family on my desk. She asked me about my wife, where we had met, and so on. I told her how long I had known Karen, a little about the kids. Then she sat down and told me some things about herself she hadn't mentioned before. I shall not record the details here, but she was on intimate terms with more than one prominent figure from the worlds of sports and journalism. The point, however, is that although she had countless male friends, she had never married. I wasn't about to ask her why, but she answered as if I had: "I'm an idealist and a perfectionist and all the wrong things," and turned her gaze to a faraway place in the distant past. "And because I have never met a man I could give myself to, utterly and completely." Then she turned to me. In a moment of helpless ego-Brown's syndrome is a very powerful force-I was sure she was going to say, "Until now." My tie suddenly needed my attention. "And now I'm going to lose him," she whimpered, "and there's nothing I can do about it!" She was in love with prot!