"I will, in a month or two."
One afternoon a few days later, she found Pongo setting the table in the dining room. "Seven for dinner," he explained. "We could handle it in the kitchen, but Gene wants to be fancy."
"Who are the two extras?"
"Couple of professors from the university. I'm going to give them fish -- brain food."
At dinner time, when she came in, the others were just gathering around the table. Gene, at the far end, was listening intently to a slender, dark-haired man. His voice was high-pitched; he had an accent that Margaret could not identify. "No, that is not the problem," he said. "That is not the problem. We understand pretty well how the universe began. First there was the primordial atom, which exploded in what we call Big Bang."
The other newcomer said, "But isn't it true that the math shows that if that happened, the universe never would have formed galaxies and planets -- all that matter would have just kept on expanding indefinitely in a big sphere?" He was a rumpled, pudgy young man with a faint brown mustache.
"That is a very good point," said the dark-skinned man. "Yes, and therefore we must assume a discontinuity either in the primordial atom, or in the way it expanded during the first few milliseconds." There was something odd about his vowels; he said "univarse," and "primardial."
"Maggie, let me introduce you," said Gene. The others turned in their chairs, and the two newcomers stood up. "Margaret Morrow, my secretary. This is Nirmal Coomaraswami, a famous theoretical physicist -- "
"I am not so famous as all that," said Coomaraswami, laughing nervously. "Very glad to know you."
"And this is Stan Salomon, he teaches biology at the University of Florida."
"Margaret." His hand was plump and cool.
She took the empty place next to Salomon. "We were talking about the creationism controversy," he said. "You know, whether God created the universe or whether it just happened."
"Yes, and that is what science cannot tell us," said Coomaraswami. Pongo put a bowl of soup in front of him; he glanced at it in apparent surprise. "We know what happened," he went on, "and we know when it happened, with a very high degree of certainty. But creationists want us to say why it happened. This is not a scientific question."
Pongo finished serving the soup and sat down across from Irma.
"That may be," said Salomon. "But the origin of man is a scientific problem, and that's what bothers me. Did you know," he said to Margaret, "that we have to give equal time now to the creationist theory in biology classes?"
"No, really? I think that's awful."
"It is not awful. It is not awful," said Coomaraswami. "We should examine both theories and see how well they explain the facts. Then let people decide for themselves."
"It's religion in the schools," said Salomon.
"That is not necessarily so."
"Creationism isn't religion?" Salomon demanded.
"No, not necessarily. The Bible account of the creation is a myth. In Hindu religion there is also a creation myth, slightly different. All over the world there are these creation myths. But even if we say that a myth is not true, that is not to say that creation cannot be true."
Margaret was watching him in fascination. His skin was no darker than Pongo's, but it was a different color, a ruddier brown; his crisp black hair, faintly glossy, clung to his neat narrow head. His fingernails and the tips of his fingers were pink.
"That's nonsense," said Salomon, with his soup spoon half raised to his lips. "The evidence for evolution -- "
"Yes-yes, I know, but please let me finish. Of course there is evidence that living organisms have evolved from other organisms. There is no question about that, and that is a very good point. But it is possible to say that organisms were created by God, and then evolved into other forms, or that there are a limited number of forms -- sort of Platonic ideals -- that organisms can evolve into."
"The fossil record -- " began Salomon, but fell silent because Anderson was speaking.
"I remember," he said slowly, "in one of Hemingway's letters he talks about a new kind of shark that appeared in the ocean off Cuba. Nobody had ever seen it before. They were black, with no dorsal fin, and their stomachs were full of swordfish swords. I couldn't help wondering, what if creation is still going on?"
Early one morning, before it was light, she went into the courtyard. The fountain was making a lonesome sound. A red spark glimmered not far away. "Oh," she said, "is that you, Piet?"
"Yes, it's me." He rose and came toward her. "You couldn't sleep?"
"No."
"You have been looking a bit tired. Do you often have insomnia?"
"Fairly often."
"Have you tried hypnosis for it?"
"No. Do you think that would work?"
"Well, we can find out if you are a good subject, at least. Do you want to try now? Wait until I turn on the fountain light. Now stand there, please, and close your eyes."
Margaret did as she was told, feeling foolish.
"Now I want you to be aware of your right arm," said Linck's voice. "Feel how relaxed it is; it is very relaxed and soft, there is no tension in it. Your right arm is very relaxed, and now it is becoming lighter. It wants to rise because it is so light, almost as light as a balloon, and now it is rising, you can't stop it from rising, and you don't want to stop it. It is lighter and lighter, your arm is rising because it is so light . . . "
His voice went on, remote and almost inaudible, talking about her arm. She could feel her arm coming up a little, but she was not sure where it was. And his voice went on.
"You can open your eyes now," he said.
To her surprise, her right arm was extended almost at a right angle from her shoulder. She lowered it, feeling even more foolish.
"That was very good," Linck said. "You are a good subject, much better than Gene."
"Oh, have you hypnotized him?"
"No, because he is a very bad subject. But if you want to do something about your insomnia, I don't think we will have any trouble."
They had their first session that night in Linck's sitting room upstairs. Linck had her stare at the illuminated crystal of a clock in the darkened room, and suggested to her that her eyelids were growing heavy, that she was becoming drowsy, that she could not keep her eyes open. After she closed them, his voice went on, and she felt herself drifting deeper and deeper into a black velvety space in which she was aware but bodiless and without anxiety or volition. He told her that she would remember everything he said to her unless he ordered her not to, and that she would always awake from trance feeling refreshed and cheerful. He told her that in future she would always go directly into trance when he said, "Go to sleep, Maggie."
In their second session, two days later, Linck told her to imagine herself in an elevator descending very slowly down an endless shaft; each time the elevator passed another floor, her trance was deepened. He repeated his previous suggestions, and told her that when she went to bed she would feel relaxed and drowsy, and would have no anxiety about getting to sleep. That night she slept nine hours.
In their third session, Linck gave her a "sleep blanket": he told her that whenever she wanted to go to sleep, she could imagine a warm blanket being pulled up gradually over her body; when it got to her chin, she would fall into a deep natural sleep. And it worked.
Gradually and gently the world was slipping into winter. They turned off the air conditioning, opened the sliding glass doors to the garden and the clerestory windows in front. Loose papers blew like birds around the living room until Gene brought out a boxful of glass paperweights to put on them.
One afternoon she found him in his workroom, bent over the drawing board. "Gene, these letters ought to be signed."