I realized that the extraordinarily powerful states I was examining could lead me in two undesirable directions. First, the sheer helplessness that they evoked created awe, which could lead to a desire to comply... and then to love. Second, the fear caused such confusion that one could not be sure how to feel.

Her gaze seemed capable of entering me deeply, and it was when I had looked directly into her eyes that I felt my first taste of profound unease. It was as if every vulnerable detail of my self were known to this being. Nobody in the world could know another human soul so well, nor could one man look into the eyes of another so deeply, and to such exact effect. I could actually feel the presence of that ocher person within me — which was as disturbing as it was curiously sensual. Their eyes are often described as "limitless," "haunting,"' and

"baring the soul." Can anything other than a part of oneself know one so well? It's possible, certainly. To an intelligence of sufficiently greater power, it may be that we would seem as obvious as animals seem to us — and we might feel as exposed as do some dogs when their masters stare into their eyes.

The realization that something was actually occurring within me because this person was looking at me — that she could apparently look into me — filled me with the deepest longing I can ever remember feeling... and with the deepest suspicion.

I wondered that night in the cabin if it was the sheer impact of the experience that had fixed the image of this being so vividly in my mind, or had communion somehow come alive within me? And was she still here in some sense... watching even as I sat before my fire?

As I remembered her I found myself filling with a formless question. Groping for what it was that perplexed me, I recalled an exchange that now came to seem very important. I'd had a very distinct impression of her, that she was old. Not just aged, like an elderly person, but really old. Why had I felt this? I could not be sure.

I still remember her voice, soft, coming from I know not where, answering me: "Yes, I'm old." When she spoke in my head, there was a lilting quality to it. But when she used her voice, it was startlingly deep to be coming from so slight a creature. It was more than a bass: It sounded like it was booming out from the depths of a cave.

I remembered my protest to her when she reassured me about the operation not hurting me. The sense of helplessness was an awful thing to contemplate. "You have no right," I had said.