There was a big open room at the top of the stairs, then a hallway with bedrooms branching off it—and the towers at the far ends. When he got to the top, his legs gone heavy on him all of a sudden and his lungs like liquid fire (he had to cut back on his smoking, absolutely, and drinking, drinking too), he saw that someone had turned on the lamp in the far corner of the room, which smelled of cats, and something else beyond that, something feral, something you couldn’t keep a flea collar on. Had the monkey been up here? And if so, what about Flora Lu? Maynard was off on tour, and just because she’d rejected the meditation house experiment didn’t necessarily mean . . . but no, he was only deluding himself. There was nobody here, at least not in this room, which served as the third-floor sitting room and an informal dormitory for the weekenders who’d given in to the demands of gravity after one party or another. In any case, it was nothing special. A few odds and ends of furniture stood forlornly against the walls—a mismatched pair of easy chairs and a couch from the thrift store he himself had helped haul up the stairs in the enthusiasm of those first few weeks—and there were half a dozen sleeping bags scattered about, none of which seemed to be occupied.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Lori left the table, but it must have been an hour or more anyway, plenty enough time for her to get settled, if that was what she was going to do. And the others too, whoever they might be. He was curious, that was all. This was the new experiment, the new freedom, and he told himself he just wanted to see who was taking advantage of it—disinterestedly, in his role as a psychologist who might just write some of this up someday, but as an interested party too because this was his house, his community, his stew of limbs and bodies and minds. Would Ken be here? Hollingshead? Paulette? Fanchon? And what about Tim? Would he be in one of the back bedrooms, inaugurating the festivities? Peggy was in New York, and whenever she was away Tim let his libido guide him—on any given day he might show up with somebody he’d met at a party or one of his lectures or a socialite from Peggy’s set, and how Peggy felt about it was anybody’s guess. Certainly Royce would be here—he was the one who’d brought it up, he was the one with the need. But then he had a need himself too, didn’t he?