But I wasn’t thinking politics on this occasion. I was wondering how Fitzpiers could have possibly hoped to woo me with company such as this. And I was still wondering it when Fitzpiers approached me, his hair wild, his colour high, propelling before him, as someone else that I should meet, whoever it was that had arrived late. Even now, when I look back upon it, I feel convinced that I recognized the newcomer immediately; but I suppose the truth must be that I registered him at the time in a series of abrupt ocular shocks. First the loose but precisely creased Levis, then the cricket sweater worn, to suggest youthfulness, next to the skin, then the hammered cross around the neck, then the jiggle of copper bangles warding off rheumatism, and finally the familiar befuddled face, still at death’s door but artificially tanned for the party, in sunglasses. Out of place, painfully uncomfortable, but bent on a purpose and already advancing on his victim was Harry Vilbert – inventor, anarchist, public speaker, coppersmith and hypnotherapist.

Hypnotherapy, if I read the situation aright – and it certainly seemed to be confirmed by the intense direct look in Harry Vilbert’s eyes when he took off his sunglasses, and by my own sudden drowsiness – was already underway. Harry’s hand was outstretched but I knew that I would be asleep before I could shake it. In the few seconds that were left to me to stay Barney Fugleman I understood the beginning and the end of Rowland Fitzpiers’s plan. He was going to have me Hardy again whether I liked it or not, and the distinguished experts and enthusiasts were there to guarantee scientific good faith, to witness, to judge, to verify, and all being well – all being well for Fitzpiers, that was – to enthuse. And Sharon – my Sharon – had been in on it from the start, had cooked it up with Fitzpiers, had even put the original suggestion to him, for all I knew; that was why she was dressed like the wife of someone famous and had seen to it that I was wearing socks that matched my sweater and a sweater that matched my tie. She wanted me to look good in the chair.

[3]