“Before you say anything more, Billy, I think we ought to set some ground rules. I want to be sure that nothing you tell me can ever be used to hurt you. If you’re ever about to tell me something that you think might be used against you, just say, ‘This is off the record,’ and I’ll stop the tape recorder. There’ll be nothing in my files to implicate you. If you forget, I’ll stop you and turn off the recorder. Is that clear?”

Billy nodded.

“Another thing. If you ever plan to break the law in any way, don’t tell me. If you do, I’ll have to go directly to the police. Otherwise I’d be guilty of complicity.”

He looked shocked. “I don’t plan to commit any more crimes.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Now, about those two names.” “Kevin and Philip.”

“What do those names mean to you?”

Billy looked into the mirror over his desk. "Nothing. I can’t remember. But one thing keeps popping to my mind—the ‘undesirables.’ It has something to do with Arthur, but I don’t know what.”

The writer hunched forward. “Tell me about Arthur. What kind of person is he?”

“No emotions. He reminds me of Mr. Spock in Star Trek. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t hesitate to complain in a restaurant. He doesn’t bother to explain himself to people, but he gets annoyed when someone doesn’t understand what he’s saying. He just doesn’t have time to be tolerant. Says he has a busy schedule—things to arrange, to plan, to organize.” “Doesn’t he ever relax?”

“Sometimes he’ll play chess—usually with Ragen, with Allen moving the pieces—but he doesn’t believe in wasting time.”

“You sound as if you don’t like him.”

Billy shrugged. “Arthur isn’t someone you like or dislike. He’s someone you respect.”

“Does Arthur look different from you?”

“He’s about my height and weight—six foot, a hundred and ninety pounds. But he wears wire-rimmed glasses.”

This second interview lasted three hours, touching on some of the personalities that had been mentioned in the newspapers, facts about Billy’s real family, memories of his childhood. The writer found himself groping for a method of handling the material coming his way. His major problem would be the amnesia. With so many gaps in Billy’s memory, it would be impossible to learn much about his childhood or the crucial seven years when Billy had been asleep and the other personalities were living his life. The writer was determined that although he might dramatize some of the experiences, he would always stick to Billy’s own facts. Except for the unsolved crimes, it would all be as Billy reported it. The problem was, he was afraid it would be a story Pilled with unacceptable holes. And in that case, there could be no book.

(2)

Dr. Caul looked up; loud voices outside his office were distracting him. His secretary was talking to a man with a strong Brooklyn accent.

"Dr. Caul is busy. He can’t see you right now.”