Zeno had not looked at a crossword since.

As he strolled, he wondered what had become of his rocker compatriots. Like himself, they had swallowed fame without chewing. And when it ended, had they reverted to their original names and moved back to the suburbs? Or had they tried to live up to their limelight personas—not realising that their fame was an abstraction, filling the shallowness left in its wake with booze or hallucinogenics?

As he made his way down into the subway, he thought again of the archery lesson he had witnessed, and a phrase—‘where your heart is, there will your treasure be’—came into his head and almost at the same time it occurred to him that desire itself could cover the heart. It was the law of gravity in the abstract. But surely everything had its opposite. What was the opposite of gravity? Levitation? The abstract of levitation—evolvement? Could that be right? Again he felt on the verge of something. The conundrum had not yet yielded its secret, but the one-pointedness his mind had practised seeking it was bearing fruit.

He was standing alone in the old lift, and the downward jerk as it began its descent below Bayswater Road brought to his stomach a contraction of fright. In his imagination, the floor of the lift became transparent, and he gripped the metal struts of the door as he began to visualise the drop into the blackness beneath him. His heart was hurting his chest. Then he recalled his dream: the spread-eagled flight, the youth with his spinning tray manifesting an unworldly glow. And as he pictured these fragments, the images became a diversity of tone, and a tender melody filled his heart and returned it to its normal tempo.

The Rose was feeling good. He had successfully completed an operation on a patient’s neck—removing what was virtually a dewlap—and the day lay before him. An appointment with his new shrink, an afternoon swim, and home to change for Fleur’s supper party with a new date.

“A follower of R.D. Laing, are we?” asked the Rose, shaking an extended hand and seating himself in the patient’s chair. “I must say, I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him.”

“Admirer,” said the psychoanalyst. “Shot in the dark, or have you been talking to someone?”

“Colour of the walls,” replied the Rose. “I hear he was a great one for green.”

“That was sharp. Call me Jack.”

“I shall.”

“Ever read any of Laing’s stuff?’

“A bit. Interesting fellow he must have been.”

“Yes, met him a few times when he was in Glasgow. Like a cuppa? I’ll get the girl to bring it in now, then we won’t be disturbed.”

“Sounds terrific.” Jack pressed a button on his intercom.

“Miss Grey, a pot for two, please.” He lifted an eyebrow in the direction of the Rose.

“Biscuit?” The Rose shook his head politely.

“No? Okay,” and back to the intercom, “a few gingersnaps for me then, please, Irene.”

“You met Laing, then?” the Rose asked.