"The boy's taken quite a fancy to it, sir, and I think he needs it."

"I'll decide when he needs a dog."

"Children can count on animals, sir. No matter what."

She gazed at him as though there was something else she was trying to convey.

"Are you . . . trying to tell me something?"

"I wouldn't presume to, sir."

But the way she looked at him made it plain.

"If you have something to say, Mrs. Baylock, I'd like to hear it."

"I shouldn't, sir. You've enough on your mind . .."

"I said I'd like to hear it."

"Just that the child seems lonely."

"Why should he be lonely?"

"His mother doesn't seem to accept him."

Thorn stiffened, affronted by the remark.

"You see?" she said, "I shouldn't have spoken."

"Doesn't accept him?"

"She doesn't seem to like him. And he feels it, too."

Thorn was speechless, not knowing what to say.

"Sometimes I think all he has is me," the woman added.

"I think you're mistaken."

"And now he has this dog. He loves this dog. For his sake, don't take it away."

Thorn gazed down at the massive animal and shook his head. "I don't like this dog," he said. 'Tomorrow take him to the pound."

"The pound?" she gasped.

"The Humane Society."

"They kill them there!"

"Just get him out, then. Tomorrow I want him gone."

Mrs. Baylock's face hardened and Thorn turned away. The woman and the dog watched him move away down the long hall, and their eyes burned with hatred.

Chapter Five

Thorn had spent a sleepless night. He sat on the bedroom terrace smoking cigarettes, disgusted by their taste. From the room behind him he heard Katherine moan, and he wondered what demon she fought in her sleep. Was it the old one, the demon of depression come back to haunt? Or was she simply replaying the awful events of the day?

To keep his mind off reality, he began to speculate, retreating into his imagination to drive off immediate concerns. He thought about dreams, the possibility of one man's seeing another's. Brain activity was known to be electrical; so were the impulses that created images on television screens. Surely there was a way to carry one to the other. Imagine the therapeutic good it could do. The dreams could even be put on video tape so the dreamer could replay them in detail. He himself had y often been haunted by a vague sensation that he had had a troubling dream. But by morning the details were lost, leaving only the feeling of uneasiness. Besides being therapeutic, think how entertaining such taped dreams could be. And how dangerous, too. The dreams of great men could be stored in archives for future generations to see. What were Napoleon's dreams? Or Hitler's? Or Lee Harvey Oswald's? Maybe Kennedy's assassination could have been averted if someone could have seen Oswald's dreams. Surely there must be a way. And in this manner Thorn passed the hours until morning.