At the same time he felt that Lydia was falling too, surrendering; and in a different way, Proteus and Ma-ah and Josef, all together. Suddenly in the background of his wavering awareness, he thought he heard someone call, “Old man, old man,” and he felt that the words must have a significance, though at the time they were meaningless. He couldn’t tell where they were coming from. For that matter, the concept of where quite eluded him.

The word Cyprus seemed once to hang in his mental vision, and he knew only that Cyprus was someone he needed desperately to reach. And in that moment he realized that someone else needed him. There was someone he had to help, and only by helping this other … someone could he rouse himself. He was falling with someone, for someone, because of someone … who was also in great danger. The need of that other consciousness became his own, was his own: he became it, looked out through its eyes; through the drug-filled eyes of Lydia.

The eyes saw nothing but the blackness in which all objects were swallowed. Then the falling intensified. But Seven knew that he looked out through Lydia: that this was Lydia; he had a reference point and he tried to collect himself about it and save them both. It was her fear of death and dying that had trapped him, that must have come upon her with great suddenness—or had he just become aware of it because she had? It was impossible to tell.

“Lydia. Lydia.” He said her name over and over as calmly as he could, even while the darkness rushed past them both and engulfed them in the chasm of her panic. “Lydia.” It was no use, he realized. She didn’t believe in life after death, or the soul, much less her own soul—he could never reach her that way now.

“Lydia,” he said again. This time he mimicked Lawrence’s voice perfectly.

Their descent slowed. He caused an image of Lawrence to appear in the blackness. Somewhere in it he could feel Lydia’s surprise—her hope; and a small pinpoint of light appeared. Now Seven felt stronger. He caused Lawrence’s image to appear in her mind and said, “Lydia darling, don’t be frightened. It’s all right—”

“Larry?” Even mentally she could hardly form words.

“You’re having a terrible nightmare,” he said. “That’s all. Concentrate on my voice and it will be all right.”

“Larry?” This time her lips moved.

“That’s the name of a … friend of hers who died,” Lydia’s daughter, Anna, said to the nurse, Mrs. Only.

Lydia’s terror released her enough so that one clear circle of consciousness formed.

“Relax,” Seven said, as Lawrence. “Your own fear is causing the nightmare, and it stops me from helping you.”

“But I’m dying.” Lydia’s words rang through her own awareness and fell crumbling into the room.